The Malefict’s hand shot out. Metal rattled as it jerked to a halt mere inches from Hyde, reaching the limits of the chain wrapped around its wrist. The links warped under the strain as the claws stretched closer, grasping for him.

Determination hardened Hyde’s face. He hefted his sword. “Not on my watch,” he growled. “Not while I still live, abomination.”

“Then die,” the Malefict whispered, in a voice like wind rushing from a sepulcher. One of the claws straightened and touched Hyde’s cheek.

Hyde’s face emptied. Green light flowed up the veins in his neck, rippled through his cheek, and traveled into the Malefict’s claw. He blinked once. Then he toppled over dead, striking the floor as a blanched and withered corpse. His body exploded into dust upon impact, as though it had lain desiccating in a mausoleum for centuries.

The Malefict’s hand shuddered as the stolen life pulsed up its wrist. Cracks spiraled around the column. That was the only warning before the pillar burst, sending chunks of obsidian flying. A tall, gaunt shape unfolded from the wreckage, obscured by swirls of dust. Broken chains dangled from its wrists, and a pair of antlers crowned its brow.

Elisabeth had seen that shape before, during the night she had spent with Nathaniel in the Blackwald. The grimoire’s heart—Baltasar had torn it from one of the moss folk. A giver of life, transformed into a taker of it; she couldn’t imagine anything more profane.

As though sensing her thoughts, the Malefict’s head snapped around. Its green eyes burned through the dust. It stared at them for a long moment, perfectly still. Though it wasn’t much taller than the Book of Eyes, its presence exuded an ancient, festering malevolence that sent terror washing over her skin in frigid waves. Her instincts screamed at her to reach for Demonslayer, but she couldn’t move.

After a few more seconds, the monster appeared to lose interest. It turned and made for the passageway, stepping through the dry section of the channel before it disappeared into the darkness beyond.

The key ring jingled in Elisabeth’s pocket. She was shaking as though she had spent a night outdoors in midwinter. Even so, she wiped her palms on her coat and redoubled her efforts to push open the portcullis. If the Malefict were allowed to escape, countless people would die. After what she had just seen, she wasn’t certain if the wardens could stop it. What if it followed the Inkroad all the way to Brassbridge, sucking the life from entire towns as it went, leaving only dust behind?

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Nathaniel staring after the Malefict. “Nathaniel,” she gritted through her teeth. “Help me.”

He didn’t tear his gaze from the passageway. “Didn’t you hear that?” he asked.

His voice sounded strange, almost dreamy. She paused, taking in his expression. He looked far calmer now than he had a moment before. But his eyes were bright, as they had been on the laudanum. Even the reddish glow of the vault failed to mask his pallor.

“The voice,” he went on. “It was speaking . . . it wanted . . . you didn’t hear what it said?”

A chill ran down Elisabeth’s spine. She glanced at Silas, who gave a slight shake of his head—he hadn’t heard anything, either. Carefully, he placed a hand on Nathaniel’s arm. “Master,” he said.

Nathaniel’s brow furrowed. He scraped a hand through his hair. “Sorry,” he said, sounding much more like himself. “I don’t know what came over me. Of course I would be happy to join you in a life-endangering act of heroism, Scrivener. You must only say the word.”

Nathaniel braced his hands against the bars, and they pushed together. With one last agonized groan, the portcullis bent outward enough for them to squeeze through sideways. Silas leaped after them in the form of a cat, balancing on Nathaniel’s shoulder. His tail lashed as they ran across the bridge, the heat of the still-steaming channel gusting over them like a forge.

Elisabeth forced herself not to look down when they passed Hyde’s empty uniform, or to lift her gaze to the other Class Ten grimoires, roused from their stupor by the Chronicles’ escape. Lightning crackled through the Librum Draconum’s pillar, and a faint music emanated from the Oraculis, like chimes blowing in a distant breeze.

She reached the passageway first, and drew up short. The Malefict’s stink of rot and stone hung about the entrance. Every fiber of her body rebelled at the thought of entering, but she clenched her jaw, drew Demonslayer, and pushed onward. A moment later a green flame ignited in Nathaniel’s hand, illuminating the sheen of sweat on his forehead. He shot her a grin as he dashed beside her, but she knew it was only a front. He had to be even more frightened than she was. He was about to face the stuff of his nightmares. But the way he had looked a minute ago, almost peaceful . . .

Unease gripped her. “What did you hear the Chronicles say?” she asked.

He glanced at her quickly, and then away, fixing his gaze ahead. “I think I must have imagined it.” He laughed unconvincingly, then forced out, “It wanted us to come—to go with it. Join it. But that doesn’t make any sense. Why on earth would it want that?”

Elisabeth hesitated. The Chronicles had spoken to Nathaniel alone. She doubted its invitation had been meant for all of them. “If it speaks to you again,” she said, “promise me you won’t listen. That you’ll do anything you can to block it out.”

Nathaniel’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I will,” he said.

Grimly, she hoped that would be enough.

The Malefict wasn’t lying in wait for them; it had gone ahead. As the tunnel sloped upward, the first thing she heard was the Great Library’s warning bell tolling mournfully through the stone, a sound that poured courage through her veins like fire. If the wardens had rallied in time, hope still remained.

The passageway ended in a steep flight of stairs. At the top, it looked as though the Malefict had burst through the remaining earth by force, creating a shattered opening filled with a circle of night sky. As they clambered over the erupted flagstones, they emerged into the chaos of a battle.

Cold struck Elisabeth like a slap across the face. Cannons boomed, red flashes lighting up the Great Library’s salt-encrusted courtyard. A tang of gunpowder filled the air. Wardens pounded past, too engaged to spare her and Nathaniel a glance. Between each cannon blast, screams tore through the ringing in Elisabeth’s ears. Ahead, a section of the wall had been breached, its machinery a smoking ruin. As she stared around, trying to get her bearings, a warden staggered back through the breach, grayness creeping across his features like frost. When he had almost reached the library’s doors, he collapsed into dust.

The next cannon barrage illuminated a figure rearing above the rampart, the tines of its antlers stretching toward the moon. With a sideways slash, the antlers took out a cannon, tossing it aside in a spray of masonry.

Elisabeth took a faltering step backward. It didn’t seem possible, but— “It’s gotten huge,” she shouted over the din.

“It’s drawing strength from each life it takes,” Nathaniel shouted back. “It will only keep growing larger and more powerful.”

She turned to him, the wind tangling her hair around her face. “We have to stop it.”

Nathaniel’s gray eyes lingered on hers. Then he nodded. He bowed his head, his lips moving. Clouds swept over the moon and engulfed the stars. For a moment, the wind stilled completely. An eerie calm descended over the courtyard as the cannons ceased firing, unable to spot their target in the dark. Even the tolling of the bell sounded muffled. In the sudden quiet, Nathaniel’s incantation seemed to grow louder, the Enochian syllables echoing from the walls.