White Heart of Justice (25 page)

I only knew that I was dead wrong about one thing. I'd thought the
mortem animae
scared me. But that was
before
. When I thought they were only mindless miners.
Now
, I was absolutely terrified of them. The only reason I didn't change the shape of my magic into a more formidable weapon was because I didn't want to appear more threatening. There was zero chance we would be able to escape their touch if they chose to advance on us now. And this was the last place I'd want to be touched by one. I never thought I'd think it, but even digging aimlessly in the bowels of Mount Iron with no memory of anyone I had ever loved, liked, or lived with prior would be preferable to spending an eternity here in Tartarus' bailey reenacting the horrors being performed here.

Rafe and I slowly, cautiously, and ever so carefully made our way over to the windlass that was constructed over the top of the pit. Once we made it to the crank—and realized one of us would have to stay at the top and lower the other one down—our gazes locked. Both jobs were dangerous and ones I would rather have avoided under any circumstances. The person who operated the windlass would have to man the crank, among the hundreds of
mortem animae
gathered here, risking exposure to their curse by a chance graze or a full-on assault. The person who was lowered into the pit would have to brave a dark hole full of Luck knew what and hope that the person at the top wasn't attacked or otherwise pulled from their post before they made it back out.

There wasn't really a choice in who did which task though. Angels had some offensive capabilities, but their real value came from the spells they could cast that boosted their wards' capabilities. And besides, I was the one racing for the crown, not Rafe. I could hardly lower him down into that hole to retrieve my target for me. I did, however, nearly laugh out loud at what I was about to do. Once again I found myself facing a dark hidey-hole at the end of an assignment.

This time was different though. This go round, I wasn't searching for demons. I was hoping to avoid them. And I wouldn't be crawling in. No, this time I would be lowered down—with absolutely no way to get back up again if something should happen to Rafe at the top.

Rafe started turning the crank, drawing up the bucket, and I started mentally preparing myself. When the bucket was at the top, Rafe found a steel shepherd's hook and reached out with it to grab the rope, bringing the bucket close enough to the edge of the pit for me to be able to climb into it.

I turned to him. We'd survived all sorts of stuff together. Plenty of things that should have killed us but didn't. We'd battled water wraiths, hellcnights, ice basilisks, and the
monstrum metallum
. We'd drowned together once—only to be spit back out of our watery grave by Luck and magic. But Rafe had saved me as many times as Luck had. He was the one who'd kept me alive after I'd been shot with the cursed arrow at Kalisto's Crystal Palace. And he was the one whose
potentia
had been strong enough to pull the iron tip out of my chest at Corterra. And, if I was being honest, he was also a large part of why I hadn't fallen to pieces after breaking it off with Ari last semester. Ever since we'd met, Rafe had been there for me. Mostly as a friend, but lately as something more.

Suddenly, I wanted to tell him how I felt. I wanted to
show
him how I felt. But there was no time. And
here
wasn't exactly the ideal place for declarations of love and commitment. So instead, I pressed my lips to his in a hard, parting kiss and jumped into the bucket.

“Volo tecum vivere . . .”
I said as he let go of the rope.
I want to live with you . . .
The bucket swung out over the pit.
“Recuso mori sine te!” And I refuse to die without you!
After a few pendulum swings, the bucket came to a stop suspended over the center of the pit. Rafe pulled a knife out of his cloak and looked at me grimly.

“Just be quick,” he said.

I wanted to joke around. To make some quip like
no kidding
or
ya think?
but my throat was too tight for me to say anything else.

Rafe put his knife between his teeth and started turning the crank. The bucket lurched as it lowered and I reached for the rope to steady myself, my gaze locked on Rafe's face. If I were going to die down here, I would take comfort in the fact that one of my last memories was of Rafe's rugged features, partially obscured by his frost-covered beard, his wavy, windblown mane of hair, and his unusual, unforgettable taupe-colored eyes.

His face finally faded into a silvery circular blur of light that grew smaller and smaller until it completely disappeared.

Chapter 23

T
o keep sane, I tried reminding myself that
this was it
. This would hopefully be the last time I'd have to enter a dark hidey-hole. But the descent took longer than I wanted it to and so I found myself alone with only my fire and my thoughts for company. I began to think of all the things I regretted not doing or leaving half done. I began to think of all the things I might never do again . . . if I didn't make it out of this pit. It was a horrible thing to think about. It produced a fatalistic feeling of dread unlike anything I'd ever experienced before. And yet, I could not stop myself.

Perhaps it was natural, being in such a perilous situation, but I thought of my mother first. Sure, we had our differences. And it wasn't likely that we'd see eye to eye on everything in the future even if I did make it out of here, but if I didn't, one of the things I'd regret the most was that I couldn't have more days with her like the one we'd had at Demeter's perennial magic spring. To have actually practiced magic together—waxing and waning, mother and daughter—I'd never thought it possible before. If I didn't make it out of here, I'd miss the chance to see her smile more. To say “I'm sorry” for all the times I didn't, or refused to, see her side of things.

