Bring Me To Life
Delores
I’m seated at the far end of the lowest archive room in the annex near enough paper-wrapped folios packed onto the shelves that I have occasional anxiety about them toppling and pinning me for the rest of eternity.
However, this is important work and I’m dedicated to it not just because it matters to my dragon, but also because it may help find our edge in the coming war.
The table we’re working at is a slab of heavy wood polished enough to make me guess it’s older than most countries.
At the center, like a Christmas present from Satan, rests the book that Fitz liberated from Rockland’s shelf—still wrapped in the threadbare cloth she’d used for transport.
It makes my stomach do odd flips as I look at it, but that’s probably because I trust Rockland as far as I can throw my dragon mate.
Aubrey is at one end of the table, his glasses glinting from the blue cast of his phone screen as he scrolls and then scribbles on a notepad.
Rennie is pacing back and forth, in a corridor so narrow that every third step he’s bumping into the edge of a shelf.
I’m currently pulling on a pair of brand-new nitrile gloves over the cotton pair I’d already donned.
Double protection, per professional and personal recommendations from the guys in regards to handling this damn thing.
“In my humble opinion, this is a substandard location for a ritual or even basic document examination,” Aubrey gripes, not for the first time.
“The air currents are unpredictable, the atmospheric control is laughable, and I have catalogued no fewer than three significant gaps in the masonry where mold and bacteria can enter.” He pronounces masonry as if it’s a curse word because he misses the archives at Apex so much, I think.
“I assure you, Flames, that someone would need to be reborn as a mold spore to access this level after hours,” Rennie says, voice at his driest. He’s stopped pacing now, using a soft brush to clear invisible lint from the clean space on the tabletop where the book will soon land.
“It is Sunday evening; nobody with an ounce of self-preservation is going to attempt Fitz’s defenses upstairs and after that, they’d have to get past the Khan trio to get down to us.
At the very least, our security will keep us safe, even if this archival location isn’t up to your standards. ”
“You’re underestimating pred persistence and overestimating the cats’ ability to handle things more than shifters,” Aubrey sniffs.
He’s doing the thing where he checks the light fixture for specific wattage and then the ventilation grate filter for the third time in twenty minutes.
He’s very concerned about this book specifically, more than any other we’ve had down here, and I’m not sure why.
It’s not even as ancient as the Society one, so the likelihood of damage is reduced.
I flex my gloved fingers. The double layering is tight, but not restrictive, and the only thing I worry about more than harming the artifact is dying of humiliation if we fuck this up.
“I know you guys are fine with this, but I’d just like to state for the record that my stomach is doing that slow churn it reserves for when I’m about to embarrass myself, or possibly die.
It doesn’t feel like this should be a big deal, but it is.
So if I’m being cautious and slow, remind yourself it’s in the interest of everyone’s survival. ”
Rennie’’s head pivots, owl-like, and he graces me with a fond smile. “I am counting on your instincts, lapin. If you feel a whisper of wrongness, you say so. You are in charge of the book handling when it comes to… vibes.”
Aubrey, who has been steadily compiling a list of procedural inadequacies for later, finally puts down his phone.
He folds his huge arms with the authority of a high judge about to pass sentence.
“I don’t like this, but we’re running out of time.
We need to know if this has information to neutralize the Fae before the preds use something that is more like an extermination weapon.
We have to do it now and hope for minimal casualties. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Renard says, his voice as smooth as the onyx he dons in shifts.
“But we follow best practices. ou, Aubrey, will record every detail—verbal and photographic—so we have a complete log for our feathered elder to help us interpret. And our mate will do nothing she is uncomfortable with. Understood?”
I nod, even though I’m not sure what that will mean in this situation.
The plan we made previously was not to touch anything with skin, not to speak any foreign text out loud, and if something feels magic-y inside me, I should close it immediately.
That seemed good enough then, but who the hell knows?
Rennie brings over a rolled-up canvas and unspools it like a chef revealing his knives.
In this case, the implements are for archiving and examining old ass text like this.
