Chapter 11 #2
“I'm just trying to figure out how mage aging works,” she said, feeling heat creep into her cheeks.
“I mean, Armand is over a thousand years old, and he doesn't look any older than you. You talk about generations of Collectors, you have all this knowledge...” She gestured helplessly.
“I honestly can't tell if you're thirty or three hundred.”
Brandon's lips quirked into an actual smile, the first genuine one she'd seen all evening. “Older than thirty. Younger than three hundred.”
She waited, but he didn't elaborate. “That's not an answer.”
“It's the only answer you're getting tonight.” His eyes glinted with something playful. “A gentleman never reveals his true age.”
“Gah! Come on, give me something, will you?”
The smile softened. “The men in my family tend to enjoy extended lifespans. Not quite vampire immortality, but significantly longer than your average mortal.”
“You’re really not going to tell me?”
“Let's just say, I'm old enough to have made my share of mistakes, and young enough to make more of them.”
There was something in the way he said it—a weight to the words that suggested some of those mistakes still haunted him. Muriel found herself wanting to know what they were, wanting to understand this man who kept himself so carefully controlled.
“How long have you had The Glas Tann?” she asked instead.
“Long enough to have accumulated more books than shelf space.” He glanced around the shop with obvious affection. “And to have helped a fair number of people figure out what they're dealing with when magic enters their lives unexpectedly.”
“Like me,” she murmured.
“No,” he said wryly. “Not like you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He smiled, shook his head, and returned his attention to his sandwich, leaving her to wonder. How many others had wandered into his shop seeking answers? Seeking guidance? Had he invited any of them into his personal space? Offered to train and teach them?
Another fierce wave of emotion washed over her, but this one was definitely hers. It felt strangely like jealousy. Except she couldn’t possibly be feeling this territorial over a man she barely knew, could she? Not when she was determined not to make the same mistakes her mother had.
She looked away, confused by the knot of emotions she couldn't sort into neat categories of his, mine, and ours.
When he spoke again, his voice was back to being carefully neutral. “You hesitated before when I asked how your visit with Ana and Ryssa went, then deflected.”
The subject change was deliberate, a wall going back up after that brief moment of vulnerability. Muriel let him retreat, even as she felt the loss of that openness.
She considered denying it, but she was too tired. “It’s nothing, really. Just a feeling that they knew something I didn’t.”
“I’m sure they know lots of things you don’t,” Brandon said easily.
“No, I mean, something about—” she almost said us, but stopped herself. “—me.”
“They probably sensed our bond and were curious,” he said, his eyes watching her intently. “It’s not something you see very often.”
“Maybe, but we talked about that. I told them about resonance and how you’re helping me. I don’t think it was that.” Muriel put down her half-eaten club, no longer hungry. “Maybe I'm being paranoid. Comes with finding out you’re being hunted, I guess.”
“You should rest,” Brandon said finally. “Tomorrow, we’ll start working on accessing the Codex intentionally instead of waiting for it to show you things.”
“That sounds intense.”
“It will be. But you're ready for it.”
“Is that you talking, or fate?” she asked with the hint of a smile.
“Both. Go on, now. I’ll clean up here, then head downstairs. I need to start gathering those things Armand requested.”
“Okay. Goodnight, Brandon.”
“Goodnight, Muriel. Sleep well.”
She retreated to the guest room and closed the door behind her. The room had become her sanctuary over the past week, with its comfortable bed and fluffy pillows; the thick carpet and multitude of plants, including the night-blooming jasmine that filled the room with its lovely scent.
This place was safe. Not just because of the complex wards Brandon had weaved around it, but because he made her feel safe.
Muriel sank onto the bed, setting the Codex beside her. She didn’t know what to do with these conflicting feelings. Her mother had nearly been destroyed by a handsome mage, and here Muriel was, living with one. Training with him. Trusting him in ways that would have horrified her mother.
But her mother wasn't here, Muriel thought with an uncharacteristic twinge of bitterness.
She'd died without telling Muriel about the Codex, about their bloodline, about the danger that had been stalking them for generations.
She'd kept secrets that had left Muriel vulnerable and alone when the Collectors came calling.
Could she trust Brandon? He'd been nothing but helpful, patient with her fears, respectful of her boundaries. He hadn’t given her any reason not to trust him.
Even now, the resonance hummed softly between them, a constant awareness of his presence nearby. Close enough to reach if she needed him. Far enough away to give her space.
Maybe she wasn’t being fair, judging Brandon based on someone else’s experiences. After all, she wouldn’t like it if Brandon had judged her without taking the time to get to know her.
Maybe history wouldn’t repeat itself, and trusting him wouldn’t turn out to the biggest mistake of her life.
Muriel brushed her teeth, washed her face, and changed into her pajamas.
She hesitated before turning off the light, thinking about the strange dreams she'd been having the past few nights—fragments of gardens she'd never seen, voices she couldn't quite hear.
Stress dreams, she'd told herself. Each day revealed something new, and the dreams were just her mind’s way of processing it all.
