The Hollow Crown
Modern Day — Brooklyn, New York
Lirael's Apartment — 3:02 AM
Mara Sato had never picked a lock before, but desperation made her a quick study. The hairpin snapped in the keyhole.
"Damn it, Lira," she muttered, kicking the door in frustration. To her surprise, it swung open. She stumbled forward, her phone flashlight sweeping the dark apartment.
"You better be passed out drunk and not—"
The beam landed on Lirael's body sprawled across the couch, her skin as translucent as rice paper. Shadows pooled beneath her like spilled ink, stretching unnaturally toward the dagger resting on the coffee table. The blade pulsed with a sickly blue glow, the runes carved into its hilt flickering like a heartbeat.
"Oh my god." Mara dropped to her knees, pressing two fingers to Lirael's wrist. A fluttering pulse—moth-wing weak.
"Wake up. Wake up, you cryptic bitch!"
Lirael's eyes snapped open, irises flickering gold. She sucked in a sharp breath.
"Mara." Her voice echoed, layered with whispers. "She's coming."
"Who's coming? Your emo historian boyfriend?"
"The hollow crown… hides the key…" Lirael's head lolled back, her body dissolving into mist for a heartbeat before solidifying.
Mara cursed, fumbling for her phone. Dialing 911? Useless. Lirael would end up in a psych ward. Instead, she scrolled to the only contact labeled "Worst Case Scenario" in Lirael's phone: Alaric.
---
Scene 2: The Midnight Hour Café — 4:15 AM
Alaric arrived in a whirlwind of leather and panic, dark circles under his eyes. He barely looked at Mara before demanding, "Where is she?"
Mara shoved a matcha latte at him. "Drink. You look like death."
He ignored it. "Lirael?"
"Sleeping. Or whatever you call it when your body turns into a screensaver." Mara pulled something from her bag and slid it across the table: the dagger, wrapped in a Sailor Moon tea towel. "Start talking."
Alaric flinched at the glow seeping through the fabric. "It's the curse. She's slipping between lifetimes."
"Bullshit. Try again."
He sighed, rubbing his temples. "You've seen her scars. The way she knows languages she's never studied. The dagger."
Mara hesitated. Lirael had warned her once, drunk on sake: "I think I've loved him forever. Isn't that stupid?"
"How do we fix her?"
"We find the second heart-key fragment." Alaric unfolded a map, its edges singed. "It's hidden in a crown, last seen in 9th-century Mercia. Now owned by Victor DuPont—a collector."
Mara stared at him. "You mean the guy who bought the Times Square billboard for his cat's birthday?"
"The same."
Mara snatched the map. "Let's steal a crown."
---
Flashback — Mercia, 873 AD
Queen Lira's Chambers — Midnight
Lira of Mercia pressed her crown into the hearth's ashes, its gold dulling under soot. "Take it," she ordered her captain of the guard, Alaric. "Bury it where even God cannot find it."
He knelt, his armor clanking. "My queen, without the crown, the Witan will declare you false."
"Let them." She gripped his gauntlet, her voice softening. "The sorceress's curse poisons this land. The crown's fragment is the only hope for those who come after."
Footsteps echoed in the hall. Lira shoved the crown into his arms. "Go!"
Too late. The door burst open. The sorceress, cloaked in shadow, smiled. "Sweet Lira. Always playing the martyr."
Alaric drew his sword, but the sorceress flicked her wrist. His blade turned to ash. "Kneel," she commanded.
He obeyed, eyes vacant.
"Now," the sorceress crooned, "kill your queen."
---
Modern Day — Upper East Side Penthouse — 8:00 PM
Victor DuPont's penthouse was a shrine to excess: gilded furniture, a taxidermied lion, and a glass case displaying the Mercia crown.
Mara adjusted her fake catering staff uniform, nudging Alaric. "Why's the crown look like a bike chain?"
"It was buried for a millennium." He fiddled with a lockpick. "Stay close."
"Wait, wait—" Mara caught his arm. "Lirael's whole body turns into mist and she still didn't just astral-project herself into this penthouse?"
Alaric shot her a look. "She's dying. The more she fades, the less control she has."
Mara grimaced. "Fine. But if this goes sideways, I'm blaming you."
They slipped past security, weaving through glittering guests. Mara swiped a champagne flute off a tray, raising it to her lips as she whispered, "So, do we smash and grab or—"
"The crown is warded," Alaric murmured. "We need to deactivate the runes first."
"Of course we do."
Mara set the glass down and stepped closer to the display case. The runes shimmered faintly, their sigils shifting when she moved. "If I were a pretentious billionaire with a magical artifact, where would I keep the override switch?"
Alaric scanned the room. "Somewhere close."
Mara spotted a silver console near the fireplace, lined with touchscreens. "Bingo." She moved toward it, only to freeze as a voice rang out.
"Enjoying the party?"
Victor DuPont, in a white suit, smiled at them. His eyes, a shade too bright, lingered on Alaric. "I don't believe we've met."
Mara recovered first. "Catering. We were just admiring your taste in... uh, crowns."
DuPont's smile widened. "Ah, the Mercia relic. A fascinating piece, isn't it?" His gaze locked onto Alaric. "You seem familiar. Do I know you?"
Alaric tensed. "No."
Lirael's voice whispered in Mara's mind. He does.
Then the lights flickered.
The dagger, hidden beneath Alaric's coat, pulsed once.
Mara exhaled sharply. "Oh, hell."
A gust of wind tore through the room. The glass case shattered. The crown lifted into the air, spinning in place, runes igniting with blinding white light.
DuPont's smile turned predatory. "Ah. So you're finally here for it."
Alaric yanked the dagger free. "Mara. Run."