Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Blair
Tap, tap, tap.
Blair sprang awake. Unfamiliarity prickled across her skin, and she panicked and fell out of bed. A bed—one she had no recollection of getting in or where in the blasted books it was. Her head throbbed, and Blair kneaded her temple.
That’s right—she’d hit her head when the Guards had attacked.
Goddess, Guards. She and Lorkan had fled, and she’d . . .
Brought them to Nūa.
Blair whirled, searching wildly in the room she found herself in. Loud colors. Vibrant art. A window facing the southern district of Nūa. Where exactly was she?
Tap, tap, tap.
Rook sat at the base of the window on the outside of the glass, demanding she let him back in. A shred of relief washed through Blair—at least her familiar trusted wherever they were.
But where was Lorkan? She replayed the night’s events over in her mind as she eased open the window’s latch. The last thing she remembered was her townhouse, or the lack of it.
Rook fluttered inside and landed at the door, pacing. He picked at the door’s chipping paint, chucking the mint green color across the floorboards.
“Shhh,“ Blair hissed.
But she failed to remain quiet. The door swung, and Lorkan stood in the doorway. Rook flew to his shoulder and nuzzled the werewolf’s jawline in greeting—traitor, Blair thought.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“Do you not recall the danu you conjured last night?“ Lorkan shut the door with the heel of his boot. “Why, in the stars above, would you bring us to Nūa?”
“A book.” Blair crossed her arms. It wasn’t a lie exactly. She’d wished to avoid Fika, and at the last second, she’d recalled Jace’s ancient text.
“A book?“ Lorkan said. “Vísdómr has thousands, and you risked yourself for one bloody text?”
“It’s written by the faerie and has information detailing the bloodstone.”
Lorkan tilted his head, studying her through his wire-framed glasses. “So, you’ve seen it?”
“Well . . .” Blair wiggled her shoulders. “Not exactly. A peer of mine has access to it, not in the library, thankfully. He offered to let me see it whenever I wished—“
“Who?” Lorkan became unnaturally still.
“Jace Brookes.”
“Do you think we can trust him?”
Blair nibbled her lip, shifting from foot to foot. “I don’t know.”
Rook cawed as if sounding his own disappointment in Blair’s brashness, but in truth, Blair’d rather be stuck behind the Wall of Nūa, lurking in the shadows than stepping foot in Fika. But how would they reach Vísdómr now? Blair winced. Maybe she would have no choice, but she needed more time.
“Look, the book might have answers regarding how the gem works, and that might lead to how we can fight the Blood Goddess and her power,” she said. “If we learn her weaknesses, we might discover how to break the curse.”
Blair didn’t mention her burn, and that she sought answers of her own.
“Fine. We visit Jace and get the book.” Lorkan placed a leather satchel at the end of the bed. “I went out and grabbed clothes for you. Along with a cloak and gear better suited for the Vadon Mountains. I wasn’t aware Circe burned your home, and I’m sorry.”
Blair’s heart raced. She’d wished to hear those words from Lorkan for a decade—for entirely different reasons, sure, but to hear something out of him that was more than discussions about books or bossing her around had flighty sensation swarming in her gut.
Blair snuffed the feelings down, inspecting the clothes he’d brought her.
“Thank you,” she whispered, not trusting her own voice. “Wait—how did you know it was Circe?”
Lorkan shoved his hands into his pockets. “It made front lines across the papers in Nūa, and my contact filled me in.”
“Contact?”
Lorkan nodded, heading for the door. “Yes, this is her apartment.”
It turned out Lorkan’s contact was a witch.
A beautiful one.
She hummed as she cooked breakfast, red-as-holly curls bouncing behind her. Light on her feet, petite and willowy, she had an ethereal softness to her, unlike Blair’s dark, sharp edges.
Bloody hel. Like a child, Blair was comparing herself to another woman. Blasted books. Why was Blair growing warm? The windows were cracked, chilly air twisting with the yeasty scent of browning toast. Oh, right, that was her uncalled-for, deep-rooted, scorching jealousy.
“Here’s a coffee to get you started.” The witch slid over a mint-and-brown-speckled mug; a heart formed in the milky foam— she was one of those who made coffee art. Pretty and talented.
Blair grew hotter in her seat.
“Oh! Here’s a scone. Made them yesterday.”
Blair’s stomach growled, and she helped herself to a baked good bursting with chocolate morsels—damn. This friend of Lorkan’s could also cook.
Fucking fantastic.
