We’d taken out more than half.
As I stumbled over my wrecked ankle, I thought we stood a chance.
And despite the shrieks of the dead and the tang of fae blood coating the air, despite the fact that he was a reckless fool for charging in here, gratitude for the man beside me unspooled like soothing Angellight in my chest.
Tolek Vincienzo always came to my rescue.
At the end of the aisle, the cavern opened into a circular chamber, ceiling draping low over a dais in the center and mirrors surrounding us. Though we were far below ground, a window was carved into the overhang.
“That has to be it,” I gasped. A silver box sat atop a metal stand, mystlight blaring down on it.
“Wait!” Tol said, whirling around with his sword raised, but I was already moving. He had to fight four against one?—
No, two.
Because Santorina was speeding up the aisle after them, daggers in her hands and vengeance in her eyes. Right as she leapt on a corpse from behind, I jumped onto the platform, landing on my good foot and sheathing my weapons.
“Ophelia, don’t?—”
“What?” I called to Tolek.
My pulses pounded. That tug in my gut persisted.
There was no latch on the box. It was made of mirrored glass with unblemished silver trim. As I leaned over it, my necklace swung into view in the reflection, and a flare of heat raced through me.
Maybe it wasn’t a lock to be picked. Maybe it answered to magic.
Blades clashed behind me, mingling with Tolek’s and Santorina’s curses as they fought the dead.
My hands shook, but I gripped the pedestal. For them, I’d do this.
Carefully, so carefully, I pulled a thread of tethered Angel power from my veins. The one I trusted and knew. I tried to control it, to summon only the strand connected to Damien and press it against the box.
Nothing.
But I didn’t dare draw up more. Not with its erratic state.
“It’s not opening!” I shouted.
“Can you grab”—Rina sliced at a warrior—“the whole thing?”
Swiping Starfire up, I limped off the dais, landing beside her. “It’s welded to the stand.”
“That’s part of why I came here,” Tolek panted, dodging a close blow. “I realized a mistake in the translation. This emblem—for whatever reason—the chosen can’t take. It’ll harm you, Ophelia.”
“What?” I gasped. In my shock, my attacker got a step closer.
“It’s why Ptholenix and Xenique were mentioned so frequently in the races. We got the translation wrong. It didn’t say the deadresthere, but rise. And the chosen is meant to fight them while another retrieves the emblem.”
We’d mistranslated. It was an easy mistake to make with an ancient language.
I caught my corpse’s strike with Starfire. “Someone else?—”
“You get them in, they grab it. A friend, Ophelia,” he gritted out. “It’s all about friendship and how necessary it is to survival. The damn Angels are trying to preach to us now, too.” His arms strained as he held back a dead warrior. “How are you so fucking strong? Are you training in the damn afterlife?”
My mind whirled.
“Rina?” I clenched my teeth, trying to balance my weight on my good leg and still fight.