She pulled back the covers and slipped into bed, the Codex resting on the pillow beside her. Exhaustion won out over unease. She was asleep almost immediately.
She was in the garden again, but this time was different. It was whole, real, vivid in a way that made her previous dreams feel pale in comparison.
The detail was incredible. She could make out every leaf against the velvety dark sky.
Every blossom and bloom was richer and brighter than anything she’d seen in her waking moments.
The scents of lavender and rosemary were so overwhelming she could taste them, mixed with something earthier—freshly turned soil, crushed herbs, the delicate smell of new growth.
It was a stunning garden. The deep reds of climbing roses looked like blood in the moonlight beside cascading waterfalls of lush purplish-blue wisteria.
The ghostly whites of sweet-smelling moonflowers mixed with the more dangerous beauty of datura.
Foxglove stood sentinel in the shadows, their purple bells deadly and beautiful.
At the center, an ancient hawthorn tree twisted upward, its branches heavy with white blooms that scattered petals like snow.
She'd been here before—an observer in those fragmented dreams. But this time she could move, could feel the grass beneath her bare feet, could hear the hum of bees and the whisper of wind through leaves.
A woman knelt in the dirt near the hawthorn, her pale blonde hair shot through with silver, her hands buried wrist-deep in rich earth. Patches of heather and primrose, mandrake and sage, surrounded her, along with the hum of familiar power. It was the same kind that sang in Muriel's own blood.
“You must understand,” the woman said without looking up, her voice carrying a lilt that might have been Irish or Scottish or something even older. “The Codex doesn't choose lightly. When it calls, you answer. When it teaches, you listen.”
Muriel tried to speak, to ask who she was, but apparently her voice didn’t work in this place.
The woman finally raised her head, and Muriel's heart stopped. The eyes were her own—the same unusual mix of hazel and green, the same gold flecks near the iris. But the face was older, sharper, weathered by time and sorrow and fear.
“When it warns,” the woman said, standing slowly, brushing earth from her hands, “you must be ready to run. Or to fight.”
Movement appeared at the edge of Muriel's vision. She turned to see a figure emerging from the shadows near the wall. He was tall and broad-shouldered, wrapped in a cloak of secrets. She couldn't see his face. Couldn't tell if he was approaching to help or to harm.
The woman's gaze flicked to the figure, and something complicated crossed her features. Not quite fear. Not quite hope. Something tangled between the two.
“Can you trust him?” the woman asked, but Muriel didn't know if she was asking about the shadowed figure or asking the same question Muriel had been asking herself for days. “Can you trust anyone with the responsibility you carry?”
The garden began to darken at the edges. Not the gentle darkness of evening but something else. Something… wrong. Shadows poured over the stone wall—thick and oily, reeking of malevolence.
“They're coming,” the woman said, and her voice was layered now—not one voice, but many, echoing back through time. “The hounds are always hunting. It is their way. They hunted me. They'll hunt you too.”
Power crackled around the woman's hands like green lightning. The shadowed figure moved closer—toward Muriel or toward the threat, she couldn't tell. Everything felt tangled, confused, urgent.
“But you're stronger than I was,” the woman continued, even as those oily shadows crept closer, even as the foxglove withered and the roses began to bleed darkness. “The Codex knows. It's been waiting. And it's not the only thing that's chosen you.”
Her gaze cut to the shadowed figure, then back to Muriel.
“Some bonds are written in stars and sealed in blood. Some choices were made before you were born. But trust—” The shadows were almost upon her now. The woman stood her ground, magic blazing, defiant even in her final moments. “Trust must still be earned.”
Muriel tried to run to her, but her feet were rooted to the earth. She tried again to call out to the woman, to no avail.
The darkness swallowed the woman whole. The Codex's voice—or was it the woman's?—whispered through the consuming dark: Remember. Choose carefully. Trust slowly. The hounds are coming.
Muriel jolted awake with a gasp, her heart hammering so hard it hurt.
The guest room materialized around her in the dim glow of moonlight through the window—safe, familiar, and real.
The scent of night-blooming jasmine replaced the lavender and rosemary, and the only sound was her own ragged breathing.
Not a dream. A vision.
Muriel looked at the Codex beside her. In the moonlight, its leather cover seemed to pulse with a faint, rhythmic glow. Like it was satisfied it had finally gotten through to her.
Unfortunately, she had more questions than answers. What was she supposed to remember? What choice was it talking about? Was it telling her to trust later but not now?
And what about that shadowy figure? Had he been friend or foe?
She could feel Brandon’s presence like a steady heartbeat, his magic thrumming in quiet harmony with hers through the resonance bond. Was he awake too? Could he feel her distress the way she sometimes felt flashes of his emotions?
Trust must still be earned.
Muriel pulled the blanket tighter and stared at the ceiling, unwilling to close her eyes again. The vision was already fading at the edges the way dreams do, but three things remained crystal clear:
The woman had her eyes.
Danger was coming.
And somewhere, a figure wrapped in shadows waited, and she didn't know if he was there to save her or destroy her.