I thought of my father. He was gruff and unapproachable at times. We'd never been close, mostly because he'd never been around. But the more I saw of Halja—and what was in it—the more I understood why. Since no one was particularly interested in returning to the days of war, it fell to him and those who supported him—the
regulare
demons and his Maegesters—to keep the
rogares
in line and to keep Halja at peace. I realized miserably that if I died in this dark pit, I'd miss the chance to tell him I appreciated all of the sacrifices he'd made.

And I thought of Ari. How I missed him. Even though I still felt conflicted about the fact that he'd lied to me about being a demon, I couldn't help having the feelings I still had for him. But how could there be any future for us together? I knew it was impossible, but I still missed him. I missed Ari, my friend and confidante. Ari, my ally and field partner. I didn't miss Ari the drakon, but I found myself regretting how I handled our breakup. Maybe I'd been too unforgiving. Too harsh. I'm not sure what I would say to him again if I had the chance. But I couldn't help feeling we had unfinished business. I hated that feeling. Hated thinking I might never see him again, even if it was just to know that he was okay.

And then, because thinking of Ari seemed to open my emotional floodgates, the thoughts of all the things I'd miss—or never have a chance to do—if I died here just started pouring in. I'd never ride another fiery barghest or carve another snow demon. Night wouldn't have a chance to grow my tooth back. I'd never dig in my mother's blackened garden or eat Innkeeper's Pie or charred red snapper again.

I'd never have another glass of Empyr wine, never attend another festival in Timothy's Square. Never again be taunted by Sasha's barbed words or Gordy's Gorgon-like tendrils of deadly magic. I'd never fight, make love, laugh, light a bonfire, make a mistake, learn a lesson, spend a quiet afternoon in the stacks of Corpus Justica, prepare for another horrible assignment, see another outpost, puzzle out any more of Halja's convoluted and conflicting legends, confront another
rogare
demon—

The bucket hit the bottom of the pit with enough force to knock my remaining teeth together. Thoughts of things I'd done—or had not done and now might never do—fled. The only thing that mattered now was focusing on the task in front of me. I needed to find Orcus' strong room, figure out how to get into it, find the White Heart, and then get my butt back in this bucket.

Before stepping out, I took a quick look at my surroundings. The area was a rough circle that had been either carved or blasted out of the natural stone foundation that supported Tartarus on this cliff side of Mount Iron. There were some old rail carts and more broken tracks. They led away from here into the darkness through three separate passages. I pulled out Bialas' last letter and oriented myself, trying to ignore the fact that I was heading to the spot that had a big, black slash mark over it.
There
, to my right, was a narrower passage with no tracks. According to the map, that was the passage that would lead to the strong room.

I didn't sense any demons or the
mortem animae
, which was good, and, because of how the mine had been designed, I doubted there would be any natural beasts to worry about. So I stepped out of the bucket and onto the dusty stone floor.

My boots scuffled and echoed, making it sound as if there were three of me, which was unpleasant. I didn't like knowing I couldn't trust my own ears to warn me if something might be right behind me. I estimated that I was at least three hundred feet down, maybe more. I started following the narrower passage. After only a few moments, I passed through a rusty gate and then, after a few steps farther, I came to a dead end. I spun around slowly.

Was I standing in the strong room? Was this it?

The area didn't look like a place where Orcus would keep a treasure cache. It was merely a dead end. And the gate I'd passed through had looked more ornamental than useful. I peered at the map again. It showed an arrow pointing to this passage and that big dark circle slash. But upon closer inspection, I noticed that the arrow wasn't pointing at the center of the circle. It was pointing to the end of the circled passage. So I walked to the end until I was nearly against the back wall.

And that's when I saw the opening.

There was a hinged grate flush with the floor, which covered a shallow depression that was at most a foot wide and no more than eighteen inches deep. I knelt down, lifted the grate, and put my fireball closer to the depression in the floor. My fireball flickered a bit, but nothing else happened. I spent a few more minutes searching for a hidden door catch. I would've spent longer, but I was already worried about how long I'd been down here—and how long Rafe had been up top alone. Besides, Bialas' letter had said the door to the strong room wasn't a conventional one that opened and shut. So I lay down on my stomach and tried to peek into the small depression at the end of the passage. All I could see was that the shallow space continued past the point where my light could reach. Ever so cautiously, I reached into the space, bringing my fireball and my light with me.

With every passing second I expected the stone ceiling of that small niche to come crashing down on my arm—breaking it, crushing it, and trapping me forever down here. Or for a spike to be driven through my wrist (producing the same effect). Or for a million spiders, snakes, or rats to come streaming out of the hole. Or something worse. Like one of the
mortem animae
 . . . or a demon.

