Chapter 28
Twenty-Eight
Galileo
My grandfather’s house looms at the top of the hill, casting a black shadow over me as I make my hasty retreat.
Sweet fecking stars above. Jamie. The kid’s only eight. He’s never had friends, but he was one of the lucky ones. Both of his parents stuck around.
I suppose they’re lucky to have lived through the curse, but at the end of the day, the kid’s just lost his sight.
The wee lad hasn’t stopped screaming since it happened.
How can my grandfather be so immune to it all?
How can he recite that news without even a trace of grief for the child whose life has just been flipped upside down?
He was the same when he mentioned that Amelia’s funeral was coming up. No one ever even bothered to tell me she’d died. Poor girl’s runeform activated, and she decided she’d rather find the bottom of a bottle of pills than face whatever horror the curse had in store for her.
A law of averages would suggest that sometimes what an ó Rinn will miss most is benign. A paperclip, a phone. That’s the lie we tell ourselves. Maybe this time it will be something easy. Nice. Maybe this bairn is the one who simply loses a doll. Maybe this wife loses her wedding band.
It never works out that way.
The only thing that spared me throwing up the expensive dinner was the arrival of the Librarian’s invitation. Needless to say, that didn’t go down well with the old man.
He was more upset about a piece of paper than he was about Jamie and Amelia put together.
If there’s one thing Artemius ó Rinn hates more than life, it’s being forced into anything. The cranky old bastard would rather wither away in solitude with his wacky baccy and his horses than be summoned by anyone, least of all a woman.
The man understands duty, responsibility, and obligation better than most, but he has no patience. That disappeared with his happiness and empathy when his runeform activated.
Apparently, he’d been a jolly child…long, long ago.
In just under a third of cases, what’s lost to the curse is returned, but that’s not a mercy.
Just another demon of hope sent to haunt our family.
Jamie will, no doubt, grow up praying he’s one of the lucky thirty percent.
Maybe if my grandfather had ever gotten his happiness back, his house—the place where I was raised—might have felt like home.
But no. He’s been this way for decades, and I feel more at ease in the Arcanaeum than anywhere else.
I don’t fecking know why I bother putting myself through our weekly dinners. The two of us together rarely make for good company. It’s a waste of my time. I have more important things to be dealing with.
Not that I’ve been as focused on my curse as I should’ve been. Recently, I’ve spent far too much time obsessing over Kyrith’s contract.
For the hundredth time, I debate ripping the distracting document up. I should check the platonic box and be done with it.
But…the things she checked…
She’s just curious, the logical part of my brain insists. She’ll get a taste and back out, safe word at the first hint of pain.
I don’t train new submissives. Not worth the hassle or the risk of getting attached.
Everything about my own contract is designed to mitigate any chance of an emotional bond.
But it’s her.
The Librarian never backs down from anything.
Just imagining the defiance on her face as she pleads and begs and cries has me so hard that I need to adjust myself as I walk.
Maybe I need to find someone to scratch this itch before I do something bad like sign myself into a commitment that includes a Talcott.
I’m not dumb. No one else will be enough.
My stupid brain has always been wired for obsession, and now it’s fixated on Kyrith.
The idea of her tied up and crying pretty tears as I introduce her to my particular brand of sadism is too fecking appealing. I could shatter that legendary composure. Those tits would look perfect clamped and painted in wax and cum and—
“Nice night.”
Anthea’s voice, posh and cold, destroys my deluded fantasy. I whirl, almost tripping as my ankle catches on a bleeding pothole. My hand drops to my grimoire, and I curse myself for not just using the front door to return to the Arcanaeum.
I just wanted to clear my head. That was a fecking mistake.
Wait. She’s alone?
I know better, but my shoulders drop a fraction. Anthea might give me a headache, but if it came to it, I could probably take her.
“What are you doing here?” I demand, tracking her every move as she steps from between the trees. Was she really lying in wait just to ambush me?
“Don’t be so jumpy.” She deftly navigates the worn old driveway, despite her ridiculous heels and the steep incline. “I’m here because I heard a whisper that your curse has activated.”
“And you thought your sunny disposition would brighten up my final days,” I bite back. “How considerate of you.”
Anthea just rolls her eyes, leading the way down the drive instead of pissing off like I wish she would. I’m left in a cloud of her bitter citrus perfume, and I quicken my pace, if only to get upwind of her.
