Chapter 27
Twenty-Seven
Kyrith
After ushering Eddy up to bed, I set out to deal with the visitor meandering through the Library. I appear right behind her, remaining as a ghost in case she isn’t friendly.
Every now and again, someone wanders into the Arcanaeum by accident.
I’ve never quite figured out how. Thankfully, this woman seems to be a normal inept.
Over the years I’ve had to evict all manner of creatures.
Demons with horns, blood witches, lycans, even the occasional pair of fae princes.
Thankfully, these instances are few and far between and almost exclusively during closing hours.
This lady needs patching up, given the deep gash on her upper arm. That’s also normal.
It also adds more credence to my hypothesis that the Arcanaeum only allows in those who need our aid.
Clearing my throat, I ask, “Can I help you?”
She whirls, long hair whipping around as she clutches the nearest shelf for support. Her face drains of colour, and she lets out a little shriek, stumbling backwards.
“Ghost!”
Oh joy. She’s an inept with no experience of the supernatural.
“I prefer ‘Librarian.’ Now please calm down. I’m not here to harm you.” I pause while she stares, her oval eyes narrow and disbelieving. “In fact, if you’ll come a little closer, I’ll patch you up and send you back to wherever you came from.”
I intended the words to be reassuring, but she flinches. “I’m not going back there! They shot me!”
“Somewhere else then,” I agree. “But you can’t stay here.”
The awkward standoff continues, and I sigh. “My name is Kyrith. What’s yours?”
Lambert would be so proud of me for staying calm instead of just forcefully evicting her. Tempting though the idea might be, she is injured.
“Marianne,” she drags the name out, like she’s unsure whether she should give it to me. Her stiff accent and rigid posture don’t scream friendliness, but she’s not openly hostile either.
At least she’s not drunk like that last group of demons.
I offer her a cordial smile, though it may be a little tight. “Well, Marianne. If you’ll let me heal you, we can have you on your way quickly enough, yes?”
It takes almost fifteen minutes to fix the damage to her arm, and she doesn’t trust me enough to let me take care of the scarring. Still, her colour has returned, along with her curiosity as she examines the door I’ve selected for her.
“So, I just knock…and I can go anywhere?”
I nod, tempering my impatience. “Be as specific as you like. I’d recommend adding something about your home realm. No one wants to end up in the wrong one by mistake.”
Her throat bobs. “And other realms are real. Of course.”
“That doesn’t have to be any of your concern. You can go back to whichever one you came from and forget all about this place. Your likelihood of encountering another portal, even accidentally, is almost nil.”
Though I suppose her odds of running from a cartel, getting shot, and happening upon a portal in Austin, Texas were low, too. Yet, that’s the tale she spun while I was treating her.
Taking another gulp, she nods, shifting her weight a little as she rests her knuckles against the door.
“I don’t care what realm,” she mutters. “Because the one I came from was pretty shit. But maybe somewhere tropical would be nice, for a fresh start?”
Her knock is timid, but the door swings open anyway, admitting her onto a bustling, sun-drenched street lined with faded yellow taxis. She takes a deep breath, nods at me, and then steps through.
I turn physical, then frown as I rub a twang from my chest as the scent of the sea and a rush of warmth hit me.
I don’t want to go with her. I’ve got North to deal with and problems of my own that need solving.
Gallivanting off on adventures now would be stupid, even if I were capable of setting foot outside of the Arcanaeum.
With that thought firmly in mind, I pop down to the Solarium, shoulders drooping as the stained-glass glows from within with bright flashes of magic.
Maybe this time we won’t argue. I’m only here to offer reassurance, after all. As long as I remain calm, this should go well.
Deep breaths. Calm. Composed. Comforting.
I grip those three words close as I turn the handle and almost have my eyebrows singed for my troubles.
“Northcliff Ackland!” I snap, ghosting until the flames subside. “Watch where you’re casting.”
His face goes slack, then hardens again as I shut the door behind me to protect my plants from any further outbursts.
Shit. In my defence, I was almost barbecued, but still, that wasn’t the tone I was going for. Letting out a long breath, I drop my shoulders and come back to my physical body.
He cuts me off before I can apologise for my outburst. “What are you doing here?”
The abrasive demand puts my hackles up, and I raise one brow. “This is my Arcanaeum. The better question would be, why are you up at this ghastly hour and doing your best to wear out the enchantments on the Solarium?”
