Chapter 24 Brynn
brYNN
Time melts when I’m buried in Darkbirch’s oldest journals. Much as I would’ve loved to bolt for Draethys weeks ago, mapping a route there has been a bitch.
Our coven’s spirit stock is still healing, and everyone’s nagging me to drill for the trials, yet here I am, nose-deep in books, chasing any scrap about Draethys.
A battered tome thumps to the table as Chad strides in, a dark mug of moonthorn tea clutched in one hand and bad news stamped across his face.
“Bloodbane Coven got hit again,” he announces, sliding the mug toward me.
I pause long enough to gulp the steaming bitterness. “Perfect, another kick in the metaphorical balls.” I glare at the yellowed pages that’d crumble without our preservation wards.
Chad drops into the chair opposite, eyes flicking to the stacks. “You heard me?”
I shoot him a look. “I'm not deaf, Chad. Just efficient. What's the body count?”
“Minor injuries, no deaths. Gate wards held.”
I lean back. “Clearbloods are just poking at us. Testing reaction times, defenses. The top dogs obviously still suspect we’re hoarding their dragon, so they aren’t risking a full-on assault yet. They’ll keep picking at covens, but it’s all feints, not real warfare yet.”
He shakes his head. “We can’t bank on their ignorance forever. They’ll realize there’s no dragon stash soon. That’s why we need to hammer these trials.”
I set the mug down so hard it rattles the table. “Seriously? What’s so sacred about these trials when I’m busting my ass to crack Draethys’ gate? If I figure out how to get that dragon and drag Esme back, not even you will be talking about my ritual score.”
“The trials are nonnegotiable, with or without the dragon,” Chad says. “And even if we track him down, who says that’ll help us? He could be back in Draethys by now, with Esme just—” He stops himself.
The air between us crystallizes. His mouth forms an apology I don't believe.
“You think she's dead,” I whisper, the words like glass in my throat.
His fingers trace the stubble along his jaw. “Well, he didn't kill her immediately.”
My fingers clench the ceramic mug, blood draining from my knuckles as I imagine the satisfying arc the scalding liquid would make across his face.
“Wow, Chad. Did you practice that little ray of sunshine in the mirror this morning?
'How to comfort the girl whose sister was kidnapped by a mythological flamebreather, chapter one. '”
He has the decency to wince. “Brynn, that's not what I meant.”
“Save it.” I snap my gaze back to the vague map I've been piecing together from a dozen different texts. “Esme's not dead. She's too stubborn to die. And unlike you, I'm actually doing something about it instead of quoting coven platitudes about trials and tradition.”
His silence is a heavy weight behind me. Good. Let him feel uncomfortable. It’s better than the gnawing emptiness of Esme’s absence. I jab a finger at a faded rune on the parchment. “She's alive. And I'm going to get her back.”
He nods at the ancient tomes. “So… any closer to Draethys?”
I let out a slow breath. “Not yet.”
Chad's teeth click together. “Not. Yet.” He sighs in that slow, condescending way that makes me want to stab him with my pen. “So when Corvin gets back here with zilch to show for it, I'm supposed to be like, 'Hey boss, good news, we've accomplished exactly nothing either.'”
“You hovering and bitching isn't exactly helping.”
“Like I haven't tried to help? Some of us aren't built for this dusty crap.”
“Got any better ideas, genius?”
Chad stretches, his uniform jacket pulling tight across shoulders that could probably bench-press me without breaking a sweat. Not that I notice. Much.
“Thought you'd never ask,” he says with that smug little half-smile. “Another training session. Cross off another ritual. Give Corvin one less thing to lose it over.”
“Counter-offer,” I say, pointing to a stack of ancient leather-bound journals that smell like death and secrets. “You could actually make yourself useful with those.”
His eyes follow my finger. “And those are...?”
“Hedder's diaries. The woman documented everything. Those cover the decade after the dragons ghosted everyone.”
“What have you been reading all this time?”
“The decade before. Hedder tracked dragons retreating from battles where they were getting their hides kicked. She sent scouts after them. I've got possible locations, but if you help with her later notes, we might actually find something concrete.”
Chad frowns. “Since when am I your research assistant?”
“I figured you could at least read,” I say. “Unless that's giving you too much credit? Because that would explain so much.”
“Cute.” His voice is flat, but I see that tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Fine. What exactly am I looking for?”
I slide my notes across the table, trying not to look too damn pleased with myself. Anything beats going back to the training hall for a round of “let's-make-Brynn-experience-someone's-horrific-death-through-blood-magic.” Yeah, no. Already died emotionally this year.
“So here's the deal,” I say, tapping the page with my chewed-up pencil. “You're hunting for anything about the Appalachian paths, Salt Flats route, Sierra Red, or Yellowstone Track.”
Chad's eyebrow does that annoying arch thing. “And these are...?”
“Dragon breadcrumbs, genius. Hedder's scouts tracked the retreating dragons along these routes. One of them has to lead to Draethys, some underground hideout or magical doorway or whatever. The timeline fits perfectly with when they vanished after those last big battles.”
“Right,” Chad says, stretching the word like taffy. “Just four massive geographical areas to search. No biggie.”
“Your enthusiasm is overwhelming,” I mutter, going back to my notes.
