Chapter 3
Chapter three
Luna
Dr. Felix Morgan’s library was what might happen if a Victorian bibliophile’s collection had a passionate affair with a supernatural archive and produced highly disorganized offspring.
Books covered every vertical surface from floor to cathedral ceiling.
Leather-bound tomes nestled against digital tablets displayed ancient texts, next to scrolls so old they shimmered with preservation spells.
The air smelled of old paper, coffee, Felix’s pipe tobacco, and that distinctive tang of magic that always made my nose and the bottoms of my feet itch.
“I can practically hear you judging the organization system,” I told Damien as I led him through the maze of knowledge. “And yes, before you ask, those books are floating.”
Near the ceiling, several ancient volumes drifted in lazy circles, occasionally bumping into each other like bumper cars.
“I wasn’t judging,” Damien replied with unexpected humor lighting his eyes. “I’m merely wondering how Dr. Felix locates anything specific without summoning demons.”
I blinked at what almost sounded like a joke. “He has a system. It makes perfect sense if you’re a mad genius who categorizes knowledge by ‘vibrational resonance’ rather than, say, the alphabet.”
On cue, Dr. Felix himself emerged from behind a towering stack of manuscripts that should have been impossible to navigate.
Today his wild silver hair seemed to be defying not just gravity but several other fundamental laws of physics.
His round spectacles sat askew on his nose, and he wore frayed red suspenders that had seen better decades, paired with a T-shirt that read Necromancers Do It With Dead Bodies.
Yes, he’s a real doctor, not just some madman I found on the streets.
“Luna!” he exclaimed, arms wide for a hug that smelled like peppermint and tobacco. Then he spotted Damien, and his smile dimmed like someone had turned down a light switch. “And…company. I see you weren’t exaggerating about your new association.”
I’d called ahead to warn Felix about my research partner, but still, the temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.
“Dr. Felix Morgan.” Damien bowed slightly.
Not the stiff formal nod I’d expected, but a gesture of genuine respect.
“Your collection is remarkable, and it surprised me that it’s not all medical.
I particularly admire the Codex Umbrae on your east wall.
The Leipzig copy was destroyed during the bombings of 1943.
I haven’t seen a complete copy in a long time. ”
Felix’s bushy eyebrows shot up so high they nearly merged with his hairline. “You know the Codex? Most scholars believe it’s a legend.”
“Legend tends to be history wearing a more flattering costume,” Damien replied with a small smile. “The debates about containing the Black Plague’s supernatural variants documented in those pages likely saved thousands of lives.”
Felix’s hostility thawed as he assessed Damien with new interest. “You’re a historian?”
“Among other things,” Damien said with a small shrug. “In another life, perhaps I would have been satisfied with academia alone.”
I glanced between them, feeling like I’d missed several pages of the conversation. The Damien before me—passionate about ancient texts, almost charming—was at odds with the secretive, calculating man who’d admitted to stalking me.
“We need access to your shifter archives,” I said, not wanting to get sidetracked by supernatural historical society hour. “Specifically anything related to the Wolf Queen and the Shadow Fang.”
Felix’s eyes widened behind his glasses. “The Shadow Fang? Luna, what have you gotten yourself into now?”
“Potentially? Just a job.”
He shot another glance at Damien. “And your interest in this artifact, Mr. Cross?”
A flash of raw emotion flickered across Damien’s face. “Someone I care about deeply is dying,” he said. “The Shadow Fang may be their only hope.”
The simple honesty in his voice caught me off guard. This wasn’t the smooth, diplomatic answer I’d expected.
Felix studied him for a long moment, his head tilted like a curious bird. “The Shadow Fang is more legend than fact, you know. Like searching for Excalibur or the Holy Grail.”
“People said the same about the Moonstone of Lycaon,” I said with a shrug, “until I pulled it from that temple in Greece two years ago.”
“Fair point,” Felix said. “Well, if you’re determined to chase shadows, you might as well have the best information available.
” He gestured toward the western corner of the library.
“The shifter archives are over there. The oldest texts are under preservation spells. You’ll need these to handle them. ”
He pulled two pairs of silvery gloves from his pocket that seemed to ripple like liquid metal when they caught the light.
