Chapter Eighteen Lore
EIGHTEEN
Lore
LOWERING MY MENTAL shield seemed like a very bad idea at the moment.
For starters, my heart was pounding so hard I knew the prince felt it.
And second, I was having some wildly inappropriate thoughts that I did not want him to be privy to.
When he’d pulled me onto his lap, all quiet confidence and brooking no room for argument, I quickly discovered I might have just developed a new library fantasy. Starring him. It was terribly inconvenient.
“Lore?”
“One second. I’m trying.”
He released an amused huff and reclined, his movements lazy and unbothered. The complete opposite of how I was feeling.
I wondered how much practice he had to be so at ease.
I told myself to get a grip. Nestling against his hard chest while being perched on his lap was completely normal.
“Easy.”
Sloth’s hands came down firmly on my hips, holding me in place.
I hadn’t realized I was fidgeting. Unfortunately, the prince had noticed. And he’d… reacted.
I froze.
I tried not to think about the hardness pressing into my backside.
Or the tense way the prince held himself perfectly still behind me, his grip tightening ever so slightly on my waist.
For a fleeting moment, I convinced myself he ground against me.
All thoughts fled as my focus narrowed to where we touched.
His body was so warm and firm against mine.
Maybe I’d been wrong about the dragon shifter test; maybe this was desire or seduction. If Sloth moved his hands up, if he skimmed them along my silhouette, I might combust.
My mental shield dropped faster than my inhibitions, and the next thing I knew, his presence filled me.
Relax, Lore, he said directly into my mind. Let me lead.
Relaxing while he was hard as granite beneath me and inside my head seemed fairly impossible. Especially when I started picturing him on his knees, slowly undoing the ribbons on my garters.
He groaned.
“I’m doing my best to get it under control,” he said. “But you might want to focus on something else.”
I couldn’t tell if he’d spoken aloud or in my head because I was too busy being mortified that he’d heard my thoughts.
I tried to focus on the Book of Nightmares, the Trials, the danger that was pressing in. Then I forced myself to think about this story, and if my patience wasn’t being tested, try to identify what was.
For his part, Sloth kept his thoughts from me and didn’t speak in my mind again until he’d… recovered.
Once he had, we both relaxed. Marginally.
A moment later, it felt like he’d wrapped my essence with his and then we were funneling through time and space.
When we stopped, I sucked in a sharp breath.
We were no more solid than ghosts, but that didn’t matter.
Oh, my gods, I thought, glancing around.
A giant tree with multicolored leaves filled the space, the towering shelves all around it filled with books that gleamed. A faint glow threaded through the branches, sending shifting colors across the shelves.
The prince stepped back toward a table stacked with texts, but I couldn’t tear my gaze from the chamber. It was pure magic, and the tree was its heart.
Its leaves rustled like pages being turned in books.
The shelves stretched higher than seemed possible, vanishing into starlight overhead, and ladders drifted smoothly along rails, guided by unseen hands.
The air itself smelled of ink, parchment, and something older—like the weight of every story ever told pressed into the space around me and created its own magical aroma.
How I could smell in this form was a mystery I didn’t care to solve.
The walls seemed to be carved from shadow and moonlight, arching up into a domed ceiling that allowed the night sky to peek down into the room.
I slowly spun in place.
Between the shelves, alcoves invited readers to come in and explore. There were cushioned window seats tucked beneath the stained-glass windows, armchairs angled toward the tree’s otherworldly glow, and small tables scattered throughout.
The chamber felt vast but welcoming. It was the kind of space where time fell away completely, and someone could lose themselves in a book and never mind being lost at all. This was only a fraction of House Sloth, and I was hopelessly in love.
“It smells divine in here,” I said aloud.
Sloth shot a look over his shoulder, his brows pinched. Whatever he was thinking, he didn’t share.
This is the most beautiful library I’ve ever seen, I thought to myself.
I was suddenly aware of another presence. One that felt like it preened at my comment.
You are a most unexpected delight. And clearly of superior intelligence. The prince should study your charm. He clearly has much to learn in that area. Though I suppose he has his own gifts.
My ghostly form shot an incredulous look at the prince. He rolled his eyes.
