Getting Wilde by Jenn Stark Page B

forward, forming my gloved hands into fists that I banged down on the seal like it was a square peg I was trying to hammer into a round hole. Nada. The rock stayed very rocklike. Very rocklike and solid. And hard, I realized belatedly, shaking out my hands.  
    “This isn’t happening.” I rolled up to my feet and scowled down at the stone. In the distance, I heard a police siren, and I jerked my head toward it, belatedly aware that I was, at a minimum, acting like a lunatic. At worst, I was doing my level best to deface state property with a stolen artifact.  
    “You know, I don’t have time for this.” I pitched my words calmly, quietly even. Never let it be said I didn’t know how to negotiate with a chunk of metal. “I need to get to the Vatican, and you need to help me.”  
    The seal remained stoic.  
    “There’s gotta be a way. That’s how he works. You know that.” I paced around the seal, then tentatively hopped onto the gold plate. Still nothing. “Totally not joking here.” I hopped again. Then harder. And then I did a rat-a-tat march on it. I worked on my samba, my pogo-stick, even some Irish dancing.  
    Nada, nothing, zip.  
    And then, finally, in the hushed corner of the Temple of Vesta, something deep within me sort of…snapped.  
    “Sweet Father Christmas on a tricycle, stop messing with me!” I stood off the edge of the seal, then raised my foot to stomp down on it with my heavy boot. “I have more!” stomp . “Money!” stomp . “Riding on this!” stomp! “Than I’ve ever seen!” stomp stomp! “In my life !” I backed up, launching myself forward again to execute a two-footed jump onto the now-battered seal. “DO SOMETHING!”  
    There wasn’t even a crack, and I half stumbled to the side, turning around and staring into the distance as I desperately tried to work out another solution, my lungs heaving, my head filling with a bone-rattling roar that pounded through my brain and—  
    The whoosh of movement took me completely by surprise as a storm of smoke shot up around me and the rock surface suddenly gave way beneath my feet. I plummeted into darkness and smashed hard into a wall, bouncing off it into a shower of rocks and debris that chased me down to an equally hard floor, accompanied by a tumble of stones that clattered around me. I blinked for a moment, then an ominous creaking sound stretched overhead in the now-pitch darkness, motivating me to scramble to the side until I came up against another wall, spitting out rock dust as I pulled the penlight out of my jacket.  
    “One use only,” I muttered, angling a narrow beam of light upward. I squinted at the completely blocked opening above me. Which meant—no exit either. So after I found the Magician’s relic, I’d have to come up with some other way to get out of here.  
    Armaeus hadn’t mentioned that part, of course.  
    I swung the penlight around as the rock dust cleared, relieved to see a darker opening cut into the rock opposite from where I was sitting—and only one said opening. This cut down on my possible options of which way to go, for sure. Even better, the dust seemed to be moving into that hole, versus hanging stagnant in the air, which meant somehow, somewhere, there was an opening up ahead.  
    Nevertheless, I put the penlight in my mouth and took the extra second to reach into my jacket and palm the cards, randomly flipping one upright into the thin stream of light.  
    The Devil stared back at me, grinning and fierce, rocking his evil badassery in the old-style illustration. I much preferred the more modern depictions of the horned beast, but either way, this wasn’t helping. I reached for another card, focusing my question more specifically. Two cards came free in my hand, and I nodded when I saw them. That’s more like it.    
    The Hierophant and the Eight of Cups—the Eight clearly one of the Minor Arcana cards that had tumbled out of the deck when the limo driver had startled me.