There are stainless tweezers, a soft sable brush, a magnifying loupe, and a wooden dowel for page turning.
He lines them up in a perfect row, wipes the table clean a final time, then gestures for me to place the book at the center of the field.
“Behold, the book surgery tray,” I say, half to myself, but Aubrey grunts in approval.
The book’s cloth wrapper is already splitting at the edges so I pick it up with the tweezers, delicately, and set it on the ready space.
The lamp overhead gives it a yellowish glow, accentuating the fine dust that settles onto its surface every time the air shifts.
Rennie picks up the brush and makes three gentle passes across the top, then steps back and gestures for me to do the honors.
I use the second set of tweezers to pick at the knot securing the wrap.
It loosens without much resistance, and I peel the cloth away like a patient undressing an injury.
Here we go, I suppose…
Underneath is the book itself. It might be the most unsettling object I’ve seen outside my mother’s preservation trophy room.
It’s smaller than a modern textbook but thicker, with a cover that is definitely not leather, but also not not-leather.
I’m not really comfortable speculating what it might actually be, so we’re going to let that shit go before I get creeped out.
The binding is a dark, almost black brown, shading to a weird blue sheen along the raised ridges of the spine.
Each ridge is uneven, and as I rotate the book under the lamp, I see that the ridges aren’t decorative—they’re part of the internal page structure, giving the whole thing a slightly warped, organic feel.
There are two clasps with stamped shapes that don’t match any pred-family crests I’ve ever seen.
Instead, they’re just sharp, intersecting triangles and crosses—it must be magical symbolism.
The page edges are stained a deep rust, the color of very old blood, and I can’t tell if it’s just centuries of oxidation or something more intentional.
On the front cover, running top to bottom, are two lines of text.
The script is angular, the characters spiked and densely packed.
It looks a bit like a cuneiform if it were designed by a very angry stonemason.
I bring it closer to my face, fighting the urge to poke at it, and try to see if any part jumps out as familiar.
“Don’t try to read it,” Aubrey says, voice soft but carrying across the table. “Just describe it to me without the words on it, if you can.”
I take a breath and narrate what I see, and he writes it down, word for word.
Rennie picks up the loupe and squints at the cover and then at the page edges. “It’s not High Fae, but also not classical Latin or any language I recognize. These lines, though—look, here, the way the letters link is not standard. I believe it is a code as well as in another language.”
“Its provenance appears to be around the time of the wars, so that may be correct,” Aubrey mutters.
“If my estimate is right, the magicals would have been desperate to pass information around and hide it so that the preds could not read or understand it. Books full of knowledge, culture, spells… anything… were probably being hoarded in secret to keep our ancestors from destroying it.”
“Much like the family vaults we have been finding on the college campuses,” Renard says, running the brush over the spine with almost fondness. “They have been doing something similar since the Treaty to ensure continuity of their shitty scam if they were ever overthrown or killed.
“They pretty much stole everything from the magicals, especially the Fae, which explains why their hellspawn is always running around shouting about me stealing things. Every goddamn accusation is an admission with those fuckers—they’re running their own version of a mean girl smear campaign and have been since the Treaty. ”
Renard looks at Aubrey with his lips quirked.
Aubrey sighs, the way someone sighs when they’ve already rehearsed the worst-case scenario to its logical conclusion.
“Likely, snack size. But I must insist that you remember that I prefer no one speaks any of the words. If you must, hum or whistle to break the silence.”
That makes me chuckle, but I keep it together and reach for the first clasp with the tweezers.
It pops free with an audible click, and luckily, the second one does the same.
I glance at the guys, waiting for them to agree before I open the book.
Aubrey gestures for me to continue and Rennie leans in so close I can see the reflection of the lamp in his eyes.
I lift the front cover, half-expecting it to resist, but it swings open smoothly. The inside cover is blank and the first page is so densely covered in text that it looks almost like a texture rather than a sequence of words.
“Describe the ink,” Renard says, a little too eagerly.