“I think it might be time to give up.”

“Already?” Carina arched her eyebrows, surprised at the defeated tone in my voice. We were in the back of the shop, taking advantage of an unexpected lull in customers to have lunch. “But you’ve only been searching for a few days, Zara. Zuar City is a big place.”

“We’ve been searching almost a week,” I said, kicking my legs out in front of me so I could cross them at the ankles. “Even with all the noise from the other objects in the city, we’ve covered quite a bit of territory. I’d think I would have come across something by now if Salcombe really was dumb enough to leave his piece of heart here. The more I think about it, the more unlikely it seems that he would have done that. At this point I’m just doing busy work, trying to pretend I’m doing something productive. If I had that journal, and those letters inside it, I could be tracking down that other piece of heart while Salcombe is still stuck in Zallabar.”

Carina frowned, setting her half-eaten sandwich aside. “Maybe you should try tracking down Salcombe’s associates. I was walking down Baker Street yesterday and I passed a few black-robed men. I shrugged them off as worshippers at first, but now that I think back, some of them might have been wearing that silver dragon emblem you were talking about.”

“Worshippers?” I sat up straight, my mind whirling. “Are you talking about the Camatoz temple?”

"That’s the one.”

I chewed on my lip. Camatoz was a death deity that, like many of the old gods, had been widely worshipped by Elantians. The temple on Baker Street was a small relic left from that time, built right on top of one of the entrances to the old catacombs that wound beneath Zuar City. I’d visited both with Salcombe when I was a little girl, remembered his odd fascination with both the death god and the catacombs.

“Are you sure you didn’t just see one of the temple priests?” I pressed. They wore black robes too.

“The temple priests don’t have a dragon symbol on their robes,” Carina insisted. “I’m sure it’s them. They might be operating out of that same temple. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if Salcombe hadn’t recruited his acolytes from their ranks.”

I mulled over that idea the rest of the day, and the more I thought about it, the more convinced I was that I needed to pay a visit. I itched to leave right away, but there was no point—the temple didn’t open until dusk, when the last rays of light slipped away from the world. I always thought that was a bit strange—after all, death came at all hours of the day—but then again, the temple was small. They probably didn’t have enough staff to keep it open all the time.

The moment the clock struck seven, I was out of the chair and up the stairs. Carina gave me the side eye when I came down a few minutes later, wearing a black hooded cloak and a scarf that covered my distinctive red hair.

“Do you need me to come with you?” she asked.

I shook my head. “You’ve got stuff to do here, and besides, I’m familiar with the temple. I can handle myself.”

She nodded. “Be careful, Zara. Salcombe might want you alive, but that doesn’t mean his followers won’t hurt you if they catch you.”

Don’t I know it, I thought, remembering Trolbos, Salcombe’s henchman. I’d seen the looks the brute had given me when he thought no one was watching—if not for Salcombe, he’d have clubbed me over the head and dragged me off by the hair to have his way with me in some dark, scary place where I could scream myself hoarse and no one would be able to hear me. My fingers twitched, wishing for my dragon blade. But I had my daggers, and my wits, and that would have to be enough.

Climbing up the side of the building, I took to the rooftops. It was both safer and faster to travel here, away from the stench and riffraff of the city, and in twenty minutes, I was crouching over Baker Street, my eyes fixed on the temple just across the way.

Despite the negative connotations surrounding the death temple, it was a beautiful building. Two stories high, constructed of ebony and some kind of shiny black stone, it stood out next to the two brownstones flanking it not merely because of the materials it was constructed from, but also by the way it was shaped. The tall roof was steeply pitched, supported by pillars carved with vines, and over the entrance was a hooded figure with large, feathered wings that framed the double doors. All of this was illuminated by the lanterns that hung from the edge of the roof, each being painstakingly lit by a man with a hook as he shuffled around the perimeter.

