Through the chaos, this seemed like a perfectly reasonable thing to say. Roman nodded, pulse hammering in his throat as he fought the urge to run and hide. He followed Dacre through the dirt-packed roads.
They eventually stopped at a house on a street corner. Lichen was growing through the roof, and the yard was larger than most, with lilac blooming on a trellis.
“Yes, it should be here,” Dacre mused, but he glanced up as if measuring the horizon.
“What should, sir?” Roman asked, his voice breaking when another volley of gunfire sounded. He glanced over his shoulder, but he couldn’t see the cottage with the sniper. He could only discern Dacre’s soldiers taking cover behind stone walls, slipping in and out of darkened houses, guns in hand.
An explosion rocked the town. Roman saw a flash of light, felt the ground quake beneath his boots. Smoke rose from a neighboring street, provoking a cascade of yells, screams.
The sound nearly drove him to his knees. He could taste blood in his mouth. Blood and salt and dirt, but when he touched his lips, he was dry as parchment. He wondered if he was remembering a fragment of his past, but the tension in the air left him no time to examine it.
“Sir?” he said. “Should we go back and help them?”
Dacre didn’t answer. He opened the yard gate and strode to the front door. It opened with a creak, exposing a dim interior.
“Commander?” The word wrenched from Roman’s chest. He was struck by the fact that he had never called Dacre by this title before. “Shouldn’t we wait? What if there’s another sniper, or a trap?”
Dacre paused on the threshold to look at him. “It will take more than a few poorly shot bullets to kill me.”
“Yes, and you are immortal. I am not.”
“But aren’t you? In case you forgot, you were a minute from death when I found you. With me, you’re safe.”
Dacre ducked inside.
Roman hesitated until the sounds of gunfire faded. The quiet that followed was eerie. It crept into his bones like winter ice, making him feel slow and clumsy, and Roman shivered as he hurried to follow Dacre into the cottage.
“Look for a room with a hearth.” Dacre’s voice came from the shadows.
“What?” Roman panted, standing in the foyer.
“My doorways like to be close to fire and stone. They swallow up ashes and embers and all the unseen magic of a hearth. Ah, here it is. The parlor.”
Roman stepped into the room. There was a rug on the floor, a dusty settee, and bookshelves built around a fireplace. But Dacre was standing before a tall wardrobe door, waiting for Roman to join him.
“I want you to open this door,” Dacre said. “Tell me what you find.”
Roman merely stared at the door, his voice like a splinter in his throat. But his palms were damp. He felt the weight of his typewriter like it was a millstone.
Did Dacre know he was exchanging letters through closets?
Roman bit the inside of his cheek as he opened the wardrobe door. “There are only coats inside, sir,” he said, seeing the outline of winter jackets. “And parcels.”
“Good. Now close it.”
Roman let the door latch, preparing to step away, but Dacre had retrieved the key from around his neck. There were two chains hanging beneath his uniform, one for the key, and one for something that looked like a small silver flute. Roman realized they were the cause of the clinks he sometimes heard when Dacre walked.
He watched as the god brought the key to the wardrobe’s brass handle, slipping it into a keyhole that hadn’t been there before. This time when the door swung open, there were no coats or boxes. There was only a stone staircase, leading down into the under realm.
“I don’t understand,” Roman said, catching the waft of cold, dank air.
“I learned a hard lesson years ago,” Dacre began. “One that made me vow that I would make it harder for those who would seek to harm me or my family again. I forged five keys in the hottest fire of my realm, and only those who I trust can carry them. Those keys can unlock the thresholds between our worlds.”
“Why five?”
“It is a sacred number. For you mortals, there are five days of the week, five boroughs, five chancellors, five remaining divines. For us gods, it is a blessing and a warning. When it comes to trusting others, pay heed to the magic of five. Having four confidants is one too few, and six is one too many.”
Before Roman could raise another question, the lights flickered on overhead. It was the captain, bloodstained and grim, his soldiers dragging in a young man dressed in coveralls. One of his legs appeared broken, and his abdomen shone with bright red blood.