Library, this is Lore. She’s a dreamweaver and we’re in need of information that can help us with the Trials and her magic.
My eyes rounded. He had a library that spoke to him and was not afraid to sass him. I never wanted to leave.
In fact, this was where I lived now, even if that meant staying a weird apparition. I wondered where the essence of the Library was and if I could give it the equivalent of belly rubs. It had a strange combination of dog and cat energy that just begged to be loved on.
Sloth gave me an exasperated look, and I realized he was still very much connected to my thoughts, and I might as well be shouting them to him.
The Library took on an air of gentlemanly charm.
It is a great honor to host such an esteemed guest. I am but your most humble servant. Whatever you need, simply ask and it shall be yours, O mighty one. And, no—it paused for dramatic effect—I am not speaking of you, Prince.
Duly noted. The texts, Library…
The one I’d pulled for you last is still on the research table. Make haste and finish the passage I pulled.
Sloth released a long sigh, as if the Library’s attitude was tedious, but I had never been more entertained in my life.
I strode over to the table where the prince was and scanned the title before the book magically flipped open and the Library resumed whatever research the prince had last left off on.
PHILOSOPHY OF SACRIFICES THROUGHOUT THE AGES
A case study of points and counterpoints in the quest to determine if good versus evil exists beyond theory in mortal trappings.
It’s not easy to maintain the lies we tell ourselves while still hiding behind the pretty masks of deception we wear. When concealing our ugliest truths is no longer an option, that is when the ultimate test of mettle begins.
When we’re pushed to our limits, when we’re forced to break, do we become the villain, or do we choose to be the hero?
Some scientists wonder if genetic makeup impacts the outcome.
Does the child nurtured turn evil when pushed into darkness, or does it remain good?
Madness, sanity, one coin, two sides.
Is a simple toss all it takes to determine the victor?
The pages flipped until they neared the middle of the text.
If I lived forever, I would never get over how incredible it was to have an enchanted library.
Some scholars wonder if the essence of life can be transferred or trapped. What is immortality? Can that which lives ever truly die? Or does it simply change forms? Historical documents indicate even mortals never cease to exist; they simply exchange one state of being for the next.
Is it magic? Is it alchemy? Or is it simply the desire to live on that drives the evolutionary process? What is the catalyst for change?
Sloth stared down at the page, his jaw tight. Library, bring me anything you have on dreamweavers and their magic.
There is only one small text.
The leaves in the tree rustled again, the pages flipping through until a book flew off the shelf and landed gracefully on the table.
I watched, spellbound, as the pages flipped open and the Library stopped on the section it had been searching for.
Dreamweavers are blessed with the ability to create fantasy from reality. The changes can be small—altering the color of a rug, or curtains. Sometimes they shift the color of their hair or eyes. The magic comes from their imagination. Not much is known about how it manifests.
Sloth slanted a glance my way. I had a feeling we’d be trying to change my hair or eye color soon to test my power.
I need the legend of the lost phoenix. Flip to the section on the phoenix tear.
The Library muttered something about manners, but in the next instant, the requested book was there, and I was completely taken with how beautiful it was.
The pages were illustrated, the chapter headers works of art. It looked to be an illuminated manuscript, and I couldn’t begin to guess its age.
… after its mate was killed via a creature born of nightmares, the phoenix flew across the realms, crying tears of sorrow. As they fell, they exploded, creating craters that later became hot springs.
The pages flipped…
The Goddess of Night caught the final tear in her palm, and instead of exploding and maiming her, it became imbued with her own power.
The great goddess never forgave herself—it was her nightmare magic that created the monster that slayed the phoenix’s mate. Both the phoenix and the goddess became consumed with darkness.
It is believed—
I’d barely finished reading when we were yanked out of the Library and funneled back into our bodies.
I blinked slowly, readjusting to the abrupt shift. That was… peculiar and amazing and a little hard to reconcile. One would think I’d be used to magic by now, but I could live a hundred lifetimes and would still be just as awed.
Sloth shifted beneath me, reminding me of our current seating arrangement, and I felt the prince’s mind slip from mine.
I promptly erected my mental shield again before I shot any unwanted thoughts his way.