Chapter 10
CONGRATULATIONS, IT’S A CODEX
brANDON
Brandon watched Muriel leave with a mixture of relief and dread. Relief, because the pull of the mate bond was easier to resist when she wasn't in the same room. Dread, because every moment she was out of his sight itched like poison ivy on raw skin.
“She doesn't know about the bond,” Armand said once the door closed.
It wasn't a question, but Brandon answered anyway. “No.”
“Is that wise? Particularly given the circumstances.”
“She's been through enough. She doesn't need the pressure of a mate bond she didn't ask for on top of everything else.”
“Mate bonds are not bestowed upon request,” Armand said, his voice a mix of amusement and admonishment. “They are rare, divine gifts granted independently of our wishes.”
Yes, he knew it was a rare gift. One he longed to celebrate with the woman who didn’t yet know it existed.
Brandon turned back to the table where the book sat, still humming with power. “Can you read it?”
Armand accepted the deflection with grace. “Let's find out, shall we?”
He pulled on white cotton gloves, movements careful and precise as he leaned over the book.
Brandon remained quiet as Armand studied the pages with reverence, occasionally making quiet humming sounds.
The entries in the beginning of the book looked like a series of sticks with lines crossed through them, which Brandon identified as a form of primitive Irish in Ogham script.
Partway through, there were passages written in insular script, similar to the script found in the Book of Kells.
The book’s power was unmistakable. Ancient, deep, fundamentally primal.
Every mage child grew up hearing legends about it—the matrilineal grimoire, passed mother to daughter through an unbroken bloodline.
The foundational text that predated the Magisterial Consilium, the College of Cardinals, even the Oracle of Delphi.
Until now, that was all they’d ever been. Legends. Brandon had difficulty wrapping his mind around the fact that he was looking at an artifact his ancestor Merlin had spent a lifetime searching for.
And where had it been found? Not in the archives or catacombs of some ancient, sacred site, but in Muriel's mother's root cellar.
Finally, Armand straightened. His expression was grave.
“Well?” Brandon already knew. Had known from the moment Muriel described the visions, the way the book responded to her touch alone.
“The script is Primitive Irish Ogham,” Armand confirmed, “but far older than any standardized variant. Pre-Christian, pre-druidic even.” Armand's finger hovered over symbols without touching the page.
“These markings—they're not decorative. They're sigils. Protective wards woven directly into the vellum.”
Brandon peered closer, the hair on the back of his neck rising with closer proximity. “Bloodline wards. Keyed to—”
“A matrilineal line, yes.” Armand looked up, his eyes alight. “You know what this is.”
“The Codex.”
Armand nodded slowly. “Yes.”
Brandon's hands curled into fists. “You're certain?”
“As certain as I can be without extensive study.” Armand's voice resumed the scholarly vibe Brandon was used to.
“The age is right, and the binding magic is consistent with the legends.
And the content—what I can translate speaks of fundamental nature magic.
Not just earth, though that's the prominent element. Water, air, fire. The cycles of seasons, moon and sun, as well as the sacred pathways that connect our world.”
“Ley lines,” Brandon said. “Sacred sites. The foundations.”
“Precisely. This isn't a collection of spells for one element. This is the source material for all druidic practice. The original knowledge that predates our neat categorizations of magical disciplines.” Armand's expression was grim.
“Earth witches, water witches, storm callers—they all derive their understanding from knowledge like this.
Muriel isn't just the keeper of earth magic secrets. She holds the foundational text of nature magic itself.”
Armand turned another page carefully. “Fascinating. Look here—” He indicated cramped script filling the margins.
“Centuries of keeper notes. 'This ritual works best under a waning moon.
' 'Beware using oak root in combination with—' Someone's crossed that out and written 'Tried it anyway.
Don't.' It's like reading a conversation across generations.”
Brandon leaned closer. Most of the marginalia was practical: observations about spells, warnings about what worked and what didn't, notes about seasonal variations and lunar cycles.
“The knowledge accumulates,” Armand said softly. “Each keeper added her wisdom to what came before. I wonder…” Armand moved to the back of the book and nodded. “Yes. A complete history of the keepers themselves.”
Page upon page of dates, names, births and deaths like entries in a family Bible, written in dark, brownish-red ink. Brandon pointed to the last entry and translated. Muriel Brennan, daughter Siobhan Brennan and Declan Rourke, along with her birth date.