For the next thirty minutes, I crouched in silence as I watched the temple. At first, I saw nothing unusual, just the comings and goings of parishioners attending the nightly service. Camatoz’s following was small, just a few thousand people, but like most of the Elantians who still believed in the old gods, they were fervent worshippers. Many of them clutched offerings in their arms—bottles of wine, boxes filled with food, or precious objects—to entice the god into answering their prayers. Most of those prayers were benevolent—usually a wish to reconnect with a departed loved one, or to spare someone on their death bed. Some were more sinister, born of a desire for vengeance.

I wondered—if Camatoz was even real—whether the death god bothered to listen to his followers, to answer any of those prayers. Somehow, I didn’t think so. I’d always thought of death as cold, uncaring, indiscriminate. When your time came, it came, and it didn’t matter who you were, what good or bad you’d done in your life, or how much money you had.

In death’s eyes, we were all equal.

My legs were just beginning to grow stiff when I saw five black-robed men approach the building. Casting my morbid thoughts aside, I focused my attention on them, and my breath caught as I noticed each of the men sported a flash of silver across their broad chests.

The dragon god’s symbol.

Squinting, I leaned in to catch a glimpse of their faces, but the men wore silver masks to hide their identity. Damn. I was going to have to sneak inside the temple, find out where they were meeting. But how, without drawing attention to myself? For all I knew, the entire temple was under Salcombe’s thumb, and they would seize me on the spot.

An idea began to form in the back of my mind, and I slunk away from the edge of the roof, taking care not to be seen. Quickly, I raced around the temple and across the city, heading for a manhole cover roughly a mile away. As a child, I’d been familiar with both the surface streets and the city’s underbelly, and that knowledge was going to come in handy now.

After a quick look around to make sure no one was nearby, I dropped from the roof of the house I was currently perched on and approached the manhole cover. It came away with a hearty tug, and I wrinkled my nose as the familiar stench wafted up. The lovely aroma of sewage.

Yum.

Trying not to think too much about what I was getting into, I climbed down the grimy ladder, then hopped onto the tiny strip of land that served as a sidewalk. It was pitch dark down here, so I struck a match, then held it aloft with one hand to help me navigate my way through the warren of tunnels while I used the other to cover my nose and mouth.

Three matches later, I found the entrance to the catacombs. The heavy wooden door was secured with a lock, but the set of mundane lock picks I’d dug up from my apartment were more than good enough to get me through.

The moment I stepped inside, the call of thousands of valuable objects chimed in my mind. Closing the door, I turned the volume down, then lit another match so I could get my bearings. The catacombs stretched a good hundred miles beneath the city, and it was far too easy to get lost down here. Luckily, I had a pretty good sense of direction, and I’d used my treasure sense to fix the temple—and more importantly, the valuables inside it—in my mind’s eye before I came down here.

Thankful for my spelled boots, I crept through the narrow corridors on silent feet, keeping my ears peeled for any activity. I didn't believe in ghosts, but I knew gangs and criminals often hid down here, and the last thing I wanted was to run into some asshole who thought I'd be an easy mark. If I could make my way into the temple without being seen, I might be able to eavesdrop on Salcombe's followers and learn some valuable information.

Aside from the threat of coming across thugs, my journey through the catacombs was pleasant enough. The bodies buried in the walls had long turned to dust, so unlike the sewer tunnels, there was no stench. I’d come down here plenty of times as a desperate kid to filch tokens from the loculi—burial slots—carved into the walls, and in many ways it wasn’t much different from any of the other ruins or sites I’d explored.

I was only a few blocks away from the temple when the sound of rhythmic chanting caught my attention. Frowning, I cocked my ear, at first thinking it might be coming from the temple. But the temple was too far away.

Could it be the dragon god cultists?

Drawn by the sound, I headed in the direction of the chanting, slowing my steps until I was standing outside a sepulcher—one of the many rooms in the catacombs that were dedicated to the burial of a specific family. Candlelight spilled into the corridor, making it impossible for me to peek through the doorway without being spotted, but thankfully one of the burial slots outside had a hole in the back that allowed me to peer straight into the large room without being seen.

Inside, the five robed men stood in a semi-circle, facing a large dragon statue mounted on the wall. It was carved of pure obsidian, with rubies set into its face for eyes, its maw opened wide as if it might scorch them all where they stood. In the center, on a small altar, was a large goblet filled with a clear liquid that shone like moonlight.

