A marble sculpture stood in each of the eight corners of the room, statues of bizarre creatures atop stone pedestals. The largest was a rearing centaur, almost life-sized, his marble hand pulled back and clutching an iron spear as though he were about to hurl it at an unseen enemy. Beside it, a carpeted staircase led up to another floor, where I had no doubt there were more rooms just as big and cluttered as this one.
I’d never seen Underwood’s home, only the fallout shelter where he conducted business, but I always imagined it looked very much like this, with every nook, corner, and shelf crammed with his own private collection of stolen goods. Isaac Keene was like Underwood in that way. He was a man who surrounded himself with strange, curious, and probably very valuable objects. It must have taken him years to put this collection together.
At the far end of the room, two tall, stained-glass windows arched, cathedral-like, to the ceiling. Between them, Isaac had set up some kind of workstation with six video monitors attached to the wall, their screens currently dark. Directly beneath them was a long, sturdy walnut table. Computer equipment, reams of loose paper, and numerous books had been cleared off it and stacked in piles on the floor to make room for the single item that now sat in the middle of the table. The box.
I whistled. “This is some hefty New York real estate. What’d you do, cast a spell on the co-op board?”
Isaac didn’t so much as chuckle. “I’ve got a lot of questions for you, Trent. We’ll get a chance to chat soon, very soon, but until then, I need you to sit tight.” He turned and walked out through an open, polished cherry wood door across the room. Through it I could see a short hallway that led outside.
“Was that supposed to be a joke?” I called after him, struggling against my bonds. They held tight. I cursed under my breath. I thought about breaking the chair to get my hands free, but from the feel of it I knew the wood was too strong for that. I twisted around as far as I could and caught a glimpse of something bright glowing around my wrists. I sighed and slumped in the chair. Just my luck—Isaac had used magic to restrain me. I couldn’t slip, unknot, or break my way out of it if I tried.
How had I let it come to this? Time was, I could have gotten the box off two people like Bethany and Thornton in thirty seconds flat. Instead, I’d held back and botched it. Why? Was I growing soft, or just growing soft for them? For her?
Isaac and Gabrielle entered from outside, supporting Thornton between them. They gently moved him toward an old-style, porcelain clawfoot tub that had been filled with water and set up in the middle of the room. Bethany and Philip came in behind them, staying close in case Thornton stumbled or fell. Gabrielle took the long coat off of Thornton’s shoulders and let it fall to the floor. The remains of the Anubis Hand in the pocket hit the carpet with a muffled thud. Thornton could barely walk. He was so emaciated that he looked like he’d died weeks ago, not just last night. His eyelids drooped, half-closed. If any lights still pulsed on the amulet in his chest, I couldn’t see them.
“It’s called a Methusal spring,” Gabrielle explained as they approached the tub. “It’s the same spell the dryads in Central Park have used for centuries to extend their lifespan, ever since the pollution made them infertile. It has enormous regenerative properties. The dryads are very protective of it and don’t normally share it with anyone. I had to call in a lot of favors for this.”
Bethany paused, knitting her brow. “Gabrielle, maybe we shouldn’t do this. It’s only going to cause him more pain. He’s been through enough.”
“No, if anything can help him, the Methusal spring can.” Gabrielle turned to Thornton and murmured in his ear, “It’s going to work, baby. I know it is. There’s so much more we’re still going to do together. The annual naming of the manticore cubs, the mermaid migration down the Hudson River. Remember how much you liked that one last year? How the mermaids’ song got stuck in your head for weeks?”
Thornton didn’t answer. He was so far gone he couldn’t anymore. Philip helped them lower Thornton delicately into the tub, still in his clothes. Bethany hung back, watching and chewing her thumbnail nervously. As soon as Thornton was fully submerged, the water lit up with a rich, golden glow that reflected off their faces.
Gabrielle knelt beside the tub and reached into the water to take Thornton’s hand. Her voice cracked as she spoke. “If this is going to work, it’s got to come from you, Thornton. You’ve got to want it. You’ve got to fight.” She pulled his hand out of the water and kissed it. One of her braided dreads came loose and fell in front of her face, but she refused to let go of his hand to push it back. “Please, baby. I need you to stay with me.”
There was a long silence. All I heard was the gentle sloshing of the water and my own breath. I looked from one face to the next. Any of them could be the one who’d betrayed us at the safe house. Gabrielle’s full attention was on Thornton, her eyes full of hope and expectation. Isaac stared down at Thornton, the wrinkles around his eyes and forehead deepening with concern. Philip was unreadable behind his sunglasses. I didn’t like the way he was still wearing them inside. It reminded me too much of Underwood.
I looked at Bethany next. Though she was facing me, she didn’t meet my eye. She hadn’t looked my way once yet. It bothered me. It bothered me a lot more than I was comfortable admitting to myself, but maybe it was a blessing in disguise. At least this way I didn’t have to see the disappointment in her eyes again.
Then, suddenly, Gabrielle laughed, her face lighting up, and she wiped a tear from her eye. “He squeezed my hand. He heard me. He’s still with us.” She lowered his hand gently back into the glowing water. “I’ve got you, baby. I’m not going anywhere.”
“I really don’t think this is a good idea—” Bethany began.
Gabrielle cut her off. “Stop it, Bethany. Just stop it. It’ll work. It has to.”
Under the golden-hued water, Thornton lay like a corpse, his eyes closed and his hands clasped over his chest.
Twenty-four
With nothing more to be done for Thornton but wait and let the Methusal spring do its job, Isaac decided it was as good a time as any for a good old-fashioned interrogation. His questions ran the gamut of predictability: Who was I? Why had I lied to Bethany and Thornton? What was my mission? Who was Underwood, what was my connection to him, and what did he want with the box? Easy enough questions to answer—most of them, anyway—if I were at all interested in cooperating, but I wasn’t about to tell him anything. Someone had sent the shadowborn to the safe house to kill us and steal the box, and the more I thought about it, the more Isaac became my prime suspect.
Bethany said mages like him were powerful enough to carry magic inside them without becoming infected, but what if she was wrong about that? I’d seen proof that Isaac carried magic inside him. What if it had infected him after all, made him decide he wanted the box for himself and the rest of us out of the way? The clues were as clear as day in my head. Isaac had sent us to the safe house. He knew where we would be, and with his knowledge of the safe house he could tell the shadowborn exactly where to go so the ward couldn’t hide it from them. But why would Isaac send the revenant of Bennett to get me out of the way? What was the point of that?