Chapter 4
The basement is as dark and gloomy as the stairs, with only a few glowing crystals to light the cavernous room.
On the surface, it’s an unexciting space where I keep the spare iron crates and blessed chains, along with the rows of bookshelves for my ledgers.
But to me, the tang of magic is so strong that my tongue clicks against the roof of my mouth.
For in the shadows, a whisper of something else shifts in and out of focus.
My vault’s door.
I nearly groan my complaint when Lucas sets me down.
My feet ache from standing in the shop all day, but I muster up some dignity as I lead the way across the basement.
The seal on the heavy, iron door is even larger and more complex than the one upstairs.
Like all my seals, my blood is smeared across it to link the magic to my bloodline, with a rune etched into it as an extra layer of protection.
It’s an old priesthood trick that Valen’s mother taught me in secret one winter nearly a decade ago.
My headache is back in full swing. I hold out my hand before the door. Magic crackles along the wards, my soul singing in recognition.
The lock clicks, the seal neutralizing. I pull on the handle with all my strength and the heavy door swings open to reveal my vault’s interior.
In the far corner, a magical fireplace flickers merrily along a wall with a plush, ornate rug before it and two armchairs.
On more than one occasion, both of us have fallen asleep there after long, harrowing days of black-market business.
In the corner sits my second desk, the one I use to translate the more dangerous tomes.
And opposite, a bookshelf that houses all the grimoires I cannot trust anywhere else.
They’re dangerous tricksters with Entropy Threads in their spines and always hungry for the easy prey of human souls.
The energy powers them to be the deadly guardians of their creators’ secrets.
However, they’re not what catches my eye. The room fades in my vision to tunnel in on one leatherbound book. Simple and easy to pass over when surrounded by such deadly books.
My grimoire.
Too new to have any specific characteristics like the others, I often wonder what my book will act like when it matures into the living relic of my magic.
Will it be a creature like The Arachnomicon?
A scuttling book like the one that snuck through earlier?
Or will it take on characteristics of my curse that I bound within its pages, destined to power my revenge long after I am gone from this world?
My lovely book. My sweet magic. My legacy.
My heart pulses and lips part. I yearn to hold it, to press my nose to the spine to breathe in its crisp, papery scent, to run my fingers over the ink- and blood-stained pages.
But I mustn’t. Lucas is here and even he doesn’t know of its existence.
The best-kept secret is the one never shared and my precious book must never be discovered.
Within its pages are the details of my curse and the key to undoing all my hard work.
And while it’s young, it is my greatest weakness.
The ends of my Soul Threads are vulnerable within its bindings.
Until my book is matured, another skilled weaver could use the binding to kill me by ripping out my soul.
My precious book needs protection, tender care, and connection like a hatchling in a nest. Communing with my book is a vital part of it, especially since it already houses my curse.
My curse could corrupt if not carefully maintained, something my grimoire should handle on its own eventually.
But until then, I feed my curse little droplets of my own magic to keep it content.
It’s been far too long since I’ve truly communed with my book and it calls to me now, my center aching in a sharp sting.
Maybe… a small communion. Something Lucas won’t notice.
My fingers ripple in a curl, and a draft picks up.
The air hits my face and I take greedy gulps of breath.
Magic washes over my mouth, saliva filling it.
My nose buzzes and my lungs rapidly expand.
My eyes flutter and I sway with the heady power of the book.
My power. My own Dual Threads that I nearly broke to painstakingly knot together on a bookbinding needle.
The reconnection of the other ends of my Threads takes the edge off the sting within my chest. It’s maddening, this small taste when my book needs so much more.
Maybe… maybe if I touch it… I take one, clicking step forward.
Lucas spikes The Arachnomicon through the door like he’s back in the south, playing that damn ball game he loves so much.
I gasp, chest pumping. The orb bounces manically all around, waking up a few of the slumbering books.
Some hiss while others vibrate when they see Lucas. All still when they sense me.
My fists curl, my heart thudding painfully against my ribs. It’s not enough. My book needs more.
