“I smell them. I know they’re in here somewhere,” Lemmere snaps.
If I had been in the water, they’d have left by now.
Leave, I beg silently.
Lemmere huffs but follows the male back to the doors. “This won’t matter if we aren’t allowed to hunt at some point,” she says. “None of her orders will pertain to us if we aren’t alive.”
My mind pricks, questions tinkling like shards of glass at her words.
“You’ll be worse than dead if you mention insubordination again,” the man orders through a wet-sounding snarl.
Lemmere chuckles. “Oh, I love watching you try and pretend you still give a shit about orders, even in your condition, Richtor. It’s like watching a wild boar try and use a fork.”
The Vessel named Richtor starts another growl, but quickly swallows it. “We search, as ordered. Then we find the food,” he commands.
I breathe easier as the door creaks. They are leaving.
Despite my terror, questions bloom in my chest.
I know the legend they’re searching for. We all know—the Chosen One. A myth—the one who can end the Crimson and all the sorrow it’s brought. But the her they were talking about . . . she was different. She was giving them orders, and they were obeying.
Who is ordering the Vessels? I chance a movement, pivoting slowly in the same moment that a slight breeze rolls through the foyer. It’s nothing—a whisper. But that’s all it takes. The squeaking door stops abruptly, and I twist, edging my mirror around the edge of the statue.
In the reflection, I watch as Lemmere turns on her heel, her red eyes positively alight with glee as she zeroes in on the fountain.
“I told you, Richtor,” she sings, walking slowly back to the fountain. Richtor doesn’t argue, because he can’t talk. His eyes have gone a shade darker than Lemmere’s—the color of spoiled blood. His lips twitch, curling over his teeth as he slinks toward the fountain where Dean is hiding. He’s hungry, and whatever reason he has is slowly slipping.
“Come out and play, little human,” Lemmere says, kicking a leaf as she makes a show of tiptoeing toward the murky water. I know he must be almost out of breath. I’m surprised he lasted this long.
It is in that moment, staring into Lemmere’s bloodred eyes, that I realize I can’t do what Dean had asked of me. I can’t kill him.
And I also can’t live with myself if I don’t fulfill my promise.
The panic of those two things, combined, makes me jump to my feet.
“Over here,” I choke out, hoping that Dean is still underwater and can’t hear the stupidity coming out of my mouth. If I survive this, he will kill me.
Lemmere and Richtor both look up, startled for half a second. A deadly playfulness sparks in their eyes, and Richtor’s lips peel back even farther.
“I’m here,” I repeat, my voice catching in my dry throat.
Lemmere jumps from one edge of the fountain to the other with lethal grace. Vessels don’t just have immortality and heightened senses. They are also extremely strong and freakishly agile. You know, all the things you’d hope the things hunting you wouldn’t be. If the painful demise into a mindless hunk of cannibalistic meat wasn’t inevitable—a fate Richtor is closer to than Lemmere, it seems—it almost wouldn’t be a bad deal.
I look down, eyeing her in the mirrors strapped to my wrists and thighs. The reflections move together—dozens of Lemmeres inching toward me. My heart pounds in my chest as I chance a look to the level of the fountain. Richtor is on the edge of it. I just need him to step off, to get away from Dean.
He jumps down and comes alongside Lemmere, who isn’t moving.
“This is where you run, little one,” she purrs.
And I am all too happy to oblige.
I whip around, sprinting down the hallway, shoving past half-hinged doors as I book it toward the exit.
I hear them behind me, Lemmere’s snarl ripping off the marble like a living thing as they pursue.
It is only when I reach the far doorway that empties into the main courtyard that I realize I don’t really have a plan.
No. I don’t have a plan at all. I tear down the courtyard, under overgrown olive trees snaking around the trellises that used to separate the walking paths.
“Charlotte!” Dean screams from behind me. The sound of feet skidding on gravel rips through the air, and I raise the mirrors on my arms to look behind me. Dean jumps over the railing of the stairs, running toward me as he pulls his iron blade from its sheath. Richtor spins around, his terrifying grin widening as he takes off toward Dean.
Lemmere stays locked on me, and I take off once more.
I turn left and launch myself over stone benches before skidding to a stop as I reach the balcony that overlooks the museum’s front entrance. I ignore the laughter that bubbles up from Lemmere’s chest as she slides to a stop against the railing.
“Running out of options, darling,” she croons.
I sprint toward the stairs on the far northern side, still without a plan. Even if I get to the cobblestone road that leads down to PCH, I will still have to—eventually—turn and face her. That, or just run straight into the ocean.
I am almost to the stairs when Richtor appears, leading Dean by the point of a knife. Dean’s eyes are shut, and I keep my eyes cast down, watching in horror through the mirror as Richtor runs his tongue up Dean’s neck.
“Get out of here, Charlotte! Go!” Dean cries, and I hear the choked fear in his trembling voice. Even though he has his eyes glued shut, he knows I’m there. A figure moves in the edge of my vision.
Lemmere stalks toward me. Through the reflection, I see her tilt her chin down as a fake pout forms on her lips.
I back up, stepping into an alcove that overlooks the frothy, whitecapped ocean, and feel the stone railing behind me. Lemmere is a foot away—too close to use the mirror. I lower it and shut my eyes tightly.
“I had a sister like you once,” Lemmere says lowly. “Such heart. Bravery. Guts.”
She leans in, and the smell of her invades my nostrils. Rosewater and rust. I fight the gag that rises in the back of my throat. Her breath washes against my temple. “They told me that the strongest ones taste the best. I didn’t believe it until I tasted her.”
“Let her go,” Dean growls. I can hear the panic in his voice.
Lemmere clicks her tongue disapprovingly. “Well. That’s cute. True love in the face of the end of the world. And aren’t we in the right place for a good ol’ Greek-style tragedy?”
“We’re just friends,” I choke out, immediately feeling completely ridiculous. It’s not like it matters. Neither of us is going to get out of here alive. Force of habit, I guess.
Lemmere chuckles. “Honey, if you were going to walk out of here, I would tell you that you need to work on your lying.”
“Go to hell,” I hiss, and I feel her fingers around the side of my face. Her hands are like fire, burning my skin.
She takes in a deep breath before letting out a slow sigh. “Open your eyes, love,” she whispers.
I hear Dean struggle, and feel Lemmere step closer to me. I wondered what would be worse—to be eaten or turned. Now I’m too scared to think. Her lips brush the shell of my ear.
“I’m starving, and you smell so good—a campfire mixed with the bite of snow-covered pine trees. But maybe that’s a little shortsighted. Maybe we could use your fire, especially now.”