Chapter 3
Zosia
A nsel nods with understanding. Focusing on the present topic requires all of my best intentions because my mind is still consumed with Bren’s predicament. Before we seek help, however, I need signs that we can trust both men. Just how much will Ansel tell me? Did Tremayne know?
The two men across from me present my only connections to my family besides the library. Sage has offered all she can by showing me pictures. The goblins don’t speak of the former librarians. I’m uncertain whether they follow orders or if they are designed to focus only on the current librarian.
Of course, my brain whirls with a million questions while I savor the sound of my mother’s name – Karasi. It’s as uncommon as my name, and its African etymology means wisdom and life. Are all sphinxes given names that imply insight, knowledge, or intelligence?
Ansel’s apologetic tone rouses me from my thoughts. “I didn’t intend to withhold information from you, Zosia, but I didn’t want to offer false hope either. As you’ve already assumed, the most important detail I’ve withheld is that I knew your mother more intimately than I led you to believe.”
The library seems to hold its nonexistent breath … or maybe it’s just me. I lean forward, my grip tightening on each hand I hold. My guardians listen intently as well. Bren remains in his seat, but he can’t sit still. He fidgets and looks away while his brother impersonates a stone statue on my other side.
“I was much older than your mother when Tremayne asked me to return to Apocrypha. Although the academy was different when I was a student, it was still elite and snobbish. Tremayne helped me through that ordeal, and I owed him.” A look that suggests familial love and respect passes between the two older men. The old mage enjoys championing underdogs. If his reasoning for this is altruistic, I like him even more.
“I’d briefly met your grandmother while I was enrolled. At the time, Atanea’s pregnancy was still a distant idea. All of her guardians were present, and she exemplified the stern librarian. She didn’t speak casually with the students, but she seemed happy. Everything had changed upon my return. The library was rarely open because she was sick with heartache, rumors were impossible to separate from fact, and sadness echoed through the shelves.”
My mind paints an image from his words that makes my heart ache. I am sad for my mother and grandmother, but I’m also afraid history might repeat itself. What happened with her guardian? Can the same happen to me? Being fated mates doesn’t guarantee a happily ever after ; nothing worth having is easy.
Another part of my brain notes my grandmother’s name. Atanea. I believe it’s a rare spelling of the name Athena – the Greek goddess of wisdom and handicraft. It suits the image of the formidable woman Ansel creates with his words.
“Karasi was the real reason Tremayne contacted me, although he couldn’t reveal this until we were face to face. Your grandmother had struggled to conceive and carry a child to term, and she was nearing the point of being unable when Karasi was born.”
I pity her and all the sphinxes that came before me. Being the sole individual responsible for continuing an entire species is daunting and slightly unfair. Some might argue that it’s the price for the magic and power of the library, but the pressure is immense.
“Unfortunately, catastrophe struck before Karasi’s second birthday. One of her fathers disappeared. The most prevalent rumor was that he left without a word. The betrayal turned Atanea into a shell of her former self. While she barely managed to uphold her responsibilities and duties to the library, she struggled to nurture her growing daughter. The remaining guardians helped as much as possible, but Karasi craved her mother’s care. As she got older, she started rebelling to capture Atanea’s attention.” Ansel’s eyes glaze over as memories overcome him.
I feel drawn into the past as well, although my stubborn brain insists this is not just my family’s history but a cautionary tale. My guardians seem similarly hypnotized, although Bren and Garrett take turns reaching for food. I don’t know if they are truly hungry or if it’s akin to eating popcorn when watching an engrossing movie, but I can’t stomach anything right now. I need to hear the entire story. The library keeps my coffee hot, however, and I’ve traded the men’s hands for the comfort of the warm ceramic mug. Avery’s unwavering presence behind me somehow keeps me upright.
Kodi can’t help but be distracted. At times, like now, he’s more erratic than Bren usually is. His constant bouncing back and forth is distracting. He’s annoyed that Ansel might be my father because the shifter abandoned me. I convinced him to listen to the shifter’s explanation, however, and I’m glad I did. Ansel has a penchant for storytelling, and I wonder if it drew my mother to him. She and my grandmother might have been at odds, but they were still sphinxes. Stories are in our blood.
“Karasi was a spitfire and naturally obstinate, but she was also kept hidden. Not many supernaturals knew that Atanea had successfully borne a babe, even though it’s common for long-lived supernaturals to wait until their later years. To hide her pregnancy, Atanea closed the library for a year and a half. She knew that a few elite supernaturals coveted the library’s power and she didn’t want to appear vulnerable.
“The library reopened a few months after Karasi’s birth, and Agustin disappeared about a year later. Atanea was convinced his absence was a result of foul play. As Karasi grew, however, things changed. Atanea started to believe that her daughter’s inability to shift was proof of her mate’s betrayal. As the years passed, she began to doubt her ability to care for the library and lived in constant fear. That fear was stoked by threats from powerful, wealthy supernaturals. She never revealed the source of those threats, but it makes sense to assume the men who orchestrated your mother’s death and captured were responsible.”
Ansel pauses to take a sip of water. “When Karasi was barely a year younger than you, Tremayne contacted me. He saw Karasi’s successful shift as the best way to help the library. He’d hoped it would give Atanea hope or convince Karasi that she was meant to be the next librarian.”
I can’t list the emotions battering my chest. My grandmother endured pain, suffering, and ridicule. Her distress transferred to Karasi – a child who just needed her mother. I feel sorry for both of them, but the unfortunate series of events had an instigator. Anger battles with empathy.