But Blair wasn’t jealous. No, she wasn’t a child either. A grown-ass woman, in fact, one who could swallow her pride.
“Thank you, ah . . .” Blair internally cursed for the tenth time that morning. She’d forgotten the witch’s names. Was it Maria? No. Marya? Wait—
“Mya.”
“Mya, I’m sorry. Thank you. For the coffee, and the food of course, and letting us stay despite . . .“ Blair shrugged, “Well, you know.”
She laughed, bubbly. “Think nothing of it! Helping a rebel witch? Exciting, if you ask me.”
Blair disagreed, but smiled through her next sip of coffee, bouncing her foot on the metal foothold of her barstool. There was nothing exciting about discovering the man who broke her heart had a “friend” in the same city as her, a mere five blocks from her own townhome.
Blair kept eyeing the two doors on the left side of the apartment.
She’d woken in the small guest room on the south wall.
Lorkan had excused himself to let her get ready to visit Jace’s antique store, and after emerging, she’d discovered Mya’s room was the left door, but the witch had hurried out of it when she’d greeted her, and Blair hadn’t caught a good enough glimpse through the door before she shut it.
Not that she wanted to see Lorkan lounging in the bed of another—
Oh, stop it!
Why did it matter who he was entangled with? She’d fucked plenty, if she was honest with herself. Heck, today they had plans to visit Jace, someone she’d had fun with so often, she’d lost count.
Perhaps it was less that he was with someone else, but more the fact Mya was nothing like her, and even though comparison was a shallow trick that only ached, she couldn’t help sighting the differences between them.
Lorkan liking someone so unlike her—airy and vibrant—stung more than Blair wished to admit.
“What’s your post in the city?” Blair bit another scone, the buttery bread turning to ash on her tongue.
“I’m an artist.” Mya gestured with her hand around the flat. Murals and canvases with watercolor scenes hung on the brick walls.
“I see,” Blair said.
Artists were few to none these days. With the fight at the Void, most posts were related to efforts against the darkness.
No firstborn, second born, or third born was studying the arts, let alone making it.
Those who were fourth or fifth born, though rare, had more freedom, if their covens permitted it.
Regardless, Blair’s mind nagged with the question: How had Lorkan met Mya?
As if her thoughts summoned him, the second door on the north wall—not Mya’s door—opened, and Lorkan strode into the common area, golden eyes finding Blair’s. She sucked in a breath, becoming lost in the rivets of molten amber.
“You . . . cut your hair.”
Eight inches of it. Blair played with the freshly chopped tips. “Figured it counts as a disguise.”
Blair usually wore her hair in a tidy bun, curls twisted neatly away from her face. Thanks to Mya’s scissors, she’d shortened them inches above her shoulders and, for good measure, painted her lips a crimson lacquer.
“I think it suits you.” Mya winked, giving Lorkan a pointed look.
But the Drengr scholar didn’t comment any further. “We should head out.”
The willowy witch’s shoulders slumped, her bright and cheery features deflating. “Well, that’s a shame. Breakfast isn’t half started. I had bacon and eggs next. Should I expect you both a little later?”
“Maybe—“
“No,” Lorkan cut Blair off. “Once we have this ancient text, we’re heading straight for Fika.”
Mya nodded. “Alright, here.” She handed Lorkan a pouch, and he frowned.
“I can’t . . .”
“Yes, you will now go.“ She smiled, nibbling a strip of bacon. “If your names end up in the papers, I know who to contact.”
Curiosity had followed Blair like her shadow as they snuck through the city’s back streets and alleys, but her mind lingered on Lorkan’s plan. Fika. She mulled over the village, sourness coating her tongue.
Crinkled parchment blew in the wind, jolting Blair out of her musings.
Horror shot through her, and she ripped away the wanted poster that read dangerous above a sketch drawn to her likeness.
With lips in a thin line, eyes straight ahead, lost and vacant, and her curly hair twisted into a neat bun, she didn’t look like herself at all.
It didn’t feel like her either.
Lorkan scowled. “Don’t pay it any mind. We have more important matters.”
Right. Like figuring out how to break the curse. Blair’s insides twisted. Jace’s text would help, but had she been a fool to drag them all the way here? Yes, an infuriated voice hissed.
The street bustled with morning foot traffic, and a group of witches headed to their daily posts ambled by. Blair fell into step with them, Lorkan following. The current swallowed them, hiding them in plain sight.
Ahead, Jace’s antique shop’s sign, a bronze-forged medallion with his coven’s name Brookes ingrained on it, hung from an iron bar.