Lowe stepped into the refurbished main hall of Soar Museum. The place was empty - it still had not properly opened to the public since the . . . incident with an escaped Dreadnaught, and the hush of the space was only broken by the slow, measured steps of a single figure coming down a grand staircase to meet him.

  Grackle Nuroon still looked like a gargoyle who had been left too long in the wind. Sharp, worn, and bristling with irritation, even from across the space, Lowe could see the distinct twitch of his jaw and the barely-contained displeasure at having to suffer Lowe’s presence once again.

  Which was a wonderful way to begin a sensitive meeting, Lowe thought.

  “I must be getting sentimental in my old age,” Nuroon said. “The last time you darkened my door, I entertained very real thoughts of having you violently murdered. Yet, here you are, still breathing, still irritating, and - what is so much worse - it does appear that I actually invited you in.”

  Lowe took his time moving to meet the Director halfway. He had the distinct feeling that if he moved too fast, Nuroon would have him tranquilised and then strapped to one of the display counters and dissected just for the sheer pleasure of it. “Good to see you too, Grackle. You look well. Still terrifying museum staff for sport?”

  “I have to find my entertainment where I can. Especially since my budget has recently been made rather tight.” Nuroon’s gaze flicked over him, eyes narrowing. “Is it just your usual hangdog appearance, Inspector, or have you recently been killed again recently?”

  “Only a little bit,” Lowe said, both concerned that Nuroon appeared to know more about his Class than he should, but also pleased - considering his mission here - that the Director’s information gathering was undefeated. “It’s been a hell of a week.”

  “And I don’t care.” Nuroon walked toward a side corridor without waiting to see if Lowe would follow.

  The repairs being done to the museum made the whole thing feel very different from the last time Lowe had been here. It was still vast and empty, like a tomb waiting to be filled, but now there were lots of new touches which felt oddly anachronistic. They passed through archways lined with relics of long-dead empires, alongside entirely modern mana walls and cutting-edge rune designs. Nuroon had always been particular about curation - although, not necessarily, the wellbeing of his Curators - and to see such a hodgepodge mixture of the old and the new was quite bizarre.

  The Director considered knowledge to be power, and he hoarded it like a dragon. Lowe wondered how he felt about having his own private empire of glass cases and forgotten texts invaded by all the newest innovations in Soar.

  Eventually, after a good ten minutes of walking, they reached Nuroon’s office which - as it had been the last time Lowe had been here - was filled with books and heavy oak furniture. A fire burned low in the hearth, casting long shadows which hardly made the whole setting feel less sinister. Nuroon took his seat behind a desk and indicated for Lowe to do the same. “Well, now you are here, sit if you must.”

  Lowe sat.

  “I’m going to assume that the only reason you’re here is because you require something from me, and it is important enough that you think I’m not going to hold all sorts of grudges against you.”

  “I do need some information.”

  “And what makes you think I have it? Or, more importantly, I suppose, that I am going to be remotely interested in giving it to you.”

  “Well, firstly, because you know everything,” Lowe said. “And secondly, because I think you’re going to be more interested in the chance to settle scores with the Mayor and the Warden of the Reserve than you are going to be interested in pissing on my chips. I reckon, in the grand scheme of things, I’m an irritating fly you’d be delighted to swat if you got the chance. But those two? I think taking a decent-sized shot at them is enough to make your socks roll up and down.”

  “What a delightful way with metaphor you have,” Nuroon said. “And you think you may be the appropriate instrument by which I can ‘settle scores’ with the Mayor and the Warden, do you? You have an exceptionally high opinion of yourself, Inspector Lowe.”

  “Yeah, well, I lodged myself pretty far up your sinuses, didn’t I? And, to be fair, I wasn’t even trying to annoy you. Imagine how irritating I’ll be with someone I’m actively aiming to piss off.”

  “Indeed.” Nuroon tapped his teeth thoughtfully. “Imagine. So, just humouring you for a moment. Am I to assume all of this is linked to the very mysterious events that occurred recently at the Vault?”

  “Perhaps. But I guess that rather depends on what you know, doesn’t it?”

  “Don’t push it, Inspector Lowe. You are on the thinnest of all the ice. Of course, it is clear that, since the Vault was compromised, a great deal of political maneuvering has occurred in the aftermath, and somehow, despite having no business being involved, you have once again waded in like an imbecile looking for a fight.”

  “Look, Director. You must know why I’m here. Why don’t we skip the melodramatics? Why don’t you tell me what was stolen and I’ll get on with my day,” Lowe said, ignoring the barb. “You do know, don’t you?”

  “And if I did? What is in it for me? Other than the opportunity to irritate some people who, to be honest, I’m fairly sure there are more subtle ways to make unhappy than aiming you at them. ”

  “Fair enough. How about I trade for it? There must be something I can do for you? You give me the information I need and I’ll do something for you. Name it.”

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  This was the part of the plan both Latham and Rook had been unhappy with.

  “You don’t trade with a man like Grackle Nuroon,” Latham said. “Don’t you remember what I told you before?”

  But Lowe didn’t think they had much choice. If it was dancing with this fucking spider or visiting Arkola, he knew which one he was happier with. Which said nothing good about the whole situation, now he came to think about it.

  For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then Nuroon let out a slow, deliberate breath. “You truly have no other options, do you?”

  “No. I really don’t.”

  That seemed to amuse him. “Marvelous.”

  “Director . . .”

  “Fine.” Nuroon leaned back in his chair, eyes glittering in the firelight. “Yes, I think I know what was taken. But no, I will not be giving you that information for nothing.”

