CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX #3
“Thank you.”
He gives me his sweet smile and touches the door handle. The silver door swings open welcomingly.
Slipping Rorrik’s pendant back over my head, I take a moment to stare, inhaling the scent of old parchment. The library is dimly lit by aether stones, the lamps casting long shadows across arched ceilings.
Stretching almost as high as those ceilings, hundreds of bookshelves are arranged neatly into narrow rows.
To my left, a statue of Staleia is positioned against one wall.
The goddess of wisdom and the arts wears a placid, patient expression, her lips curved up in a gentle smile.
One hand holds a thick book, while the other reaches out, as if beckoning her followers to approach.
Several tables have been positioned near the statue, a few of them still holding stacks of books. But I wander toward the shelves to my left.
The air should be damp down here, but it’s bone dry instead, likely protected by whoever harnessed aether to ward against moisture.
Slowly I pull the closest book, and my heart races.
The date on the spine tells me it was written six centuries ago, and—aside from a faint yellowing of the pages—it’s in perfect condition.
I stroll past history and languages and battle strategy.
Along three shelves, records of every gladian and guardant who has entered the ludus are neatly stacked in alphabetical order.
Another entire section is devoted to flowers, and I pull a book at random, flicking through the pages. Roses. Kassia would love this library …
I shove the book back where it belongs, breathing shallowly as I’m assaulted by memories of Kassia fighting, dancing, laughing. Turning away, I force myself to continue my search. Maginari history? Or would information about power transfer be somewhere else?
I shuffle from section to section, until I have a stack of books almost too heavy to carry. I’m about to haul them back to the tables near the statue when I stumble across another table, hidden away in a corner so shadowed and secluded, I almost miss it.
Someone has set up their own little research station in this corner, with a stack of books waiting on one of the round tables. Behind the table, the wall is marred by a crack that splinters outward from a fist-sized hole, the stone crumbling at its edges.
Whoever was researching here was both incredibly angry and incredibly strong.
A vampire.
I lean closer, peering at the open book, but the language is one I’ve never seen before. One that pokes sharply into my mind.
I scan the page, and my eyes water.
With a hiss, I press my fingers to suddenly aching eyes, wiping away moisture.
I reach out, flicking to the next page, and my hand trembles. My finger is damp with blood, and I’ve left a single, perfect fingerprint on the page.
Shit.
Flicking the pages back, I let out a relieved breath. Mine isn’t the only bloody fingerprint staining the parchment. Although it is the freshest.
I turn back to the first page. The words blur, and my mind rebels, pain stabbing into my head.
My eyes sting, and I attempt to blink away the pain. Shaking my head, I straighten, turning the page back to where I found it.
Wait.
The words have rearranged themselves into sentences I can read.
Noxdraught was created by Serehaina, the goddess of agriculture, grain crops, fertility, and dreams. Serehaina designed the poison as a mercy, during the Great Sigil Wars—a time shortly after Umbros created his vampires, when countless mortals and vampires perished in battle as the gods warred.
I wipe at the bloody tears that drip from my eyes, careful not to smear the blood on the pages once more. It still feels like a spike is being driven through my head. But some part of me—the part that still wishes I’d been tutored—is fascinated by this book.
Is it the language that requires blood, or the book itself? Is it protected by some kind of charm or ward?
No. I need to focus. Taking my pile of books, I head to a table near the statue, sitting and opening the first tome.
It’s a book about maginari.
The first few pages are dedicated to wyverns.
These creatures value honor, loyalty, and courage. They will only bond with those who display these traits.
I snort. Honor, loyalty, and courage? None of those sound like Rorrik. He must have trapped the wyvern into a bond somehow. I scan the page, looking for ways that it could be done.
Nothing. But that doesn’t mean someone like Rorrik hasn’t found a way.
Flicking to the page about griffons, I search for something to explain how Antigrus gave me his power.
As I’d expected, there’s no mention of such a thing being possible, but I find it difficult to believe maginari would share their secrets willingly with vampires and sigilmarked.
This book is useless.
Pushing it aside, I reach for the next book.
The Empire of Senthara: A History.
The author is long-winded and dry, and I scan page after page, searching for any mention of maginari giving their powers to sigilmarked.