I focused my treasure sense on it, and a loud chime reverberated through my head, making me pause. There was something similar in the tone that reminded me of the dragon heart, and yet, the heart wasn’t here.

The chanting swelled to a crescendo, drowning out the sound the goblet was making. Abruptly, they stopped, and the one standing closest to the dragon god's statue stepped forward. Pushing back his silver mask just enough to drink, he revealed full lips and a beard the color of autumn leaves.

The moment those lips touched the goblet, I sensed a ripple in the air, as if there had been a transfer of power. That liquid, I thought, staring at the cup as the man passed it off to the one on his left. It must be infused with essence from the dragon heart!

That explained how Salcombe was able to maintain his health even though he didn’t have the heart on him. But I hadn’t realized he was allowing his acolytes to reap the same benefits. Did that mean they had enhanced strength and health now, like he did? And how did imbibing such a substance affect their minds?

“Has there been any word from the master?” one of the cultists asked once they’d all finished partaking of the drink and their masks were firmly back in place. “What are our orders?”

"I have not had word from him since he crossed the Zallabarian border," the red-bearded man said. His voice was smooth and dark, like a fine red wine. "Until we do, we must continue to gather intelligence, and wait."

"I'm tired of waiting," another man groused. "We should be out there, helping him to recover the rest of the heart. Instead we are just sitting around, eavesdropping on conversations we're not allowed to do anything with. If he would allow us direct access to the heart—"

“That is not going to happen,” Red Beard said, his harsh voice echoing off the dirt walls. “Our master trusted me alone with the location of the heart, so I could continue to harvest its essence and bring it to you. He has made it clear that under no circumstances are any of you allowed to touch the heart directly.”

“And why is that?” one of the men asked. “Because the two of you are the only ones allowed to commune directly with the dragon god? How do we even know the god is real? Perhaps we should go back to worshipping Camatoz. At least he spoke to us.”

Well that’s new, I thought, leaning in. As I did, something skittered down my back, and I jumped, hitting my head on the top of the burial slot.

Instantly, the room went silent. “What was that?” Red Beard barked.

Shit.

I didn’t wait for the men to come out and investigate. Digging a smoke bomb from my pouch, I lit it, then tossed it into the sepulcher as I raced past. Their shouts echoed in the hall as I sprinted back the way I came, knowing there was no way I’d make it through the temple without getting caught. The conversation I’d overheard had made it clear some of these men used to be Camatoz’s followers, and who knew what kind of relationship the priests had with the dragon god’s acolytes?

I dodged to the side at the sound of a blade zipping through the air, but it sliced the side of my thigh anyway. Crying out, I stumbled against the wall, then gritted my teeth and pushed through the pain.

"You're not getting away!" one of the cultists roared, rushing out from another corridor that intersected with mine. He was huge. Terror gripped me as he raised his sword above his head with two hands, and I barely managed to flatten my back against the wall before he swung it down. Darting in close, I slashed the side of his neck with my dagger. Blood spurted from the wound, splashing me in the face as he screamed, and I quickly darted around him as he clutched at the gash. The sound of rapidly approaching footsteps spurred me on, but I had the advantage of silent feet, and eventually I managed to lose them.

Panting hard, I sprinted back through the sewer passages and climbed up the ladder as fast as I could. Relief surged through me as I shoved the manhole cover away, and I climbed up—

Only to be seized by two guards.

“Zara Kenrook.” A third guard smiled smugly. “Fancy seeing you here.”

I glared at the muncie, who I recognized from previous run-ins. “Clancy,” I spat as I struggled against the guards. “This is a mistake. You have to let me go!”

"A mistake?" Clancy arched his eyebrows. "If you mean breaking the law is a mistake, then you're right. Going down into the catacombs without a permit is illegal, Zara. You know that."

“I wasn’t going down there to steal!” I hissed. “I was tracking a group of cultists!”

“I don’t care if you were down there on your knees, giving blow jobs to the chancellor himself,” Clancy said as the other two muncies slapped restraints on my wrists. “You’re under arrest for trespassing on government property.”