  “Shocked. Shocked I am to my very Core.”

  Nuroon considered him for a long moment before rising from his chair and moving toward a cabinet against the far wall. He unlocked it and pulled something from inside—a small, polished clay disk, barely the size of Lowe’s palm.

  He moved back to his seat and set it down on the desk between them.

  “This will show you what you need to see,” Nuroon said. “The device contains a memory. A firsthand account of what was placed in the Vault. You will experience it as if you were there which is, as I understand things, not unlike your own Grid View Skill.”

  “And what’s the catch?”

  "Several. Firstly, the memory is raw," Nuroon said. "It may not be an altogether pleasant experience. And, secondly, there is the small matter of payment."

  He extended a hand—long fingers, dry as parchment, nails that might have been lacquered with old blood. "As I am sure you are aware from your own experiences with your Skill, this memory will not be like a story written on parchment, neat and ordered. This is a thing still bleeding. It has no edges, no structure, only sensation. You will not see it as a play upon a stage, nor as ink upon a page. You will feel it. And it will feel you in turn."

  The air between them thickened. A ripple, as if something unseen had stirred. Nuroon's voice pressed on.

  "Pain lingers in it. Pain and confusion. Not merely the pain of the one who lived it, but of the memory itself, forced from the place where it once belonged. A severed limb still aching for the body, as it were. It will writhe as it enters you. It may resist. Twist. Lash out. I have bound it as best I can within the disk, but some wounds refuse to close."

  “Awesome. Sounds lovely. And what do you want in compensation for this little joy?”

  Nuroon smiled, and it was the worst thing Lowe had seen all day. A day that had begun with him dying. “A favour to be collected at a time of my choosing. No questions asked.”

  “No.”

  “Oh, don’t be tiresome, Inspector,” Nuroon said. “This is my price. You take the memory, and in return, at some point in the future, when I call upon you, you will help me out. And you will oblige without question. For now, all I require is your solemn oath that you will come when I call. Funnily enough, despite our recent differences, I suspect you will actually keep your word if it is given.”

  “Why would you need a favour from me? You don’t even like me.”

  “Quite the understatement.”

  “So why this?”

  “Because,” Nuroon said, “I know your type, Inspector. You’re infuriatingly persistent. You dig. You claw. You find things you should not find. That is why you are here, no? Your recent actions on these grounds prove that you chase something to the ends of Soar. Although, on that occasion, we were not on the same side, on rare occasions, I am willing to note the traits you possess may prove useful to me. I am not, in may surprise you to know, overburdened with allies. It would . . . amuse me to have you on call, as it were.”

  Lowe considered his options. He didn’t have many. If he walked away, he’d be back to chasing shadows, hoping the next lead wasn’t a corpse of someone he cared about in an alley. And dealing in the dark against a bunch of Shimmerskins would be a nightmare. He needed Nuroon to give him something. Or his next stop was going to be the Celestial Temple.

  Still. Did he really want to be in Nuroon’s debt? “I’m not giving you an open-ended ‘favour’, Director.”

  “Then you are not getting your information.”

  Fuck. Lowe glared at Nuroon as the clock ticked away. Eventually, he reached for the clay disk. “Fine.”

  “Good boy.”

  Lowe ignored that, picking up the clay artefact. It was strangely cold to the touch.

  “Now, when you’re ready,” Nuroon said, settling back in his chair like a man who already knew the punchline to a joke only he found funny. “Place it against your forehead and let it take you where you need to go.”

  Lowe stared at the thing in his hand.

  It was small, smooth, and cold in a way that made no sense. It was like it had spent a century at the bottom of the ocean and never before caught the warmth of a human hand. He’d initially thought it was clay, but it was nothing like that. Nothing that made sense, anyway. The disk felt slick, almost wet, though his fingers touching it stayed dry. It pulsed unpleasantly in his palm.

  He swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat. He knew he was about to do something profoundly stupid - Latham and Rook had both made that clear - but was too far gone now to stop himself. He’d been in this situation so many times before, hadn’t he? Different places, different stakes, for sure. But still the same bad decision wearing a new coat. But, hesitation was just another way to say you were afraid, and Lowe had never much cared for cowards.

  So he lifted it and pressed it against his forehead.

  And the world dropped out.

  Not like the floor giving way. No, this was meaner than that. Like a hook in his skull yanked him sideways, but his body wasn’t invited along for the ride. His stomach lurched, flipped itself inside out, then decided to take a vacation from reality altogether.

  Then something thick and wrong oozed into his thoughts, curling like smoke in a room with no doors. He had a moment’s panicked remembrance of the fire in Hel’s house, but then that experience was passing as the smoke whispered to him, though not in words. It was a dry scrape against his skull coupled to the sensation of fingers trailing too close to the soft places behind his eyes.

  The shriek of voices followed.

  Slick. Murmuring. Layered over each other like snakes winding through dry leaves. Some were laughing. Some were crying. A few just repeated the same garbled syllables over and over, like a broken record skipping on the edge of a nightmare.

  And beneath them all, something else. Watching.

  It saw him.

  Not the way a man saw another man. Not the way a predator watched prey.

  This was deeper. This was recognition.

  Lowe tried to pull back, but there was no escaping. His body became a suggestion, a rumour he had once believed in but had never really been part of. The only thing left of him was him - naked and alone - floating in the centre of something vast and open and wrong.

  A low, satisfied chuckle crawled up the back of his mind.

  And it wasn’t Nuroon.

  It wasn’t anyone he thought he knew.

  And for the first time in a long, long time, Lowe felt properly afraid.