Ansel mentioned someone had taken the fall, but everyone knows one death doesn’t matter when many are involved. Someone needs to answer for my childhood and three generations of grief and adversity. The executed man had been a scapegoat; the real antagonists sacrificed him when he became an inconvenience. This is true only if Agustin, my grandmother’s guardian, was actually targeted. He might have left because he fell out of love or grew tired of the library.
My fingers tighten around my cup, but I barely notice until Bren coaxes my knuckles to loosen. The hem of his t-shirt bears the signs of his abuse; it’s practically ragged from his fidgeting. His hand around mine is meant to comfort both of us.
Avery’s hands move to knead the tight muscles of my neck as he senses the turmoil inside me. Kodi’s gaze provides the emotional reassurance and comfort it has always offered when he stops bouncing around and focuses on my face for a few seconds.
“Although I owed Tremayne, I felt a compulsion to help once I understood the situation,” Ansel continues. “The library had been my sanctuary when I was a student. She doesn’t permit bullying within her walls, and she came to my aid more than once. I started teaching your mother to shift. Even after she’d found her form, however, she rebelled against becoming the next librarian.” The pain in Ansel’s voice is telling. Although many years have passed, he still struggles with these memories. “I tried to convince her, but I admit that I didn’t push her too hard. I was in love with her already, and I didn’t want her to turn against me.” He takes a ragged breath that reveals his guilt, sadness, and grief.
After a second to compose himself, he continues. “I’m still uncertain of what happened next. I believe Atanea received a message Agustin hadn’t left willingly. It might have suggested he was a prisoner. Whatever she learned, it convinced her to leave the safety of the library to search for him. Despite her mates' protests, she couldn't be stopped once she'd decided. Her mates decided they would rather die with her than remain here without her. That’s exactly what happened.” Ansel’s tone is somber and Tremayne’s gaze is sad. Had he been close to my grandmother? Did he know more than Ansel?
I don’t blame Atanea because I can imagine myself following her example. If any one of my guardians were captured, I would try to free them, but those remaining wouldn’t let me try alone. The believability of the situation makes the tragedy more devastating. I’d like to believe I’d pay more attention to my child, but I can’t imagine being responsible for a child.
Our recent ordeal is still fresh in my mind as well. Kodi had been taken from me a few days ago. I’d tried to leave, but Garrett and Avery had gone in my stead. They’d all returned alive, but the parallels made dread coil within my stomach like a venomous snake. As if sharing my thoughts, Garrett takes my free hand again. His huge grip makes me feel safe.
“It was a trap,” Ansel relays in a dark tone. “They’d barely stepped off the Academy’s campus before they were attacked. Karasi might have been the next target, but she managed to retrieve the bones of her mother without incident.”
My access to the wisdom of the library offers helpful information. The bones of a sphinx can’t be destroyed regardless of how the shifter is killed. Our blood and bones contain power, and it’s safe to assume the remains protected Karasi. It’s a morbid thought.
“Karasi still refused to be the next librarian, though. She blamed the library for taking her family, and everything within here was a reminder of her life. I’ve continued to search for the truth behind Agustin’s disappearance, but I haven’t been able to find more than Atanea.”
“And you? You were here during that time, right?” My gaze focuses on the mage. He hasn’t said a word.
Tremayne’s eyes meet mine. “Atanea was a friend of mine, but she didn’t truly trust anyone outside her inner circle. After Agustin left, she pushed even casual acquaintances away. She reached out to me when she realized Karasi couldn’t shift, but I don’t know any more than Ansel. I understand your suspicion, but my relationship has always been with the library and not its librarians. This building is the reason I’ve stayed at Apocrypha, even though I’ve lost respect for the academy. My loyalty is to the library.” Honesty rings through his words and Sage verifies it. I’d thought he harbored a secret infatuation with my grandmother, but this doesn’t appear to be the case.
Satisfied with his answer, I turn back to Ansel. “Sorry for the interruption. Please continue.” He’s already suffering. My interrogation feels cruel, but I can’t ask him to stop. The library assures me again that she’s easing his pain for the time being. I have to believe this because I need his answers and help.
Ansel nods, calling on the strength the library is feeding him. “As I alluded to earlier, Karasi blamed the library for her mother’s distance.” The pain in the shifter’s voice reverberates through the building around me. Sage’s guilt is so strong that it almost pulls me under. She regrets allowing my grandmother and mother to leave. The connections with my mates serve as my anchor and prevent me from drowning in her remorse.
“Karasi must have been pregnant when she retrieved her mother’s bones. Sphinxes can control their fertility, but something might have been muddled or destiny intervened. I don’t think the pregnancy was intentional because she’d confessed her worries about childrearing. She worried that her role as librarian would take precedence over any child she bore. She didn’t want to become her mother.”
So she died instead , I think, and the irony is painful. By fearing what she might become, she became nothing at all. The time has come, however. I must ask the question behind this entire conversation. My muscles tense with fear and anticipation.
“You think she might have been pregnant, though. Does this mean you slept with her? You could be my father?” I make the inquiry as direct as my embarrassment allows. I’ve been pondering the possibility all day. Fathers might be less important in sphinx lineage, but I was raised in a magicless world. My mother might be dead, but a second human contributed to my existence. Where was this human when my mother died? Where was he when I was born and captured?