“I have patients to attend to upstairs.” He turned to Damien with narrowed eyes, then he pointed the same warning look my way. “Do be careful with the manuscripts from the First Convergence period. They’re irreplaceable, and I would take it quite personally if anything happened to them.”
The threat was subtle but unmistakable.
I raised my hands innocently.
After Felix shuffled away, I led Damien to the western corner, where the oldest shifter records were kept. Unlike the rest of the chaotic library, this section was meticulously organized, with each volume in a protective case lined with symbols I recognized as preservation runes.
“Felix is a shifter, in case you didn’t know, and he doesn’t just catalog shifter history,” I explained as I pulled out the first volume with gloved hands.
“He preserves it. After the Great Purge, when vampires declared war on us and so many records were destroyed, collections like this became our only connection to our origins.”
Damien’s shoulders tensed. “The systematic destruction of shifter historical documents is one of supernatural history’s greatest tragedies.”
He handled an ancient scroll with unexpected reverence, his fingers tracing the preservation runes with something like regret.
“You sound personally affected,” I said. “But you’re not a shifter.”
His electric-blue eyes met mine, and for a moment I glimpsed something wounded in them before his expression smoothed over. “History lost is everyone’s loss, regardless of species. Knowledge destroyed can never be truly recovered.”
“That’s…surprisingly enlightened.”
“I’m full of surprises,” he replied with a faint smile. “Shall we begin our research?”
I opened the oldest volume with careful hands, the gloves cool against my skin.
The pages smelled of time and magic, that distinctive scent of knowledge preserved beyond its natural lifespan. The text was written in proto-Lycan.
For the next several hours, we worked in relative silence, each developing our own approach. I flipped through texts rapidly, scanning for keywords and following intuitive connections between different sources. Damien worked methodically through one document at a time.
“This would go faster if you weren’t treating each page like it might contain the secrets of the universe,” I finally said, after he’d spent ten full minutes on a single paragraph.
He looked up, genuine enjoyment lighting his features. “Perhaps it does. Each page is a conversation with someone long gone.”
I stared at him, momentarily speechless. “So you’ve always been a nerd, or…?”
“You’re the one who invited me here, so who’s really the nerd?”
“I’m not waxing poetic while drooling, but yes, books put a little extra sparkle in my dumpster fire.”
With a devastating smile that I had no right staring at, he turned the book so I could see and pointed to a faded illustration.
“This passage speaks of the Wolf Queen’s hiding places, created to protect her most valuable creations from those who would misuse them.
These symbols indicate trials designed to test the character of those seeking her treasures.
Not merely puzzles, but moral challenges. ”
Deadly mystical traps. My favorite.
“Great,” I muttered. “Another tomb raiding job with bonus murder puzzles. Just what I was hoping for.”
Damien raised an eyebrow, but his eyes crinkled at the corners. “I thought this was precisely the type of challenge you specialized in?”
“Oh, it is. Doesn’t mean I can’t complain about it while doing it spectacularly well.” I squinted at the text surrounding the illustration. “Wait, this says something about ‘the Queen’s judgment falls hardest on those of tainted blood.’ What does that mean?”
“I believe it refers to intent,” Damien explained, his expression sobering. “The Wolf Queen was known for her ability to sense deception and malice. Her protective magic would respond to the seeker’s purpose, harshly to those seeking power for its own sake, but guiding those seeking healing.”
“So the traps get extra murder-y if you’re there for the wrong reasons?” I frowned. “What counts as the ‘right’ reasons, then?”
“Healing,” he said simply. “The Wolf Queen created the Shadow Fang primarily as a healing tool, though legends also speak of its power as a weapon.”
“And you’re after it for healing only, right? Not the weapon part?”
Pain, raw and human, hardened his expression. “As I said before, yes.”
“Yes to which part?”
Before he could form a response, my stomach growled loud enough that Damien actually looked startled.
My whole face flushed as I bowed my head toward the table I sat at. “Sorry. Jesus. How embarrassing.”
“No need to apologize,” he said with an unexpected hint of humor. “Perhaps a break would help. You’ve been working for nearly five hours without stopping.”
I stretched, feeling my spine pop in several satisfying places. “Five hours? No wonder my eyeballs feel like they’ve been rolled in sand.”
“Your dedication is commendable,” Damien said, returning to his book.