The Tyrant's Tomb

meant to stay there.
“Any ideas?” Reyna asked.
“Try to get inside that container,” I said. “It’s a terrible idea. But it’s the
only one I have.”
“Yeah.” Reyna scanned the fog over our heads. “Let’s move before the
ravens come back for an encore.”
Meg summoned her swords. She led the way across the catwalk, but after
twenty feet or so, she stopped abruptly, as if she’d run into an invisible wall.
She turned to face us. “Guys, is…me or…feel weird?”
I thought the kick to my face might have short-circuited my brain.
“What, Meg?”
“I said…wrong, like…cold and…”
I glanced at Reyna. “Did you hear that?”
“Only half of her words are coming through. Why aren’t our voices
affected?”
I studied the short expanse of catwalk separating us from Meg. An
unpleasant suspicion wriggled in my head. “Meg, take a step back toward
me, please.”
“Why…want…?”
“Just humor me.”
She did. “So are you guys feeling weird, too? Like, kinda cold?” She
frowned. “Wait…it’s better now.”
“You were dropping words,” Reyna said.
“I was?”
The girls looked at me for an explanation. Sadly, I thought I might have
one—or at least the beginnings of one. The metaphorical truck with the
metaphorical headlights was getting closer to metaphorically running me
over.
“You two wait here for a second,” I said. “I want to try something.”
I took a few steps toward the shipping container. When I reached the spot
where Meg had been standing, I felt the difference—as if I’d stepped across
the threshold of a walk-in freezer.
Another ten feet and I couldn’t hear the wind anymore, or the pinging of
metal cables against the sides of the tower, or the blood rushing in my ears. I
snapped my fingers. No sound.
Panic rose in my chest. Complete silence—a music god’s worst
nightmare.