Silas Nightshade's Arc

Chapter 3 of 4

Silas needed help he could trust and walls that could hold a scream. He remembered the salt-lined warehouse near the water. Salt broke magic. The killer's name sat locked in Vivienne's ledger, and if the ward burned it, the trail died. So he sent word again. She came at dusk, the heavy book against her chest, her black dress dark against the crisp white walls. "You have a plan," Vivienne said. Not a question. "I have a room the ward can't leave." Silas locked the doors behind her. "And a man who knows old locks." The man came late, thin, gray, a leather folder under his arm. Silas knew him as the museum curator, Harold Pembrook. Weeks ago Harold had traded quiet words about the ritual knife, easier to press than most. He looked at the ledger and his face went still. "That mark," Harold said. He touched the iron corner, then pulled back. "I've seen it. On a case in my east wing. A latch that opens from inside." He said it twice. "From inside." Silas set the ledger on the floor. He knelt and reached for the lock. The focus woke cold in his arm. Behind his eyes came the silent laugh. The old thing wanted the seal broken its own way, and its own way would burn the page. "Not like that," Silas said, half to himself. He would not force it. Forcing it wrong would turn the name to ash. Harold opened his folder and drew out a mirror in an old frame. The glass held layers, one reflection inside another, going deep. "Don't break the ward," Harold said. "Copy what's under it." Silas understood. He set the mirror facing the sealed cover. He fed the focus slow, steady, no push. The ward stayed shut. But the glass drank the shape of the page beneath the iron. Line by line, a copy formed in the mirror's depth. The focus fought him. It wanted to tear, not trace. Cold climbed to his shoulder. Sweat ran down his mask. He held the pace and would not let it lunge. The mirror steadied. In its layered glass, a page came clear. Numbers. Debts. And near the bottom, one name in Vivienne's husband's hand. Silas read it. His breath stopped. He knew the name. It belonged to a man in this city with power and a clean reputation. The scar-jawed killer had a face people bowed to. Vivienne stepped close and read it too. Her hand went to her mouth. "That's who my husband owed," she said. "That's who I saw." The ledger stayed sealed. The name lived, safe in glass. Silas had won it without burning it. Harold backed toward the door. "He'll know," he said. "A ward like that reports when it's touched." He said it again, quieter. "He'll know." Silas held the mirror. He had the killer's name. And the killer would soon have his.