Winterveil by Jenna Burtenshaw Page B

see. The man glanced slowly at Dalliah, then stepped back, fading out of sight.
    Dalliah did not have a key to the records house. She did not need one. The wood swung back freely, and the space beyond looked exactly as it must have looked to the men who had moved the wheel. There were shelves everywhere. Some held long boxes meant for holding maps and scrolls, while others were filled with small cabinets whose keys had been left rusting in the locks. Two thick tables stood against one wall, on either side of a blocked fireplace, and at the very back of the room a circular space had been cut out of the wall and filled with more shelves, which were stacked with the moldering remains of old ledgers so fragile that just attempting to open one would make it crumble at once.
    A few feet from the door, a spirit wheel had been laid unceremoniously on the floor. The stone was at least three feet thick, and the circle was almost exactly as wide—much larger than the wheel in Ravik’s tower. This wheel had been retrieved from the lake and then abandoned before it could be returned to its proper place within the wall. Kate stood over it. Nothing moved. Not even a flicker of light stirred in the spaces between the tiles.
    â€œThis one has been waiting for us,” said Dalliah. “The only people alive who can free it from that stone are here in this room. It will try to tempt you. It will try to trick you. Do not listen to it.”
    â€œMurder.” The word filled the room, trembled from the walls, and a rush of air ruffled through the pages of the books on the shelves, scattering them into fibers that choked the air.
    The wheel remained still, and for the first time Kate saw Dalliah look slightly surprised.
    â€œI am sure the locals have found your theatrics very entertaining over the years,” said Dalliah, already unpacking her bag and laying two books open on the larger table. “I, however, will not be taken in by your display. You cannot escape the wheel. You are manipulating our senses to make it appear so, that is all.”
    â€œThe dead are listening, Dalliah Grey.”
    â€œYes, yes. I’m sure they are.”
    â€œThey are waiting for you.”
    Dalliah stopped unpacking and rested her hands upon the tabletop. “They will have to wait a very long time,” she said.
    â€œThis girl is not like the others. She has protected herself. You . . . will fail.”
    Those words grabbed Dalliah’s attention. “How has she protected herself?” she demanded. “I have eliminated the boy. There is nothing left.”
    â€œShe is bound to another. We can see him.”
    â€œNo,” said Dalliah. “I will not listen to you.”
    â€œYou doubt the truth.”
    â€œI doubt you . Kate is under my control, and you will soon be gone. I will not listen to you.”
    â€œThat is a mistake.”
    The door to the records house closed by itself, and Kate heard the snick of a lock.
    â€œDid you think we would not defend ourselves? Did you think we would not be prepared?”
    Dalliah returned to her books, refusing to acknowledge the presence of the spirit she was about to destroy.
    â€œThe wheels were not yours to take, Dalliah. You ruined us.”
    Dark liquid seeped out of the cracks between the tiles within the wheel and surged out over the symbols, staining each tile with a wash of old lake water. Trickles of it spilled down the side of the wheel and ran toward Kate’s boots.
    â€œIgnore it,” said Dalliah, without turning around. “It is only trying to get your attention.”
    The water trailed around Kate, leaving a small patch of dry floor where she was standing.
    â€œDalliah spilled our blood. She stole everything from us.”
    â€œEach individual spirit is a vast repository of energy,” said Dalliah, her voice light, talking to Kate as if she were instructing an ordinary student in an ordinary room. “But every one of them is