Chapter 27
Twenty-Seven
Sorcha
We spent six hours at the library and turned up nothing.
Six hours sifting through dusty tomes in a dimly lit room that smelled like gas lamps and damp parchment.
We hadn’t eaten since the night before, and my nausea was slowly evolving into a full body malaise that threatened to leave me collapsed on the dusty, marble-tiled floors.
Ansel had summarized what he learned by interrogating the cultist in a few brief sentences.
The cults sacrificed animals, and the portals could be summoned via repeatedly etching the eye and spiral into mammalian flesh.
People sought after the magic—some for money, some for love, some for health, and some for the high of proximity.
Those most concerned with accessing the magic drank blood from the slaughtered cows and pigs—claiming it strengthened their connection to the occult energies.
And while it was eons better than the complete lack of information we had previously, it still wasn’t much.
I couldn’t help but feel frustrated, defeated, like the entire endeavor was a waste of our limited time and energy.
I couldn’t help but feel that I was underqualified and overworked and that maybe Ansel was right—maybe I couldn’t cut it as Lady of the Outer Court—at least not on my own and not yet.
There were no records indicating anything suspicious going on in the city. There were no documents or data to back up the eeriness, the wrongness, the use of blood magic like it was a drug.
“Well this was disappointing,” Ansel huffed, shutting the last volume of city documents we’d been able to access.
“Right,” I muttered. “We go to a club where people are drinking blood, you threaten to break a man’s fingers, and we end up with nothing. That feels right.”
I pushed my chair back from the table, tugging at Neal’s sleeve and nodding for him to follow. Ansel was looking through his notes and making vague, disgruntled comments about crime syndicates never keeping proper records.
I took Neal’s hand and walked along the library wall, trying any door I could find. The first two were locked, but the third wasn’t. It opened to a small closet lined with paper, ink, and supplies. I shoved Neal in ahead of me, then shut the door behind us.
I leaned back against the wall of shelves and finally breathed—for the first time in what felt like days.
The blackness was soothing—a welcome reprieve.
I felt tears on my cheeks. Neal’s hands ghosted over my arms, finally finding my waist and settling there, a warm, firm, comforting presence.
I reached up, hands brushing over his chest until I grabbed onto his lapels, trying desperately to get out of my head and back into my body.
“I can’t do this anymore,” I said, not caring that my voice broke—it was just us, just Neal. He was safe. He wasn’t about to tell me I should’ve let Iksura take over the Court and condemned the world to her tyranny rather than risk my inexperience. He wasn’t going to judge me.
“Sorcha, we’ll be in Islay in less than a month,” he said, placating. “You’ll be fine as soon as you can get some rest and get settled in somewhere.”
“Not the travel,” I corrected him. “This. The Outer Court. The portals. This.”
He didn’t reply to that, fingers moving to trace gentle circles on my back. I shuddered.
“We could’ve died last night. We could have died how many times trying to get this far? And for what? A few scraps of information about the biggest threat the Outer Court has seen in four hundred years?” I swallowed hard. “And I’m just so damn tired.”
“You didn’t sleep last night,” Neal reminded me, pragmatic like always.
“But it’s not just that.” I could hear my own voice getting frantic now.
“It’s everything. It’s Iksura threatening my title.
Hell—worse, it’s Iksura repeatedly trying to dissolve our marriage, drown us.
It’s the fact that no one taught me how to do this.
And I don’t want to say it out loud, but, Neal, it’s the baby.
I want this. I swear I do. But it’s only been, what, fourteen weeks?
And I’m already just so done. Neal, I . . .”
I broke off, hands shaking where they held on to his coat, sobs catching in my chest.
“Sorcha, look at me,” Neal said.
“It’s pitch black in here,” I hiccuped.
“Try,” Neal said, cupping my face, thumbs brushing away the tears from my cheeks. “Do you think I care about Iksura right now? Do you think I care about the portals?”
“You’re my Steward. So I assumed you—”
“This isn’t about the Outer Court, Sorcha.” Neal didn’t let me finish. “I’m not up having nightmares about you dying because I’m worried about Iksura. Because I’m worried about the dynasty.”
“You’re having nightmares where I die?” I asked. “Why didn’t you tell me? You should’ve woken me!”
“That’s beside the point,” Neal redirected. “I’m having nightmares because I care about you, Sorcha, and I’m terrified of losing you. And I’m terrified of losing the baby. Because this is our baby, political arrangement or not. You two are my family. I’m not letting anything happen to you.”
I shuddered, more tears streaking down my cheeks. Neal disentangled my hands from his lapels and pulled me into his chest. I cried hard for what felt like ages, then finally mumbled, “Maybe Ansel was right. He usually is . . .”
“What, are you wishing you were married to Alexi from the Inner Court now?”
I huffed something halfway between a laugh and a sob in response.
“I’ve got you,” he said. “We’ll figure this out. I promise. And, Sorcha?”
“Yeah?” I whispered.
“I love you.”
And then someone was banging on the door.
“What are you two doing?” Ansel shouted from outside.