“I thought this was a tower,” Savannah said, as she peeked out a window.
Then she slapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, God. I think I’m going to be
sick.”
I was by her side in a second. The skyline of the sleepy Italian town
spread out before us.
Perpendicularly.
My head snapped around. The corridor was the tower. Somehow, the
mage had turned gravity on its side, and we were walking upward.
“Man, that’s freaky,” Amal whispered.
“Then don’t look out the window,” I said. It didn’t really make any
difference, just as long as gravity didn’t suddenly switch when we were
partway up.
I moved silently from room to room, relying on my senses for warning.
All we found were ravaged remains of golden automatons.
“Magic robots. Probably guards,” Amal explained to Savannah.
Halfway through the interconnected galleries, we came to a room with a
massive hearth ringed by red velvet chairs. I froze.
Someone was sitting in front of the embers. In an instant, I had my claws
at the figure’s throat—an old man, sleeping, and breathing slowly.
Not Kahanov.
I shoved my hand over his mouth and shook him awake, but he still didn’t
stir.
“He’s like the sleepers,” Amal whispered.
“What do you want to bet that Kahanov knocked out everybody here, the
mage included?” Savannah asked.
I was too enraged to respond. He was close. I could feel it in my bones.
We passed through a library and halted in front of a dimly lit gallery.
The hair on my neck rose. The shadows were all wrong, and a scent of
rotting fruit hung in the air. I tasted blood and copper, and my skin felt slick,
like it was covered in oil.