“Lucas, can you run upstairs and bring down the ledgers on my desk? I’ve been meaning to put them away.”
Faintly, he agrees. All I can perceive are his retreating steps until they go up and up. Finally, silence rings.
I bolt across my vault, my feet tripping over themselves, and I nearly crash into the shelves.
My fingers tremble as I hook and pull the smooth, black leather from the other grimoires.
I groan as I run my hands over my beautiful book.
Steadiness returns to me. The familiarity of my own soul welcomes my return.
I press the book between my palms and breathe in its intoxicating scent, my eyes rolling and fluttering.
I’ve been messing with the rune work along the endpapers to allow it to absorb the power radiating off the deadly grimoires surrounding it.
Then it could assist me with keeping these grimoires so depleted that their risk is neutralized.
Perhaps it could even feed my curse for me.
I should stop now before Lucas comes back.
With a heavy sigh and a silent promise to return later, this time with Jinx to strengthen the communion and protect my soul from the curse’s corruption, I lower the book from my face and shift my hold to place it back on the shelf.
The bindings fall open, limp in my parting hands like willing thighs, the pages revealing the curse I cast seven years ago.
My smile widens. Blood stains the pages from when I carved the runes onto Alasdair’s unconscious body.
“Oh, you tricksy little minx.” I bite my lip and tilt my head to avoid the lazily floating orb holding The Arachnomicon bumping into me as it bounces off the shelf. “I shouldn’t. He’ll be back soon.”
The magic tingles my fingers and my soul vibrates with its frequency. My head tilts, my vision tunneling. Whispers fill my ears, shivering across my skin, until I forget everything but the dark red ink on the crisp, white pages.
The illustration of my brother with the map of the runes gazes back at me.
The Archweaver’s eyes are the only similarity between us.
Neither of us inherited our father’s dark hair and the golden locks from his mother always shone in the light, even if it was nothing more than the glittering stars above.
We were paired together for dueling practice often since we were of similar height and I managed to break his perfect nose twice, but it always reset straight.
He never let me break it a third time. His mother’s Transformation line assisted him in being incredibly strong with his broad chest and wide shoulders.
I wasn’t able to break through his defenses for another physical attack, so I’d win by outpacing or trapping him.
It wasn’t hard since he was too busy having fun to improve his stamina.
He was lazy. Lazy with his magic, lazy with his intentions. So sure of his future, he never desired to be more. Spoiled. Wretched. Unworthy. A fucking useless pawn.
My teeth click, my memories sucking me back through time like a whirlpool.
The entire Astrum Order surrounds Alasdair and I within the great hall of the Archweaver Estate.
We stand side by side before our father and wait for him to name his Heir.
The tall, arching dome worsens the creeping sense of unease that crawls up my insides.
I glance at Valen’s father, but Vincentius will not meet my gaze.
No one will. My palms sweat and I train my gaze upon my father.
He lounges on that gaudy throne of his upon the dais, watching us like we’re no more than dogs at his feet.
He stands and silence falls. Not a soul breathes as we await his declaration.
His voice, strong and sure, echoes in the high ceiling, “Alasdair Atticus Androclaria, Heir to the Archweaver.”
The roar from the applauding crowd is nothing compared to the ringing in my ears. It was supposed to be me. Vincentius promised me it would be me; he said he would convince the rest of the Council to ensure it. I needed it to be me… and they all abandoned me to burn.
Oh fuck, I can’t breathe. This corset is too tight. My empty stomach clenches, and I swallow rhythmically to keep from hurling all over my dress.
Alasdair turns to me, his green eyes wide and glistening.
The acid presses against the back of my throat and I hold my breath to keep it from escaping.
His jaw clenches, and my heart aches painfully as an understanding seems to pass between us.
Was I wrong about him all this time? In my darkest moment, is it my brother who will stand with me?
He pulls me into the gentlest hug he’s ever given me. I pant, the boning of the corset cutting into my ribs, my body trembling. My eyes close and I sway, the temptation to give into the warm comfort surging.
He whispers softly into my ear, “Don’t come back, Astoria Bauer.”