pedestal. “Gotta run, sport. Thanks for your help, and hey, tell your dad if he makes it back—well, he’ll know where to find me.”
He took two steps, and suddenly, without the tablet’s weight on it anymore, the pedestal began to drop.
#
“Uh oh,” Alexander said, and Montross snapped his head around.
“Damn.”
#
Lydia raced through the backyard, her bare feet pounding on the cold ground, then she burst through the lighthouse cellar toward the open door and the stairs. Damn it, Caleb! Why couldn’t he have trusted her? And to present such a thing, a riddle for their son to solve? She had known about the vault door, but had never been inside because Caleb had told her it was just an old root cellar. It was the Keeper way, she thought grudgingly, but to leave her in the dark about what was really there, after all they’d been through, after what she’d proven to him?
Granted, things had never been the same after their reunion, after he’d learned she had faked her own death under the Pharos—partly to trigger Caleb’s psychic powers, which often emerged only through psychological trauma, but also because she had become pregnant and couldn’t let the impending birth of his son derail his mission. But even afterward, they had spent long months apart, raising Alexander like separated parents, and the rare times they were together, well, it was never like it had been before Alexandria.
She burst down the stairs, gun in hand, sure she would find the worst. And when she heard the tiny shrieks and felt the rumbling in the tower’s foundation, she threw herself down five stairs at a time, stumbling finally upon the chamber floor, where she saw the vault door closing on Montross and her son.
“No!”
#
The chamber began to rumble, dust falling from the constellation-covered ceiling. The sconces flickered. And through two side vents on the ground, a light oily substance poured into the chamber.
Cursing the continued surprises, Montross lunged for the door, knowing it would be pointless. At least the gate’s not falling. But the hydraulic door whirred and pulled shut as if some monstrous titan pushed on it from the other side. He was close enough to slide through, but hesitated, seeing the door accelerate and not wanting to be caught—and cut—in half. So he did the only thing he could think to do, the only thing that might save him.
Since he was closer to the door hinge than the aperture, he shoved the Emerald Tablet into the slot where the hinge was closing flush with the wall. The tablet’s width fit perfectly, just sliding into place as the door ground into it.
Montross let go and backed up, almost slipping on the slick floor and the flood of oil. The door was still open a crack, large enough for the boy to get through, and maybe himself if he really sucked in his stomach, but he was hoping for something else.
Alexander whistled. He was at his side now, staring. “It’s stopping the door.”
“Unbreakable,” Montross said, “whatever that substance is. I suggest we back up.”
The hydraulics ground and hissed, the door sputtered and ground against the tablet. Then the upper hinges popped and the edge tore away from the frame. Steam burst from the twisted metal, then another series of bolts gave way and the whole wall shook.
The tablet, unsecured now, fell to the floor and plopped into the rising pool of oil.
Alexander lunged for it, but Montross was quicker and scooped it up with one hand. And then, watching his step, he trudged through the now knee-high flood. Out of the vault, he dragged Alexander behind him, both slipping as they stepped over pieces of the broken door.
Then, sensing movement outside, Montross stopped short.
Lydia was there, crouching, aiming a gun at him.
But from behind him, something sizzled and cracked. The sconces broke apart, and the flames dropped like leaves into the waiting pool of flammable oil.
#
Lydia was about to shout for Alexander to duck so she
He took two steps, and suddenly, without the tablet’s weight on it anymore, the pedestal began to drop.
#
“Uh oh,” Alexander said, and Montross snapped his head around.
“Damn.”
#
Lydia raced through the backyard, her bare feet pounding on the cold ground, then she burst through the lighthouse cellar toward the open door and the stairs. Damn it, Caleb! Why couldn’t he have trusted her? And to present such a thing, a riddle for their son to solve? She had known about the vault door, but had never been inside because Caleb had told her it was just an old root cellar. It was the Keeper way, she thought grudgingly, but to leave her in the dark about what was really there, after all they’d been through, after what she’d proven to him?
Granted, things had never been the same after their reunion, after he’d learned she had faked her own death under the Pharos—partly to trigger Caleb’s psychic powers, which often emerged only through psychological trauma, but also because she had become pregnant and couldn’t let the impending birth of his son derail his mission. But even afterward, they had spent long months apart, raising Alexander like separated parents, and the rare times they were together, well, it was never like it had been before Alexandria.
She burst down the stairs, gun in hand, sure she would find the worst. And when she heard the tiny shrieks and felt the rumbling in the tower’s foundation, she threw herself down five stairs at a time, stumbling finally upon the chamber floor, where she saw the vault door closing on Montross and her son.
“No!”
#
The chamber began to rumble, dust falling from the constellation-covered ceiling. The sconces flickered. And through two side vents on the ground, a light oily substance poured into the chamber.
Cursing the continued surprises, Montross lunged for the door, knowing it would be pointless. At least the gate’s not falling. But the hydraulic door whirred and pulled shut as if some monstrous titan pushed on it from the other side. He was close enough to slide through, but hesitated, seeing the door accelerate and not wanting to be caught—and cut—in half. So he did the only thing he could think to do, the only thing that might save him.
Since he was closer to the door hinge than the aperture, he shoved the Emerald Tablet into the slot where the hinge was closing flush with the wall. The tablet’s width fit perfectly, just sliding into place as the door ground into it.
Montross let go and backed up, almost slipping on the slick floor and the flood of oil. The door was still open a crack, large enough for the boy to get through, and maybe himself if he really sucked in his stomach, but he was hoping for something else.
Alexander whistled. He was at his side now, staring. “It’s stopping the door.”
“Unbreakable,” Montross said, “whatever that substance is. I suggest we back up.”
The hydraulics ground and hissed, the door sputtered and ground against the tablet. Then the upper hinges popped and the edge tore away from the frame. Steam burst from the twisted metal, then another series of bolts gave way and the whole wall shook.
The tablet, unsecured now, fell to the floor and plopped into the rising pool of oil.
Alexander lunged for it, but Montross was quicker and scooped it up with one hand. And then, watching his step, he trudged through the now knee-high flood. Out of the vault, he dragged Alexander behind him, both slipping as they stepped over pieces of the broken door.
Then, sensing movement outside, Montross stopped short.
Lydia was there, crouching, aiming a gun at him.
But from behind him, something sizzled and cracked. The sconces broke apart, and the flames dropped like leaves into the waiting pool of flammable oil.
#
Lydia was about to shout for Alexander to duck so she
Similar Books