Nothing.
I sigh, about to close the book when I catch a glimpse of a familiar picture.
It’s the same picture of Mortuus from Gerith’s textbook, the god of ruin baring his teeth in a snarl as Anoxian looks on, that strange, dark sword in his hand.
I wouldn’t have thought Mortuus’s imprisonment was relevant to Senthara’s history. Until I get halfway down the page.
The year before I was born, an earthquake struck. The epicenter was in northwest Senthara—close to the Myrestorn border. Great cracks opened in the ground, while thick, dark mud poured from those cracks as the earth shifted.
Some blamed Mortuus, convinced the god had used his time free of his cage to create destruction.
Most chose to believe it was a natural occurrence. One that would have been much worse if the quake had struck closer to the capital city.
According to the book in my hand, it was indeed Mortuus breaking free of his cage. Every twenty-five years, on the longest night of the year, the bars weaken enough for him to temporarily escape and cause havoc. The power within those bars pulls him back inside his cage the moment the sun rises.
Just like the vampires, his freedom is tied to the sun. That’s nicely ironic considering he was the one who stole it from them.
Even while knowing just how much more powerful—and how much more of a threat—the vampires would be if they could walk in the sun, my heart still aches for Tiernon and vampires like him.
Those who were allowed to grow beneath its warmth, all while counting down the days until it would be out of their reach forever.
I return my attention to the book—and to the destruction Mortuus wielded while he was free. According to the author, the god destroyed an entire city before slowly moving south—his movements easily tracked by the trail of bodies he left in his wake.
And then the death stopped—hours before he was due to be whisked back to his cage. What was he doing?
Flipping the page, I freeze. I know this mark. I’ve seen it many times before—once, at the statue of Anoxian when I first arrived at the ludus. Once on Gradon’s neck. And once etched into the bracelet I found in Tiberius Cotta’s pocket.
My first reaction to it was so violent, I’m unsure how I could have forgotten the spiral, the tiny, jagged lines, the strange symbols.
A chill slides down my spine. Why would someone carve the mark of Mortuus into a statue of Anoxian? Why would Tiberius Cotta be carrying the mark with him—something that could have cost even a sigilkeeper his life? And why would someone be killing people and carving Mortuus’s mark into the bodies?
Thumping echoes reach my ears and my heart jumps into my throat. I’m not the only one who planned a late-night visit to this library.
Hauling the books into my arms, I sprint into the dark shadows of the shelves, keeping my own steps light.
My breaths come in shallow pants, and I hold my hand to my mouth in an attempt to quiet them.
The pendant around my neck hits one of the books with an audible click, but the footsteps continue their slow rhythm.
Rorrik prowls past me as if I’m invisible. I have no doubt if I drew attention to myself, he would hear me, but for now, the pendant he gave me is hiding my presence from him.
He looks … tired. And that makes him look far too human for my liking.
A thick book is wedged beneath his arm, and he slides it onto one of the tables near the statue of Staleia, flicking it open.
Despite his obvious exhaustion, his muscles are tense, eyes sharp and alert.
There’s a sense of anticipation about him, as if he’s about to get something he desperately wants.
He begins to read, and I hesitate, torn between attempting to sneak past him and staying put. The pendant worked in the emperor’s palace, but Tiberius was already asleep. Meanwhile, Rorrik is an awake, alert vampire.
I can’t help but watch him. What could someone like Rorrik be looking for? If he wanted, he could be spending his days in luxury in the palace, but instead he’s constantly prowling around the ludus and wandering into this library to read ancient books.
He’s clearly searching for something specific in the book in his hands, because he turns to a particular place, eyes narrowed.
From here, I can see the way his hands—elegant and long-fingered—tense on the edges of the book. The way he leans forward, eyes intent as he scans the text.
Frowning, he flicks several pages, then flicks back. His shoulders slump. His eyes close. When they open again, they’re filled with dark misery.
Misery turns to rage and he picks up the table, throwing it against the wall. The action is so unexpected, I recoil, slamming my elbow into the bookshelf.
Rorrik doesn’t hear it. He’s busy turning the remaining tables and chairs into shards of wood.