"Where's Cian," Dorian said.
"He was in the library," Imogen said, "he said he needed to make a call—"
Dorian was already moving up the stairs, and I was right behind him. We went down the corridor to the library, the door was closed. Dorian pushed it open to discover the room was empty, the chair still warm, and the window open three inches more than it had been.
On the table, the poetry book was open.
The inscription page facing up.
For the girl who reads at two in the morning. You'll find your way back to what you're looking for. You always do.
Underneath it, in different handwriting — newer, faster, written in the last ten minutes:
Andrei called me first. I know what he's moved up to tonight. Don't let him in, lock the gates.
I'm already inside.
Dorian stared at the note.
"In
