The assassin had haunted her dreams, had once cornered her in the City of Ghosts. Had followed her across worlds, hidden in the army of daughters in the Labyrinth, and had finally found what she was looking for. Eli should have been impressed at the assassin’s ingenuity and tenacity, but instead something closer to pity spilled from the tension in her shoulders.
“You are a good hunter,” Eli continued, keeping her voice flat. “That is what you were made for.”
“You were hard to track.”
“I changed.”
“I know.”
They stared at each other — the Heart and the hunter. The girl with the empty sheath where a glass dagger once slept, and the brand-new weapon whose sharp edge had not yet tasted death.
Eli tried to imagine herself through the hunter’s eyes. A girl with light glowing in her veins and confusion in her eyes. The girl who had no mother, no maker, no one to answer to. The girl who had defied the Coven. What did she look like to this creature — broken, defective, lost?
“You are magnificent,” said Eli sadly, letting her eyes trace the black lines of the wingblade, falling to the shadows the screwheads cast over the books lying open between them.
“I am,” said the hunter. She took a step forward and her metal eyes caught the glow of the Heart. Eli did not step back, but continued watching the girl’s shadow for movement, for the hint of intention. She had not come this far to be killed now. Not like this.
Around them, paper birds tore themselves into confetti and swirled in gusts of knowledge sharp as handfuls of glass. In the eye of the storm, the made-daughters remained untouched.
“She’s coming for you,” said the hunter. Surprise burst across Eli’s eyelids, and spots of light crowded her vision.
“She —?”
“The Witch Lord. She’s coming for you. Don’t you feel it?” A lizard tongue snaked out of the girl’s mouth and smelled the air. “I can smell her.”
“The library smells of the Heir,” said Eli.
“The one coming smells of revenge as well as the sea.”
“How close?”
“Soon.”
“Why are you telling me this? Are you afraid she’s going to come and steal your quarry from you?”
“Yes.” The girl smiled. “And no.” She turned her face to the sky for a moment, inhaling tiny pieces of paper, and then turned back to Eli. “I am magnificent, and I’m not going to be used by a witch master. Thank you for slaying my maker. The daughters will be free. The Witch Lord is hunting you, but I am the superior hunter. I came here to watch over you. To fight the Witch Lord if she comes before you finish your task.”
Eli swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. She grasped at words to thank the hunter, her sister, and failed. There was nothing. Instead, Eli closed the space between them and pressed a kiss against the wingblade. The girl allowed it. Eli stepped back.
Calm settled over her body like August dusk.
It was time for the Heart to come home.
Sixty-Five
THE HEALER
The engine squealed as the bike careened through water, but the magic kept it running. Tav let go of their hold on logic and orienteering (they spent one summer as a preteen at a camp where they learned how to use a map and a compass, but that wouldn’t do any good here). They let their intuition guide them. They let the Coven show them the way.
Tav had never realized before how much like the Labyrinth it was — winding passages that changed, walls that lived and breathed and watched. It was part of the Labyrinth — or it had been, once, before the Witch Lord had taken a piece of it for herself and kept the rest of the world out with enchantments and violence. Now it was returning to its natural state, the new-built walls of alabaster, bone, and bleach collapsing and leaving smooth earth studded with tiny pink flowers; some passages seemed to be made purely of soapstone etched with drawings made by children long dead, others a tangle of acid-green moss.
The goldpink glow of the Witch Lord’s essence wafted through the space. It was easy to follow. Where was she going? What if she got to Eli first? Tav leaned hard on the accelerator and the bike tried to go faster — but even a Kawasaki Vulcan 900 with a drop of witch in it has limits, and bodies can slow us down.
The smell of rotting figs grew stronger.
They were getting closer.
THE HEART
Eli stepped out of the eye and into the storm, her vision immediately obscured by falling paper. The sound of wings flooded her ears. As Eli watched, a few injured paper birds tore at the walls, pecking out the invisible eyes the witches had used to watch them. The eyes had been covered over in papier-mâché, but now they were being torn out by the optic nerves.
“What are you doing?” asked Eli, as soil and rock tumbled down from above. “It will kill you.”
The birds rubbed their paper wings together, making a sound like waves moving against the shoreline.
“Stop! I can help you!”
More soil fell, sprinkling Eli’s face with dirt. She was sweaty and filthy and her heart was racing in her chest. She had never felt more human.
But her body was still glowing with gold light. Eli drew the pearl blade across her palm, splitting flesh from magic. Golden blood oozed across her hand, and she smeared it roughly across the wall. The blood shimmered for a moment and lit up like a vein of ore before the alabaster and dirt absorbed its power. But the library was still collapsing, even though Eli could see the magic pulsing under the skin.
She turned back to the army of birds. “Take me to the tree,” she begged.
