Alcatraz Versus the Scrivener's Bones

I didn’t have to look far before I discovered that one section of the wall was much older than all of the others. “Something is back there,” I said. “I think there might be a secret passage or something.”

“How do we trigger it?” Bastille asked. “Pull one of the books?”

“I guess.”

One of the ever-present Curators floated closer. “Yes,” it said. “Pull one of the books. Take it.”

I paused, hand halfway up to the shelf. “I’m not going to take it; I’ll just shake it a bit.”

“Try it,” the Curator whispered. “Whether you pick up a book, or whether it falls off accidentally, it does not matter. Move even one of the books a few inches off its shelf, and your soul is ours.”

I lowered my hand. The Curator seemed too eager to scare me away from trying to move one of the books. It seems like they don’t want me to find out what is behind there.

I inspected the bookshelf. There was enough space to the side of it—between it and the next bookshelf over—that I could reach through and touch the back wall. I took a deep breath, leaning up against the bookcase, careful to keep from touching any of the books.

“Alcatraz…” Bastille said with concern.

I nodded, careful as I pressed my hand against the back wall. If I break this, and the bookshelf falls over, it will cost me my soul.

My Discerner’s Lenses told me that this portion of the brick wall behind the bookshelf was older than even the rest of the walls and floor. Whatever was behind that wall had been there even before the Curators moved into the area.

I released my power.

The wall crumbled, bricks breaking free of their mortar. I anxiously tried to hold the bookcase steady as the wall collapsed behind it. Kaz rushed forward, grabbing it on the other side, and Bastille pressed her hands against the books that were teetering slightly on their shelves. Apparently none of this was enough to give the Curators leave to take our souls, because they watched with an air of petulance as not a single book slid out.

I wiped my brow. The entire wall had fallen away, and there was some kind of room back there.

“That was rash, Alcatraz,” Bastille said, folding her arms.

“He’s a true Smedry!” Kaz said, laughing.

I glanced at the two of them, suddenly embarrassed. “Someone had to break down that wall. It’s the only way we were going to get through.”

Bastille shrugged. “You complain about having to make decisions, then you make one like that without even asking. Do you want to be in charge or not?”

“Uh … Well … I, that is…”

“Brilliant,” she said, peeking into the hole between the bookcases. “Very inspiring. Kaz, do you think we can get through?”

Kaz was prying a lamp off the wall. “Sure we can. Though we may have to move that bookcase.”

Bastille eyed it and then, sighing, helped me ease the bookcase back from the wall a few inches. We didn’t, fortunately, lose any books—or any souls—in the process. Once finished, Kaz was able to slip through the opening.

“Wow!” he said.

Bastille, standing on that side of the bookcase, went next. I, therefore, had to go last—which I found rather unfair, considering that I’d been the one to discover the place. However, all feelings of annoyance vanished as I stepped into the chamber.

It was a tomb.

I’d seen enough movies about wisecracking archaeologists to know what an Egyptian pharaoh’s tomb looked like. A massive sarcophagus sat in the center, and there were delicate golden pillars spaced around it. Mounds of wealth were heaped in the corners—coins, lamps, statues of animals. The floor itself seemed to be of pure gold.

So I did what anyone would do if he’d discovered an ancient Egyptian tomb. I yelped for joy, then rushed directly over to the nearest pile of gold and reached for a handful.

“Alcatraz, wait!” Bastille said, grabbing my arm with a burst of Crystin speed.

“What?” I asked in annoyance. “You’re not going to give me some kind of nonsense about grave robbing or curses, are you?”

“Shattering Glass, no,” Bastille said. “But look—those coins have words on them.”

I glanced to the side and noticed that she was right. Each coin was stamped with a foreign kind of character that wasn’t Egyptian, as far as I could tell. “So?” I asked. “What does it matter if…”

I trailed off, then glanced at the three Curators, who floated in through the wall in a fittingly ghostly manner.

“Curators,” I said. “Do these coins count as books?”

“They are written,” one said. “Paper, cloth, or metal, it matters not.”

“You can check one out, if you wish,” another whispered, floating up to me.

I shivered, then glanced at Bastille. “You saved my life,” I said, feeling numb.

She shrugged. “I’m a Crystin. That’s what we do.” However, she did seem to walk a little bit more confidently as she joined Kaz, who was inspecting the sarcophagus.