But nothing happened. When my arm was fully extended, I saw that the shallow depression opened up on the other side of the back wall of this passage. The entrance to the strong room was a slip passage—easy enough for a demon to navigate, but much more difficult for humans.

I swallowed, thinking about what I needed to do next. In order to enter the strong room, I'd have to lay down, slide my body into a less-than-eighteen-inches-deep stone ditch, and scoot my way to the other side—the entire time thinking my
body
might be subjected to the same things I'd just worried my
arm
might be subjected to.
If only I were a barghest whelp,
I thought,
I could just wriggle under it like a whelp wriggles under a fence.
But of course I wasn't. I was over five and a half feet tall and, due to this semester's training in the Gridiron, I'd built up some substantial bulk.

I took some fortifying breaths. And reminded myself that—

This.

Was.

It.

If I was successful, this would be the last time I'd have to do something like this. And then I took a few more fortifying breaths.

Hadn't Rafe once said he knew a spell called Backbone? Why hadn't I thought to have him cast
that
over me before I climbed into that damned bucket?

I took off my cloak, sweater, and vest to make myself thinner. I stood before the back wall in nothing but leather leggings and my bustier. At least it was an outfit I was used to fighting in. I lowered myself to the floor again, this time laying on my back, and slowly slid myself into the ditch.

Things didn't get bad until I was about halfway in. At that point I'd been scooting inside in agonizingly small increments for what had seemed like hours (although, in fairness, it had probably only been about five minutes) when my bustier got stuck on something. And I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Suddenly, it felt as if the wall above my chest was lowering on me—that the crushing had already started. My breathing grew shallower and I began to panic. I was squeezed into this space so tightly, I couldn't even draw enough breath to scream. And, even if I did, who could help me? If Rafe came down to pull me out, no one would be up top to raise the bucket and get us out. Then we'd
both
die down here.

What, in the name of Luck, was I supposed to do now?

I closed my eyes.

I forced myself to relax. To think of something calming. The memory that came to mind surprised me. It was my study carrel at St. Luck's. I made myself remember all the books that I kept on the top shelf:
Manipulation: Modern-Day Control of the Demon Legions
,
A Maegester's Manifesto: How to Avoid Demon War
,
the Demon Register
 . . .

My muscles relaxed and breathing became easier. I focused on moving different muscles than I had been before and whatever it was that had snagged my bustier loosened. I scooted the rest of the way into the strong room and got to my feet.

Immediately, I felt the presence of perennial magic. My body shivered and my signature shimmered in response. I allowed my fireball to grow larger so that I could see into all the dark corners of this place. There were as many corners, holes, and hiding spots in here as there were stars in the sky. For a moment, I completely forgot I was in a dark pit in the middle of Hell itself with some of my country's most feared magical creatures waiting just outside. It was a stunning collection. Everywhere I looked were scrolls, leather-bound books, ensorcelled paintings, charms, chests, and weapons. I might have worried about how I was going to find the White Heart among all this excess but in the center of the room was a locked chest with the words
Album Cor Iustitiae
carved into it.

On its top was a set of Sanguine Scales.

Ever aware of Rafe waiting at the top of the mine shaft for me, I squatted in front of the chest and wasted no time in trying to use waning magic to pick the lock. The instant my magic hit the lock, I was thrown back into the shelves behind me. Unfortunately, my head and back took the brunt of the blow. After being briefly showered with the lighter, looser stuff from the shelves, I got up—my head pounding and my body bruised—and walked over to try again. It had been a while since my magic hadn't cooperated for me but maybe I'd done something wrong.

Several more attempts with similar effects convinced me it wasn't me. Becoming increasingly agitated and impatient, I decided to try a different approach. I tried to move the Sanguine Scales off the top, thinking to just bypass the lock and blast my way into the chest, but the scales wouldn't budge from their position.

And that's when I knew. The Sanguine Scales were the real lock. Bialas' journal had said that a set of Sanguine Scales would measure the “amount of honor in a man's heart.” And Bialas' last letter had said that Metatron had designed a “special set of Sanguine Scales” just for Orcus.

My guess was that the lock would open for those judged worthy by this set of Sanguine Scales.

Remembering the
monstrum metallum
, I stared at the scales. They looked just like the ones we'd seen at the Corterra bailey gaol—just before they turned into the metal monster that nearly killed us. These scales were green aged copper too, with two bowls, one large, one small, a set of weights, a knife, and two feathers, one white and one black.

I pulled the knife out of its well and made a shallow cut on my palm, letting a few drops of my blood drip into the smaller bowl. It was something I'd done countless times, but the rising magic of the scales gave me pause. The magic from the Sanguine Scales started melding with the magic that I could feel radiating from the chest. I guess that made sense since the White Heart and the scales had both been made by Metatron with perennial magic. If I'd had any doubts, however, about whether Metatron's reputation as a powerful alchemist was deserved, they were put to rest as I felt the gathering magic swirl around me.

I studied the feathers.

Black or white? Did I want to be judged as a hawk or a dove?