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Every bit of me knew how bad of an idea it was to continue, but I rationalized it by telling myself the sooner I got the box, the sooner I’d be out of danger.

The crate creaked and whined when I shifted my weight to stand on my toes and creep my fingers along the shelf’s edge. Then finally—

“Oof!”

The box, far larger and heavier than expected, crashed into my stomach the second I slid it down, sending me toppling.

Against all odds, I landed on a pile of furs, but this did little to save me from pain. When I hit the ground, the corner of the box jabbed sharply into my sternum, knocking the wind out of me. Even with my body to cushion it, the box slipped through my fingers and the wood scratched against the side of my hand. It bounced off the floor with a hollowthudand disappeared out of view.

“Shit,” I hissed under my breath. I touched a hand to my chest, then recoiled at the budding pain. A massive splinter about the size of my pinkie had implanted itself at an acute angle in the base of my thumb, sticking out like the quill of a porcupine.

I contemplated pulling it out in the archive itself but thought better of it. Even as a child, my parents had boasted about my high pain tolerance. Throughout most of my life, bottles of painkillers had remained unopened on my account. But I knew the truth even then: my pain tolerance itself was abysmal, but distraction was the most powerful analgesic of all. And of course, my greatest talent was the ability to abandon reality.

The blood and annoyance could wait.

Instead, my attention turned to the fate of the box itself. Up close, I could see it was clearly handmade, but I couldn’t tell exactly how recently. Decades at least, if not centuries. The black paint was chipped, revealing some sort of hardwood and yellowed glue. I could only imagine how vibrant the portrait on top had been. It, too, was faded, but I could make out the pale-white figures of vampires crowded beneath the Medici crest.

The only modern thing was the nearly new padlock tightly bolting it shut. It was massive, with a twelve-letter code.

A quick tug showed it had been scrambled, and I didn’t bother guessing any codes. College algebra told me I was looking at a billion possibilities if the letters were entirely scrambled. I dug into the wood around the hinges to reveal that a layer of metal was welded beneath it. Burning and forcing weren’t options, it seemed.

Feeling a bit like a child on Christmas Eve, I shook the box next to my ear. The faint shifting sound suggested it was full of papers, photographs, or a mixture of the two.

I huffed and peeled myself off the ground. If I had merely heard the jingle of coins or jewelry, I would have given up on opening it, but now I wanted to look inside more than anything. I put the treasure back, then returned to the living room.

In my peripheral vision, I saw the door to the room where Zeno had stayed. Something about the old, chipped wood reminded me of the room I had spent the past half hour staring at. Any sort of clues would presumably be in the documents, but I felt better looking into this room with Zeno gone.

With a deep breath, I put my hand on the cold metal knob and prepared myself to look inside.

Chapter 37: Ostinato

Iopened the other door and found a small, simple bedroom on the other side. The walls were a strange shade of yellow, the floor stripped of carpeting, and the room barren of the sort of decor that characterized the other rooms. The furniture consisted of a mostly gutted bookcase and a nightstand beside a single twin bed with linen sheets. All bolted down, just like the pair of shackles on the wall.

“Ah, so you’ve found my old room,” a voice said behind me.

I gulped.

“I was unfettered during my stay,” he stated calmly, as though needing to clarify such a thing was commonplace. “I largely opted to remain in here of my own accord.”

Before I was able to say anything, our conversation abruptly halted. Zeno’s gaze fell to the chunk of wood stabbing into me, and the nothingness in his countenance was replaced with pure horror. He dropped all the bags he was holding, causing produce to go flying across the room in a burst of color.

“Jesus, Cora!” he cried, grabbing my hand. “What happened?”

Now, with my wound in sight, my entire body ached, and I blubbered like a baby. “I—I fell, a-and—”

“Where else are you hurt?”

I pointed to my torso, hands, and back. In a swift motion, Zeno grabbed something from one of the bags, swept me off my feet, and carried me to the couch.

He sank quickly into the plush, and I sank into him. Zeno crossed over me with his arm to hold my wrist, tossed aside his jacket, and began scavenging through the box he had gotten. When his slender hand neared my own, I instinctively tried to pull away, but his grip on me was firm.

“Stay still,” he ordered sternly.

I let out a pathetic squeal and blinked back tears as Zeno plucked it out of my hand and immediately pressed gauze to the wound. The pressure stifled the acuity of the pain, and I finally relaxed into him.

“Good girl,” he said. “Let’s get this washed now.”

He led me to the sink and messed with something, back turned to me. The cold water brought back all the pain tenfold, and I bit my lip to hold back tears. The amalgamation of dirt, dust, and general grime all flowed off, and brown flooded the inside of the sink. I tried to watch Zeno from the corner of my eye, already suspicious of what was happening and already aware it was necessary when I looked back and the water was running red.