Capture the Crown (Gargoyle Queen #1) -Jennifer Estep Page 0,115

air between us, as filmy and unsubstantial as the spiderwebs undulating back and forth through the cold, drafty air.

Leonidas cleared his throat and strode forward. I shivered again, but I fell in step behind him. We moved through the hallway, down a staircase, and over to a set of floor-to-ceiling double doors that were cracked open.

I reached out with my magic, but I didn’t sense anyone nearby. Normally, that would have comforted me, but not now. If Milo was storing the tearstone here, then he should have at least posted a guard or two. Or perhaps the lack of guards was his strategy to hide the tearstone. After all, why bother to station guards if there was supposedly nothing to protect?

Leonidas slipped through the open doors. I glanced around again, but we were still alone, so I followed him.

The doors led into an enormous room that took up most of this wing of the palace. Stone tables filled with dusty glass tubes and broken jars marched down the center of the room, while books with black, molded covers lined the shelves along the walls. Swords, spears, and other weapons hung in rotten wooden racks, and empty coldiron cages dangled from the ceiling. The space reminded me eerily of Milo’s workshop, except for one thing—the blood that covered many of the surfaces.

So much blood.

Puddles of it had dried on the floor, looking like dull brown paint that had been haphazardly spread all over the grimy gray flagstones. Streaks of blood crusted the walls, with more splattered on the cages and all the way up on the high ceiling. I shuddered and hugged my arms around myself. How many creatures and people had Maximus killed? The number must have been quite high for this much blood to still be in here, some sixteen years after the king’s death.

“This isn’t an armory,” I muttered. “This is a slaughterhouse.”

Leonidas grimaced, but he didn’t dispute my words. “Maximus really did keep weapons in here. After his death, my mother started referring to it as the old armory. I think it was her way of trying to forget about all the awful things that happened. Eventually, everyone started calling it that, even Milo and me, even though we knew what it really was.”

He stared at a nearby table, which was empty, except for the dried blood dotting the surface. His jaw clenched, his hands fisted by his sides, and his eyes darkened, but I didn’t ask what memories were haunting him. I didn’t want to add to his pain.

I glanced around the chamber again. “Well, everyone might call it the old armory, but I don’t see any new weapons. Are you sure we’re in the right place?”

Leonidas nodded. “Yes. Just because we don’t see the weapons doesn’t mean they’re not in here. The palace is riddled with secret passageways, cubbyholes, and rooms, thanks to the liladorn. Or Milo might have left some other clue behind.”

We split up. Leonidas took the side with the strix cages dangling from the ceiling, while I headed to the one with the bookshelves.

Up close, the books were even filthier than I’d thought and covered with so much grime and black mold that I couldn’t read the titles on the spines. Using the edge of my tunic sleeve, I pulled one book out of its slot and opened it, but the pages inside had molded as well, rendering the volume an indecipherable mess.

“Find anything?” Leonidas called out.

“Nothing. You?”

“Not yet.”

I searched my half of the workshop. Broken glass jars, molded books, dust-covered weapons, blood spattered everywhere. I didn’t see anything new, although I found myself strangely fascinated—and disgusted—by the objects. Ever since the Seven Spire massacre, I had always wondered what drove someone to hurt other people and creatures to gain just a tiny bit more magic. Or perhaps amassing the magic was the truly thrilling thing, rather than actually wielding the power itself. Hard to say.

I rounded the corner of a table and started to head over to another one when I noticed a small gray object gleaming on the floor. Curious, I went over and picked it up.

It was another arrow.

This arrow was the exact same size and shape as the one I’d given to Reiko, complete with hooked barbs and a sharp, pointed tip.

Why make arrows out of tearstone? Why not make them out of iron or some other more common ore? Reiko’s earlier questions whispered through my mind.

Obviously, the purpose of any arrow was to hurt—to kill—and I had