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“How did you figure out the riddle so quickly?” Layala asked, glancing down at Caliban who rolled over onto his hands and knees.

“I’m the god of mischief, love. I practically invented riddles.” He flicked his wrist and Caliban lifted up, body rigid and jaw tense. His toes were several inches off the ground. “Now, Mr. Drakonan, I expect you to be on your best behavior. If you try anything, I’ll rip out your heart and use the blood from it to open her vault. Is that clear?”

“Infinitely.”

“Good boy.”

Presco grabbed Caliban by the shoulders with a blade at his throat and the group started down the brick-lined corridor, until they came to a split off into three different directions. A quiet rustle of wind swept past, making the place sound like an endless hollow cavern. There were no signs on the walls to direct them, just various colors of brick walls and ceilings and torches lighting in all directions. It was strange; although there was no one else here, she felt as if someone was watching. Layala scanned the wall to her left, and for the briefest moment she swore she saw a pair of eyes. But she blinked and it was only stone.

“Which way is vault 118?” Layala asked.

Caliban lifted a shoulder. “Don’t know. It’s a tunnel of mazes that shift and change all the time. It could be anywhere in here.”

Over the tunnel to the left, a wall began to click into place, forming brick by brick, until it was as if the entryway never existed at all. A few feet over another way opened up. “If it’s always changing, how doyoufind the vaults?” Presco asked.

A deep rumble came from somewhere below their feet as if the floor groaned and might shift too and give out on them. There was nothing to hold onto, nothing to grab if it did. The brick wall to her right appeared to have a strange outline at its center although she couldn’t quite distinguish what it was. It might be the depiction of an animal of some kind. Then it disappeared to reveal plain brick again.

There was something down here with them, but what?

With a pit growing in her stomach, she glanced at Hel.Are you getting the sense we’re being watched?

Yes.Hel gripped Caliban’s face between his fingers, digging the tips into his cheeks, and said, “How do we find the vault?” His voice changed slightly, smoother, and only someone who paid close attention would notice the shift; he was using his gift of persuasion.

Caliban stared at him, mouth twitching but blinked and spat in Hel’s face. “Drakonans train all our lives to resist mind compulsion and not even you will get me to talk.”

A moment of utter silence passed. Layala knew she’d compelled him over something minor but when it came to the treasury, he didn’t break then either. Hel let out a low growl and she winced, knowing something harsh and swift would follow. He reached inside his suit jacket and pulled a knife. The glint of its blade reflected the torchlight, and he shoved it into Caliban’s side. He gasped. Hel ripped the blade out and a splash of blood hit the ground, followed by Caliban’s strangled cry.

“You have twenty minutes before you bleed out and die. Presco drugged you with a potion so you can’t shift to heal and fight back,” Hel said. “Tick-tock, Mr. Drakonan.”

Caliban’s face scrunched in pain, and with pitiful puppy dog eyes, turned to Layala for mercy. She couldn’t be the weak link here. They needed to get to the vault. But Maker above, could she stand by and let an innocent person die so she could get her journals?

Layala paced back and forth as several minutes passed. Caliban was white as a sheet, and sweat beaded on his brow. The air filled with the coppery odor of the blood pooled at his feet. Hel was rigid, staring up at the ceiling and along the cracks in the walls. The tick of Presco clicking his fingernails together was loud in the quiet space. Claustrophobia began to make everything seem darker and the air thinner. The way they’d originally came closed off, leaving her with a feeling of being trapped.

“You don’t look so good,” Hel said, finally breaking the silence. “Are you willing to die for this?”

“Yes,” he groaned. “I’d rather die with honor than be the one who let my family down. I’d always be remembered as the Drakonan who was weak enough to let the treasury be breached.”

“You have a long life ahead of you,” Hel crooned. “Many maidens to love, adventures to take, a name to make for yourself. None of that will happen if you don’t take us to the vault. You’ll be in the favor of two of the most powerful gods in all the realms. No one even needs to know we were there.”

This was good, a better direction than threats. Layala stepped in front of Caliban and gently touched his forearm. “Caliban, you know my story. Look, if Hel and I can move on from the past, and trust me, it hasn’t been easy then so can the dragons. I fought beside you against the other gods when they invaded. You know I was taken by the council, and they murdered me. What you don’t know is that they’ve done it again and again and again. I am on my fourth life. I don’t know how many more I’ll get. Please, I need to get inside my vault. I need to fight back against them. I won’t even take everything. I just need one thing. That’s all.”

Blood dribbled out of the corner of his mouth and a single tear slipped from his eye. “If you’re lying to me…”

“I speak the truth.”

He gave one slow nod, and attempted to push off the wall and fell back, slinking to the floor.

Layala crouched down in front of him, and lifted her chin to Hel. “Heal him.”

“Not until he holds up his end of the deal.”

“He’ll die before we get there.”

Hel grabbed him by the arm, jerked him to his feet and slung his arm over his shoulder. “He’ll make it. More motivation to get there faster. Now which way is it?”

With his hand pressed firmly over his wound, Caliban leaned heavily into Hel but nodded down the tunnel straight ahead. Dragging him forward, Hel started off. Caliban’s toes scraped unsteadily on the ground as he struggled to keep pace.

“Presco,” was all she had to say for him to catch up to Caliban’s other side, and put the young dragon’s arm around his shoulder, bearing most of his weight.