“Oh, and here I thought you were kissing the Librarian’s ass in a last-ditch attempt to save yourself.”
My chest tightens angrily at her mention of Kyrith. “None of your business.”
“Not going well?” The false sympathy in her tone grates even more than the sashay of her hips.
I’d rather swim through a sewer than touch the poisoned chalice that is Pierce’s older sister. Doesn’t stop her fluttering those plastic lashes at me.
“The Librarian is the most knowledgeable woman in all arcandom. She’ll figure it out.”
“Oh, no doubt. But will she do it before poor little Lambert goes to sleep and never wakes up?”
The reference to my mother’s death cuts, and I flex my hands to stop them balling into fists.
“She’s not the only powerful arcanist who would be willing to help you, you know.”
“Magic, I always knew your head was up your ass, but—”
“I’m not talking about me, imbecile. I’m talking about the new Ackland parriarch.”
Every fibre of my being goes still. She’s not talking about North. We both know that. The unspoken name lingers in the air between us, along with the implied questions.
How much do I know? What have I told my grandfather? Whose side is ó Rinn on in the war that’s brewing on the horizon?
The fact that she’s turned up literally hours after the parriarchs received Kyrith’s summons can’t be a coincidence. She’s fishing for something.
“I’ll stick with the devil I know.”
“You’ve not heard our offer yet.”
I stop walking, pretending to admire the glimmering lights of Whiteabbey down the hill and the dark waters of the lough beyond them. “The Librarian’s help doesn’t come with a price.”
“Neither does ours.”
I scoff loudly.
“No, really. All my mother and Parriarch Ackland want is ó Rinn’s support when it matters. Exactly the same thing you’re already giving her.”
“I’m not the one you should be asking.” I jerk my thumb back up the hill. “My grandfather might still be awake if you want to knock and offer to suck him off.”
“Your grandfather is a bitter old man who thinks every ó Rinn should be forced to endure the curse just because he was.” Anthea echoes my own opinion with unerring accuracy. “Parriarch Mathias—”
“Vicegerent Mathias,” I correct, “is overstepping and using you.”
“He has practical experience dealing with generational ensorcellments and a vision for our kind.”
Spoken like a true zealot.
“As a mark of his good faith,” she continues doggedly. “He’s given you this.”
She hands over a folded square of paper, and I flip it open, only to come face to face with the very runeform Kyrith used to break the first layer of my curse.
My disbelief must show on my face, because Anthea grins like she thinks I’m paying her more attention now.
Who—? No. It doesn’t matter which member of my family worked with them to come up with this. The degraded second layer will be different for each ó Rinn. Kyrith is still the only one who’s seen my—
“The degeneration of the second stage was a bit trickier,” Anthea continues. “Four runeforms….” She gives a low whistle.
My thoughts come to a screeching halt.
Somehow, Mathias has gotten a copy of my curse mark. But how?
“You realise you need four strong arcanists to tackle those, right? Even the Librarian can’t read four incantations at once. Who do you have in mind? The liminals who don’t know their asses from their elbows? Or my dashing fiancé?”
Let a Talcott help break my curse? Never.
“Shut the feck up.”
She doesn’t. Of course, she doesn’t.
“The last layer is probably even worse, but Mathias doesn’t want to see talented adepts suffer under such foul magic. No doubt he’ll find the solution. Even if it takes him a few days. He wants us to be strong, not suffering.”
My jaw aches from how hard I’m grinding my teeth together, but I refuse to let loose the fury building in my veins.
She knows. She knows what this means to me.
Anthea, having made her point, offers me a deceptively sweet smile and a cutesy finger wave as she resumes strutting down the drive. “Think about it, Leo. Just don’t take too long.”
I wait for her to reach the streetlamp that marks the edge of the concealment spells covering my grandfather’s home, then collapse on the wet earth with a small scream that does nothing to banish the tangle of fear wrapping its fist around my heart.
How did she know? Who saw my runeform? Pierce? Did I leave my notes somewhere one of the many Carlton spies might’ve seen them?
Surely the Arcanaeum would’ve stopped them. Did they break into the house? Did I leave a copy there? Ugh, does it even matter?
What Anthea’s offering is…everything. It’s Lambert’s life, my life.
But at what cost? His safety? Kyrith’s safety? The Arcanaeum?
No. I can’t make that deal.
I need to head back to the Arcanaeum and ask Kyrith how her work on the second layer of the curse is going. She’ll have made some progress by now.