I catch him watching me from the corner of my eye. Every time I look up, he suddenly finds Hedder's chicken-scratch handwriting fascinating. Whatever. Not like I'm sneaking glances at his stupidly perfect jawline when he's not looking. Okay, once.
Meanwhile, Jax is still half-dead in his tomb, Mom's practically living there, and I'm drowning in dusty books while the world outside keeps falling apart. Another skirmish, another clearblood attack, another day of dragons screwing up everything.
“Bonneville,” Chad says suddenly.
I blink. “What?”
“The Bonneville Salt Flats. I found something.”
Chad slides the notebook across the table. “Second paragraph. Read it.”
I squint at Hedder's cramped handwriting. “I identified a rune pattern underneath the salts. Ancient of origin. Could be them.” My heart kicks against my ribs.
“She tried to bypass them,” Chad says, tapping the page. “Got herself blown halfway to Nevada. Spent weeks recovering.”
He flips the page. A single line jumps out at me.
“Their secret is safe with me,” I read aloud, the words electric on my tongue. Holy crap. I look up at Chad, who's watching me with this expectant expression. “Well damn, Valgrave. Turns out there's an actual brain hiding under all that hair product.”
His face goes stony. No comeback. Just that muscle in his jaw twitching. Great. Now I feel like crap for insulting him when he actually helped. Which is stupid because he's been nothing but a pain in my ass for weeks.
Whatever. Salems don't apologize.
“Let's get to training,” he says, pushing back from the table. “We're done here.”
“Are you kidding me? We just found a freaking doorway to dragon-ville and you want to go play spirit tag instead?”
“It would be practice for the trial—”
“No.”
The library door crashes open. Corvin storms in, face ghost-white, eyes like thunderclouds. My stomach drops into my shoes. Chad snaps to attention beside me, all broad shoulders and perfect posture, looking like some recruitment poster for Hero Complex Weekly.
“What is the meaning of this?!” Corvin's voice booms across the stacks.
“Research, sir,” I squeak. Real smooth, Brynn. Real authoritative.
“Research for what?”
Chad's eyes dart to mine, and I catch the surprise there—guess he's not in on everything after all.
Something cold slides down my spine, and I glance behind him where the faint, smoky outline of Ezekiel Salem hovers.
Great-great-whatever Zeke shakes his almost-transparent head at me, one bony finger pressed to his lips.
Fantastic. Because clearly, what this moment needed was a dead man with opinions.
“Just, uh, trying to find my sister, sir,” I mutter, frowning. “Thought maybe those dusty archives nobody ever looks at might actually be useful for once.”
“Nonsense.” Corvin's face flushes that special shade reserved for when I'm being particularly annoying. “You're supposed to be training for your trials.”
Chad steps forward. “If you don't mind me asking, sir, how did the search go?”
“Not good,” Corvin grunts. “No trace of Esme anywhere.”
“Sir, if you'd just let me keep digging, I could—”
“Brynn Salem.” My name becomes a weapon in his mouth. “Need I remind you of your position within this coven?”
I bite my tongue so hard I practically taste blood. “No, sir.”
“You were told to proceed with your trial training,” he says, then skewers Chad with a look that could curdle milk. “And I picked you as her mentor because I assumed you had the fortitude to keep her in check. Was I wrong, Valgrave?”
“No, sir,” Chad says, spine stiffening. “We were just about to go to—”
“Excuse me,” I cut in, because apparently I have a death wish. “Sir, I've had it up to here with all the cryptic bull about these trials. What exactly am I being prepped for? Because if my sister's missing and you're making me jump through hoops instead of finding her, I deserve to know why.”
Corvin's knuckles whiten a touch. He takes the kind of deep breath older adults do when they're about to tell you something is “for your own good.”
“You don't have clearance for that disclosure,” he says, like I'm some random intern instead of the person getting my soul ripped apart for his precious trials.
“Pardon me, sir, but I'm about to let you people do gods-know-what to my actual body. I deserve to know what it's all for. And honestly? You'd all be better off letting me find Esme. She's the Salem you really want anyway.”
Corvin's jaw twitches. “We need every Salem and every darkblood with a spiritual connection. Not just Esme. Everyone.”
“Why?”
He gives me this long look, then just jerks his head toward the door. “Follow me.”
Chad and I exchange the universal “what the hell?” glance before hustling after Corvin, who moves like someone half his age. I have to skip every few steps just to keep up.
“Sir?” I huff.
“There's no point telling you. I'll show you.”
We wind through a part of Darkbirch I've maybe seen twice in my life. It's the kind of dark where even shadows have shadows. Dust so thick you could write your name in it. Cobwebs everywhere, with spiders that actually scurry away when they see us coming.
The only light comes from sad little candles that barely illuminate our path. We go deeper and deeper until we reach these massive mahogany doors that practically scream “nothing good happens here.” Corvin whispers something that makes my ears pop before grabbing the handles.
A chill slithers down my spine like ice water.
“Only a few members of our coven have ever been here,” he warns, suddenly all dramatic. “Director Reinhardt and Warden Blythe among them. By stepping into this room, you swear a vow of secrecy. Clear?”
Chad gives me this tiny nod that says “we're probably screwed either way.”
“Yes, sir,” we chorus like good little darkbloods about to make terrible decisions.
Corvin goes in. We follow.