Chapter 9
Chapter nine
Lux couldn’t help but watch him. Though he wore black, the man stuck out like moonlight in a barren landscape.
He stood at the bar, his back to her, and while it couldn’t be said the people of Verity dressed poorly, everything about him—from his perfectly swept hair to his polished black boots—shouted wealth.
But he was not the same wealthy man she’d encountered in Loxlen.
For one thing, he wore no bowler hat. For two, he was much younger.
Lux jolted when a body appeared at her elbow. She relaxed only a little when she realized it was Magda.
“Viktar told us what you did for him.”
“Did he.” Lux observed the man slide a few coins across the counter.
“What do you expect for payment?”
Lux finally tore her gaze from him. Her brow furrowed as she focused on Magda.
“Payment? I would like the payment of you leaving me be. Of no longer targeting those just trying to live. Viktar’s hopelessness clearly drove him to desperate crimes.
Are you the same, that you’d condone it rather than help him? ”
Magda’s stare narrowed to match. “I’ve my own set of problems.”
“So do we all! Steal from the rich then, if you must. Him, for example. A prime target if I ever saw one.”
The fair-haired man turned around. Eyes locking with hers, he raised his mug in a toast.
Lux swallowed and lowered her voice. “Who is he?”
“The prime target?” Magda chuckled at Lux’s glower.
“That would be a collector.” When Lux’s expression softened to confusion, Magda continued, “Academics. They collect books, manuscripts. Things once lost to time. They’re also philanthropists, but not for things that help me much. There’s nothing I need from a library.”
The Risen flashed in Lux’s mind, lying wrapped and safe inside her pack. “Where do they keep them?”
The man had left his post, drawing closer to the rough-hewn fireplace. He draped an arm atop the mantle. No one approached him. They actively avoided even looking at him.
But Magda watched him closely. “The manor by the sea.”
“A manor by the—”
“Sea. Yes. You have something of a rare text, right? Perhaps you might introduce yourself and solicit an invitation. Their Hallowed Banquet is nearing, after all.” Her lips quirked into a suggestive smile.
“You’re young. He’s young. I can’t imagine what it must be like for him, spending most of his time with stuffed-up old men and dusty books. ”
Magda’s expression left Lux’s stomach in knots and the rest of her more flustered than she cared to admit. He was handsome. In a cold sort of way.
Because of it, she spat harshly, “I don’t need your thoughts on my personal affairs. Or his, for that matter. Anyone who leads an attack four to one, when that one is alone and defenseless, is gutless and not worthy of any opinions in my mind.”
“My, my, but don’t you like to hold a grudge.” Magda circled her before leaning in close. “You might have been alone, girl, but we all saw the knife. And you didn’t look to be a stranger to its use. Defenseless? Bah.” She retreated to the stairs. “Enjoy your time in Verity, Necromancer!”
Lux physically recoiled at the volume. Witch. She spun to absorb the intense stares now trained upon her. As if they needed any further reason to distrust her. And then there was that collector—who stared at her now most intensely of all.
Her feet rooted to the floor when he suddenly made for her.
He was tall, with a slenderer build than Shaw, and his eyes were indeed frost-like.
The abundant lamplight made them appear like ice.
He should reside in a place of permanent winter, she thought.
But then he was standing before her, his lips pulled up in an incredulous half-smile, and she forgot everything else.
“Excuse me, Miss, but I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.” He extended a gloved hand, and his smile transformed into the same grin she’d seen upstairs.
“Corvin Alistair, Collector of Mothlock.”
Lux sat at the utmost edge of the bench, her fingers gripping the wood tight.
Across the table sat a man of Mothlock. She didn’t have much else to go on.
Only that he was clearly wealthy, had a part in a philanthropic business connected to every corner of the country, and possessed an unnerving confidence.
All things that sharpened her suspicious nature.
He carefully adjusted the fit of his gloves while she stared.
If only a person’s secrets could be revealed by staring…
“Two servings of the house stew and two pints of mead.”
Lux startled at his sudden address to a barmaid. She forgot to protest the drink as the woman inclined her head, and only afterward did she notice the barmaid scurried as fast as the room’s arrangement allowed. Lux’s teeth clacked together.
But was the woman frightened of her or the man across from her? She leveled her gaze with the collector’s. He grinned, and she added one more note to the list she’d begun to keep: His smile was awfully disarming.