His grimoire falls to the floor as he loses his hold on the levitation spell, and he curses as he stoops to pick it up again. “I’m trying to figure out the spell you set for homework. Besides, we’re stuck living here now. What does it matter what time it is?”
How am I supposed to be supportive when he’s the same angry, defensive typical North? I can’t. I could lead this horse to water, but North would rather drown than drink, especially if I am the one suggesting it.
“You know what, forget it,” I grumble, turning back to the door. “Knock yourself out.”
“Wait.”
My hand freezes on the warm brass handle, and I twist my neck to look back at him.
“I can’t make an arc.” His near-inaudible admission is heavy with frustration. “It just won’t make the shape I fucking want it to.”
His grudging request for help is progress, but I can’t treat it as such, or he’ll regress out of spite. Straightening my spine, I put more reluctance into my steps than I really feel as I head for his side, holding my hand out for his grimoire.
It’s still slimmer than it should be at his age, and I frown at the lightness of it as I carry it back to the table in the corner and compare the runeform he’s drawn to the one in the textbook.
“You’re out by a few degrees on this line,” I correct, humming under my breath. “Which could be causing your difficulty. How are you finding the incantation?”
“Shit. Why can’t you guys just use English?”
I roll my eyes. I can’t help it. A pen appears in my hand, and I offer it to him so he can mark the correct line. I’m even a little impressed when he draws a scrap out of his pocket and uses a simple erasing spell to remove the incorrect one.
He’s still inept enough to hand over his grimoire without complaint, but he’s learning faster than I sometimes give him credit for.
Wait.
I blink twice, half convinced I’m dreaming. Is that…?
The final page of the contract is laid flat on the table just beyond where we’re working.
And it now bears a messy, scrawled signature at the bottom.
North…signed it? Platonically, surely? My gut flutters, and my fingers itch to nudge the paper aside, to see what he wrote on the first two pages. Which boxes did he tick?
Nope. I’m not going there. He probably didn’t tick anything. I shouldn’t get my hopes up. Magic, given our interactions so far, I shouldn’t be as invested as I am. There’s attraction, sure. He’s the coarsest of the heirs but still devilishly beautiful.
Any reluctant attraction on my part is almost certainly unrequited. He’s never so much as suggested… Unless the book he gave me at Christmas, and the way he dealt with Goodberry on the day the Arcanaeum reopened were…? No. I’m not that obtuse. I would’ve noticed… Right?
It’s no longer a matter of curiosity. I need to see what he wrote.
Unfortunately, he notes the direction of my gaze and shifts another book to cover the paper.
“Fire spell first. Then we’ll talk.”
A shiver runs up my spine at the darkness in his tone. It’s not…resentment. At least, I don’t think it is. More like…disapproval or…heat.
Only, that’s ridiculous.
Clearing my throat, I move aside. “Try again.”
With a grumpy huff, he takes the book and brings it to hover beside him in one silent motion that has me wanting to strangle him.
How much has he been practising to be able to cast that spell without using the incantation? Eddy was right to be concerned.
“Inflemi erchehlon,” he grunts, placing his hand over the runeform while directing the palm of the other away from us both.
The fireball that erupts from his outstretched palm is almost an arc. Well, really it resembles a fizzling drunken firework, but I can see exactly what his error was.
“Try again. This time, try not to butcher the incantation. It’s aerchilon. Air-shill-on. Not whatever you just said.”
The yellow in his eyes deepens, becoming a dark amber as he pauses. For a second, I don’t think he’ll do it.
Then he returns to the grimoire, deliberately releasing the rigid set of his muscles, and casts again.
This time, the arc is more defined. Wordlessly, I wave at him to continue, retreating slowly backwards. The fire becomes more arcual with each successive attempt. And I use his distraction to sneakily summon the contract into my hand.
I barely manage to look down at the first page and note that he didn’t tick the platonic box when the swoosh of fire stops. I dart a glance up to check on him, only to find him staring at me.
“You were doing well. Keep going.”
He folds his arms, raising his brows pointedly at the paper in my hands. “I said we’d talk after I mastered it.”
“I interpreted that as after I’d helped, which I’ve now done.”
He thrusts one hand through his hair, turning away from me with a groan.
“Jesus. This is precisely why I don’t think your stupid contract will work. Go on then, read it. But afterwards, we’ll talk about why this—us—is a shitstorm waiting to happen.”
Swallowing back the instinctive urge to retort, I settle down in the chair to read through what he’s written.