Page 5

Or a pressure plate?

I don’t know. I’ve never read about an acoustic trigger in architecture. That’s a whole new line of research.

This place is a goldmine.

Relief.

That’s the feeling I have.

And when I finally shine my headlamp on the column in the middle of the room, a fluted stone podium, I know I’m going to be okay.

An astrolabe, covered in dust and cobwebs, sits alone on the podium, a lone sliver of light shining directly on it from a small grate overhead.

I must be somewhere under the city now, though I can’t hear cars or people or any of the normal city noises.

I found the damn artifact, the one this secret society I’ve researched for years, trying to prove was real, prized above all else.

I reach out, swiping the dust away as I hold my phone up, recording everything, but the minute my hand touches it, everything shifts.

The room goes sideways, pain jolting up my arm.

I can’t breathe.

Something’s not right.

Was it booby-trapped?

Woozy, I try to take a step forward, try to grab the dusty astrolabe. They’ll have to pry it out of my cold, dead hands.

My last thought, as I start to fall forward, is that at least when they find my body, they’ll know I didn’t steal anyone’s research.

When I black out, there’s a smile on my face.

It’s not a very nice one.

Two

LACHLAN

Being dragged before the Council was never a good thing—even for Clan MacTavish, and especially with the current Council seat-holders in power.

I look up at the dais in front of me—stone runes engraved into the ancient circle fencing in the Council members and their high seats. Or more likely, I think, tilting my head, keeping me out.

"And what need do you have for Clan MacTavish today, Council?" I say, leaning more heavily on my Scottish brogue than I normally do, it's all for theatrical effect. I even smile prettily at them, well aware that this entire Council is now dramatics and theatrics alone. What this Council once stood for, it stands for no longer.

"Lachlan MacTavish," a sibilant voice says, not quite human.

"Sir," I say, and dip my head. It's not nearly as polite as the vampire I am addressing would like it to be—of that I am certain. "An honor to see you again."

The vampire's face is cloaked in shadow beneath a crimson-red hood, the mark of House Sanguine—one of the last five houses standing, all five of which have fallen into corruption and rot.

"You've been plotting against the Council," the vampire says easily, as if he's discussing the time of day.

"I've been fishing," I tell him, which is in fact the truth. Not all of it, but enough of it.

"You were meeting with black-market purveyors of magic," the vampire continues as if I haven't spoken at all.

"Aye," I say easily. "I was meeting with the black-market purveyor of the bait I prefer to use when one goes deep-sea fishing."