faded to a bone-deep ache. Most of the pain, that is. Leto winced. “I think I broke my arm.”
Claire’s hand drifted to the injured arm. Leto managed to make only a mangled squeak as she probed it. Her voice was taut. “I doubt you broke it. You’ll be all right, just as soon as we get to the Library.” She hesitated. “Andras did this?”
Leto nodded. The glint of claw and gem came back, in a rush. The loss. The crush of codex pages in a jeweled fist. He found a lump had developed in his throat and he had to swallow hard. “He got the pages. I failed. . . . I—I’m so sorry.”
Claire started waving her hand before he even got the apology out. “Not unexpected. We can deal with it. I’m just glad you’re alive. We’ll just—” The earth walls around them lurched, showering clods on their heads. Baleful howls vibrated from afar—but not far enough. Without a word, Beatrice began shoving Claire down the hall. Hero hauled Leto into a stumbling pace.
“We’ll just run—that’s what,” Hero finished. He shot a grim look at Beatrice. “How much farther?”
“Nearly there.”
Every step made his arm shoot with electric bolts of pain, but Leto forced his feet to keep up with Hero. They turned another corner. Leto heard a strangled yelp, and Beatrice brought the flashlight up to show Claire backing away from a dark ledge. The tunnel emptied out onto an abrupt precipice. The light did not reach far, but wind whipped at the edges of Claire’s skirts. Leto could feel the enormous space in front of them.
Claire snatched the flashlight from Beatrice’s hand and craned her head. The light disappeared into aimless darkness above them, but when Claire swung the beam down, it hit on something white. Leto leaned forward as far as he dared to peer over the ledge. Far, far below them, the light bounced off dull ivory surfaces. Like seashells, an ocean of seashells.
It took Leto’s brain a moment to accept that the shells were, in fact, the human kind.
“A mass burial,” Claire breathed. She swung the light up into Beatrice’s face. “A dead end. Is there a way across?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Beatrice looked uncomfortable.
“What . . .” Claire’s eyes widened. “This is the realm gate?”
Beatrice opened her mouth, but her explanation was drowned in another hail of dirt. A clear howl came from the depths of the catacombs now. Closer. Much closer. The Hellhounds had their scent, and though the ancient catacombs had slowed them down, it wouldn’t be for long. Leto edged nervously toward Claire.
Beatrice leaned over the ledge. “You have to jump. Right here.” She indicated a spot in the air square off the precipice and somewhere below them.
“The hell I do!” Claire muttered.
“It’s a burial rite, Claire. The path to the afterlife. The religion might be long dead, but still—we don’t have time to debate!” Beatrice practically shouted, and stepped forward as if she was going to push them both. Claire brought up her flashlight like a club, and Hero drew his gun. Beatrice stopped. “You have to trust me.”
Claire’s lip curled. “Oh no. I made that mistake once.”
“I’ll do it.” The words were out of Leto’s mouth before he thought them through. He could feel the immense weight of the Hellhounds as they materialized in and out of the tunnel, shoving waves of air and dust in front of them. He ached everywhere the air hit him, and he just wanted it to stop, wanted not to feel as broken, as useless as he did in front of Andras.
He wanted the fear to stop. And he wanted to make a difference. “I’ll jump first.”
“Absolutely not—” Claire reached out for his good arm.
But without debate, without fanfare, without even permission, Leto walked into open air.
And the darkness had him.
30
LETO
Realms can die. I said that before. It’s rare, because humans love nothing more than holding on to an idea, worrying it in their teeth until it’s shaped into something else. But it happens, occasionally. When a realm loses access to dreams and imagination, it starves. It’s not a gentle death. A realm will attempt to preserve itself, feed itself on any unwary dream, any stray soul that wanders into its maw.
Librarian Gregor Henry, 1980 CE
SAND CLOGGED HIS TONGUE and rasped against his teeth. He couldn’t breathe. Panic flared. The sand reached into his throat and threatened to draw bile. Leto came to consciousness coughing and then bolted into a sitting