He opened more doors, watched the memories just long enough to know if they were what he needed. A location, that’s what Alie said, and she hadn’t been able to trust him with more than that—
Another door, a room full of gold, voices in a low register. He went to slam the door shut.
“This will be the only clue,” Apollius said. “So you’d better not lose it.”
Bastian kept the door open.
Every memory was in Apollius’s point of view, so the jewel He held up appeared huge to Bastian’s eye, held close to the god’s face. The perspective took a minute to resolve into something familiar.
Lore’s engagement ring. The one he’d found in storage beneath the Church, the one he’d felt so compelled to give her, before he knew what was happening to him.
“Never,” said another voice. The speaker came into view—dark-haired, dark-eyed. He bore a striking resemblance to August Arceneaux.
Gerard. Bastian’s ancestor, the one to whom Apollius had dictated the Tracts. He looked at the ring with awe, barely brave enough to touch it when Apollius dropped it in his hand. “It will be kept hidden away, Holy One. Of that, You can be sure.”
“Do whatever you want with it,” Apollius said flippantly. A feeling of satisfaction, a job finally done. “The only reason I’m telling you is so you can keep it safe. I can trust you to do that, can’t I?”
“Yes, Holy One.” Gerard looked at the ring with holy awe. “The Arceneaux line is the most faithful of all You have chosen; we will steward Your throne as we keep safe anything that could harm You.”
“If you ever need to move the piece,” Apollius said, ignoring Gerard’s impassioned pronouncement, “hold the gem to the sunrise. It will tell you where it is.”
Bastian closed the door, afraid to linger at this particular memory in case it somehow alerted Apollius. Good timing, too—the hallway swam and buckled, like a still-wet painting doused in water, before dissolving into gold. Bastian’s awareness of himself slowly faded, thrusting him back under the sea, back into unconsciousness.
But he had a location. Or at least the clue to one.
And the next time he surfaced, Apollius wouldn’t get off so easily.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
GABE
Power is like whiskey. It might burn at first, but eventually, you’ll want more.
—Caldienan proverb
As it turned out, no longer being a fugitive was rather boring.
Gabe spent the next two days wandering the city. At first, from force of habit, he went to the fighting barns. But no one would fight him. He stood in the queue for a while with the other hopefuls after placing a fairly significant bet against himself, but the eyes of the referees kept roving over him, pausing only briefly before quickly moving along. Three matches later, one of them he recognized jerked his chin, gestured over to the wall. Fists clenching on nervous energy, Gabe followed.
The ref was a big man, blond and red-faced, nose blotchy with drink. He crossed his arms. “You might as well leave.”
“Pardon?” Maybe he had retained his manners after all, though it seemed he could only access them when he was in danger of setting fire to the entire building.
“Rotunda orders.” The fights here were technically legal, thoughGabe knew they played fast and loose with the law. “You aren’t to be touched.”
So. He was safe, but he was trapped. A familiar feeling.
Gabe didn’t bother arguing. He nodded curtly and left the barn.
He could return to the boardinghouse that Eoin had so kindly placed them in, but it felt claustrophobic. Stupid, when it was so much bigger than the row house had been, but it wasn’t so much the square footage as it was the emotional crowding. Val and Mari, happily married. And now Michal and Malcolm, their latent attraction finally given way to a relationship.
When they’d moved into Eoin’s boardinghouse, Michal and Malcolm had decided to share a room. It wasn’t unexpected, but Malcolm had drawn himself up as if it were when they were choosing accommodations. “I’ll bunk with Michal.”
Mari had shared a quick, warm look with Val before nodding smoothly. “I think that’s an excellent idea.”
Gabe had nodded, too. Apparently, this was not the reaction Malcolm expected.
His friend had sighed, scrubbing a hand over his hair. “Gabe, I didn’t mean to leave you in the dark…”