Little did he know, though, she had grown up in a vile place; she wasn’t easily disarmed.
“I don’t mean to overwhelm you, Ms. Thorn. I only knew that soon, everyone would be vying for your attention, and I selfishly wanted it first. Thank you for allowing me to atone for my actions upstairs by buying you dinner.”
She held back a snort as clearly no one wanted her attention, and said, “Consider yourself forgiven, Mr. Alistair.”
“I’m relieved to hear it. Though Corvin will do.”
She drudged up a smile. “Lux will do, too.”
“A unique name—Lux.” Corvin pulled his lower lip between his teeth and released it. “I rather like it. I wonder…is it a nickname?”
“No,” she lied smoothly. “Is Corvin a nickname?”
His brow furrowed in amused confusion. “No.” Pristine sleeves came to rest upon the tabletop, and that pricking sensation returned as her stare tightened on his gleaming coat buttons.
Mothlock Manor. That was where he was from. Not merely a group of lending libraries. Not a costly establishment. But the name for a manor by the sea. A place not on her map, she didn’t think, but then again she’d also overlooked Verity.
The destination for a man in a bowler hat and a body in a bag. And though she’d lost that one, she’d found another just like him. How unusually lucky.
Lux did not trust luck. It felt like anytime she’d ever done so, something disastrous would follow shortly afterward. The universe righting itself after her accidental good fortune. She felt a little ill.
Regardless, she said, “Collector of Mothlock is an impressive-sounding title. What does it mean?”
His confusion morphed into incredulity. “Sincerely? You’ve not heard of us?”
“Why would I ask if I had?” Damn it all. Her annoyance with useless questions might just ruin all of this for her. She dragged her nails along the bench’s woodgrain and lied again. “I only meant, I wish I had. But I haven’t.”
“Right.” His confident smile faltered for the first time, and Lux, upon seeing it, reminded herself he hadn’t done anything wrong.
Yet. “Well, we’re as our title says: collectors of the rare and important.
Usually that means books, sometimes objects.
All of which are brought back to our estate for the purpose of preservation. ”
“Preservation?” Lux immediately thought of her missing fingernail, floating now with others in an unmarked jar. “Whyever would books need to be preserved?”
Corvin eyed her thoughtfully, a perusal she found difficult to meet.
“So many things are not cared for as they should be.” His fingertips tapped solemnly upon the table.
“You would be surprised, I think, at what was once at risk of being lost. But at Mothlock, we collect, study, print, and bind. Then we redistribute that knowledge back into the community. Can you imagine what this country would be like if we lost our history? Or the ability to strengthen our brilliances?”
Lux blinked, taken aback. “I… No, I suppose I can’t imagine that.” A crack slivered through her suspicions. “It sounds like a worthy cause.”
Corvin’s lips quirked. “And you sound surprised.”
“Maybe I am.”
It was strange—it being the pleasant kind for once.
“You know,” he began, “I’ve only ever read of necromancers. I’ve always hoped to meet one in the flesh, but being as it’s one of the rarer gifts, I never expected to.”
In the flesh?
Suddenly, it was not Corvin who sat across from her, but the Mayor of Ghadra, Bartleby Tamish. His watery eyes and all his power-obsessed glory. Her defenses rose like hackles. She nearly bared her teeth.
“I’m not a collectible.”
The collector’s mouth dropped wide, aghast. “Of course not. Forgive me; I didn’t mean to imply anything like that.”
The deceased mayor dissolved before her. In his place were stark, clear eyes and a worried brow. Lux drew a deep breath. She stretched her fingers where they’d begun to sink again into the wood. The mayor is dead, she told herself. He’s dead, and you’re not, and you will never be kept again.
The words were the only sort of calming elixir she’d ever take. With her voice nearly normal, she tried to steer the conversation on. “You said you’ve read about people like me?”
Corvin’s brow was slow to relax, but he did appear relieved to change the subject. “Very little, to my disappointment, but yes. Have you?”
“We didn’t have many books where I’m from.”
“Truthfully? We have lending libraries, if not booksellers, in nearly every city. A disservice for certain that we’ve missed yours. Tell me where it is, so I might pass it on.”
Lux leaned away from the table as two bowls of stew and a plate of bread were placed before them. Matching mugs of mead completed the meal moments later. Lux thought the barmaid’s hands were shaking as she did so but was too distracted to pay further mind.