Brandon turned away, running a hand through his hair, fear for Muriel turning his blood cold.
“The Magisterial Consilium have been hunting rumors of the Codex for centuries. If they confirmed its existence—”
“They'd never stop.” Brandon's voice came out rough. “They'd hunt her until they had it. Until they had her.”
“Yes.”
The word landed like a stone.
Brandon thought about the mercenary at Muriel's house, his certainty that she would cooperate.
“Muriel mentioned visions,” Brandon said slowly, pieces clicking together. “The visions Muriel saw of those men hunting witches through the forest. That wasn't random persecution, was it? They were trying to end the bloodline. To make sure the Codex never passed to another keeper.”
Armand’s expression turned thoughtful. “It would appear so. The question is, how did the Consilium know to send the Collectors to Muriel's door the day after she opened it?”
Brandon frowned as he thought about the surge Muriel had described, that tornado of magic surrounding her when she first touched the book. “The opening released a massive amount of energy, but the underground chamber was magically hidden and should have insulated it.”
“Exactly. So perhaps it wasn’t the Codex that garnered their attention, but something else.”
“Muriel’s been experiencing power surges,” Brandon told him. “She said they started before she found the grimoire.”
“She’s coming into her power. That might have been what awoke the Codex.”
“And drew the attention of the Consilium,” Brandon agreed gravely. “An abnormally powerful earth witch suddenly appears on their radar after years of invisibility—they’d feel the need to investigate. And if they dig deep enough—”
“They might discover she's more than just a strong elemental.”
“If word gets out the Codex resurfaced, it won't just be the Consilium.” Brandon began to pace. “Every faction, every organization, every mage who's heard the legends will want it.”
“Except you, apparently.” Armand tilted his head, and Brandon felt ancient power brush his mental shields—not invading, just observing.
“Fate has an ironic sense of timing. Forging a mate bond between the Codex keeper and perhaps the only mage alive who doesn't wish to control her and use her for his own purpose.”
Brandon's laugh was bitter. “Control is relative.”
“You think keeping the bond secret is controlling her?”
“I think not warning her ahead of time that a permanent soul bond was a possibility, then hiding it after the fact, is, yes.”
Before Armand could respond, a sharp knock interrupted them. Jason pushed through without waiting.
“We have a problem,” the spymaster said.
Brandon's stomach dropped, fear gripping his heart. “Muriel?”
“Muriel is fine. She’s with Ana and Ryssa.”
Brandon exhaled. “Then what?”
“I did some digging into Muriel's background,” Jason said, brandishing his phone. “More specifically, her mother's history before she came to the Shenandoah Valley.”
Brandon's pulse kicked up. “And?”
“Her mother's name was Siobhan. I found records indicating she lived in County Clare, Ireland until about thirty years ago, in a small village called Kilfenora.”
“Kilfenora,” Brandon murmured, searching his memory for the name. “Known locally for its ancient stone circles and ley line convergence.”
Jason nodded. “That’s the one.”
“What happened thirty years ago?”
“A significant magical surge was detected in that region. Strong enough that it pinged sensors across three countries.” Jason swiped to another screen. “A mage named Declan Rourke showed up shortly after.”
Declan Rourke. Muriel’s father, according to the Codex.
“What do we know about him?”
“Not much. He seems to have appeared out of nowhere. I can find no records of him prior to that. No magical registration, no family lineage, nothing.”
Armand leaned forward slightly. “A Collector?”
“It is a logical assumption.” Jason's expression was grim.
“Acquisitional operatives are ghosts. The Consilium wipes their existence from public records. The only reason we know anything about him is because there are people in Kilfenora who remember him. According to them, he spent about a year there. Rourke courted Siobhan, and by all accounts, they were inseparable. However, Siobhan’s family did not approve of the match, and they disappeared without a trace. Villagers believed they eloped.
Brandon's hands curled into fists. “But?”
“But… several months later, Siobhan resurfaced in the Shenandoah Valley with a newborn daughter. She purchased a plot of land on the outskirts of the pack lands and stayed off every grid imaginable for the next twenty-eight years, give or take.”
“Siobhan ran,” Brandon said quietly. “She discovered what he was and she ran.”
“Maybe.” Jason's tone was carefully neutral. “I’m still working on getting the Consilium records, but he appears to have vanished as completely as Siobhan did.”