“They’re straight from the legends I’ve researched,” said Enrique, gulping down air. Laila couldn’t take her eyes off the golden dagger now tapping his remaining ear. “It’s a … a legend about King Ajatasatru. He ruled until 460 BC, and he was said to possess all manner of military inventions. Catapults and mechanized war chariots and—”

RUSLAN STARTED TO laugh. “A clever little ploy! You can delay this as long as you like, but it won’t make a difference—”

“It’s true!” said Enrique loudly. “I … I know it. Something will happen.”

Out the corner of her eye, Laila stared at the curling mist. What lay on the other side? Or who?

“‘Something,’” repeated Ruslan, bored. “How frightening. Come, Séverin—”

Laila felt his gaze sweep over her.

“If we go now, we will be killed,” said Séverin. “And then no one can play the lyre and turn you into a god. Is that truly a risk you wish to take?”

Ruslan paused. At first, he sighed, and then a little smile rose to his lips. Laila felt as if a cold wind had blown against her neck.

“Quite right,” said Ruslan. “I cannot risk you … but Laila? Well. Quite a different thing. My dear, how many days do you have left anyway?”

Laila stared down at him. “Plenty.”

“Not scared of death, are you?”

“I consider it a dear friend,” said Laila through her teeth. “Practically family.”

Ruslan grinned. “Then you will not mind taking the first step.”

“No!” cried out Séverin.

“Another word out of you, and someone else will pay for it,” said Ruslan quietly.

Séverin’s eyes looked wild and huge in his face. Laila wished she could tell him that she wasn’t scared. She couldn’t explain why she felt fearless in this moment. Maybe it was what she had glimpsed when the temple grasped hold of her mind … there was a vastness at work here, and she was not frightened by her smallness within it because she had felt that there was a place for her.

“Go ahead, my dear,” said Ruslan. “Walk. Or do you need encouragement?”

He snapped his fingers, and two of the guards broke off to join her. Their rotting flesh stank. When one of them grabbed her arms, Laila could feel the man’s finger bones pressing into her skin as he spun her around.

The shining floor looked like a freshly scrubbed dawn. Laila hesitated when she felt the knife travel down her throat, moving between her breasts and encircling the line of her waist before settling at the small of her back. A fresh wave of nausea ran through her. She couldn’t help but imagine that it was Ruslan’s sickly, golden touch on her skin. Laila wanted to look at the others, but a dead Fallen House member blocked her view.

“Go,” said Ruslan.

Laila swallowed hard, keeping her gaze straight ahead and fixed on the ziggurat in the distance. It was less than thirty meters away. She had to tilt her head back just to see where it disappeared in the strange, green sky. The automatons remained still and serene as she took one step onto the floor. The knife dug into her back, forcing her to take another step. As she did, Laila noticed two raised lines encircling the ziggurat and the automatons.

She hadn’t noticed them before when the floor looked like a melted night sky. Perhaps they were too dark to pick out, but now, as the floor lightened, they became visible.

“There’s something here,” said Laila. “Two … raised lines … I don’t know what it is.”

Ruslan huffed, annoyed. “A demarcation, perhaps—”

“No,” said Enrique slowly. “The bhuta vahana.”

“And what’s that?” asked Ruslan.

Boredom dripped from his voice, but Laila felt as if the air around her had grown taut. As if the temple was mad … as if they were trespassing.

“Spirit movement machines,” said Enrique, the words tumbling out of him. “I thought it meant the automatons themselves, but I was wrong. It has to be an actual device—”

A low rumble moved through the temple. A growl of thunder rippled through the temple, and a tremor rattled through the floor, powerful enough that Ruslan’s dagger at Laila’s back wavered, clattering to the ground.

“What is that?” demanded Ruslan.

From the corner of her eye, Laila saw the silvery fog bubbling. A dark shape moved behind the mist.

“Laila!” screamed Enrique. “Move! It’s a track!”

Laila had hardly taken two steps away from the others, but she felt the distance like a great chasm as two, massive chariots the size of elephants burst out of the mist and raced across the floor. Sharp, glossy spikes jutted out from their wheels, spinning so fast, they looked like pointed blurs. Laila stumbled backward, and Séverin caught her against him, pulling her away just as the chariot spun past them in a deafening roar. When it finally faded seconds later, Laila lifted her head, turning slowly …

On the glass floor, the bodies of the Fallen House members lay in clumps of meat. Zofia retched onto the ground. Even the dagger poised at her heart wavered.

“Hmm,” said Ruslan thoughtfully. “Perhaps you were right about the whole ‘go at noon’ business.”

Laila could feel the sharp rise and fall of Séverin’s chest. He moved to shove her behind him, but Ruslan was faster. The air sang as the golden blade cut through it and found her neck once more.

Laila tilted her chin, assuming the haughty L’Enigme expression that had once earned her strands of pearls thrown at her feet. She already wore death on her hand, a dagger at her throat made no difference.

“It’s a miracle you’re still alive, my dear,” said Ruslan.

Laila said nothing. Ruslan turned to Enrique, who was shaking where he stood. Hypnos swayed, his head turned resolutely from the mangled bodies on the floor.

“Well done, Enrique!” said Ruslan. “You might’ve lost your ear, but you’ve certainly gained mine! Well … for a little while at least. Noon does not look as though it’s very far away, does it? I suppose I can stand to wait a little while longer.”

Around them, the floor continued to brighten. Now it was high morning. The sky upon the glass was clear and blue, and though noon promised danger, Laila felt nothing but hope.

When she looked down at her garnet ring, the number read zero, and still, Laila felt no panic. It was not because of an encroaching blankness, but rather a delicious absence of fear.

That number on her ring spoke true. She should have no days left, and yet, in the space of an hour, she’d glimpsed a night strewn with stars, a rubied dawn, and now a blue morning. The day continued, and still she stood.

Perhaps Laila really was just grave dirt and borrowed blood, and yet … she lived.

And she felt, deep in her stolen bones, that miracles were not yet finished with her.

32

ZOFIA

Zofia tried to count the number of steps that lay ahead of them, but by two hundred and seventeen, a headache pulsed behind her eyes and she was forced to stop. She could feel her fear burning around the edges of her thoughts.

Their ammunition was lost.

Their tools were useless.