Chapter 13

Thirteen

Kyrith

I t doesn’t take long to usher them away. Thankfully, they don’t notice how the shelves are sagging with dread as they leave, although the long look Galileo grants me as he’s leaving makes me double check the door has closed behind him.By then, it’s already time. I’m pulled through the building towards the front door like a puppet on invisible strings.

After so long, I’ve learned to just let it happen, but tonight the clawing hands of the past are sharper than usual as I re-materialise in the foyer beside the main entrance.

My normal soft-blue glow dulls, the way it always does. I like to imagine I look almost normal again, but I have no way of knowing. High above, the clock tower strikes, its lone bell pealing through the halls, shaking them to their foundations.

In front of me, a shadowy apparition appears, followed by a second. The two of them are merely echoes with no features, but I recognise their gaits, the flutter of damask robes, the bob of a hat. And just like every night, my ghostly form follows, trying desperately to keep pace.

During those first years, I tried everything to stop this. I read book after book about ghosts, and their penchant for reenacting the moments leading up to their deaths. I tried silencing the bell. Tried forcing shut every door, putting things on top of the entrance to the Vault, desperately holding myself back until I thought I’d lost my mind.

A few thousand nights later, I gave up.

So, as I allow myself to be dragged towards the Rotunda and down through the trapdoor by invisible strings, I try my best to zone out. It’s my own inexorable march, but the more I relax into it and spare my energy now, the easier it will be later.

Perhaps the entire thing would be boring, empty even, if not for the emotions. Sensation is usually lost to me, blunting them, but after midnight, they return full-force.

Right now, my heart thrums with the same eager nervousness that I felt that night. No matter that my logical mind knows it’s wrong. Five hundred years ago, I was so excited, elated to be at the side of the magister learning new magic, and now that same elation fills me again.

Time seems to slow, as it always does. Pausing on the stairs as the echoes of a conversation travel through time, accompanied by the tolling of the bell. Each reverberating strike counts slowly down as my shadowy companions and I reach the bottom of the Vault.

Unwelcome awe sends phantom butterflies aflutter in my stomach, and I hate that it’s nothing more than the memory of a na?ve girl. My knees bend in a curtsy they never acknowledged, and I wish I could take back.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be so awful if I could close my eyes. It’s bad enough that I have to relive this but making it impossible for me to shut it out seems unnecessarily cruel. I’ve had plenty of times to evaluate why my struggles were so ineffective, so replaying this part always adds extra humiliation.

Fear spikes, disbelief warring with horror and quickly overtaking my nervous excitement. Betrayal, sickly sweet and sticky, glues my mouth shut. My limbs flail, my heel misses Edmund’s toes.

I can hear myself begging with Edmund, though I know that part’s in my head. They silenced me so they wouldn’t have to endure the inconvenient cries of their victim. They wanted to get home, to their fancy wine and their cosy hearths.

Too soon, the spire looms over me. My ghostly body merges with my crystalline remains.

Not long now. My heartbeat thunders through the Vault, replacing the tolling of the bell.

Then everything cuts off. The emotions and sensations disappear in a rush, along with the echoes and the mist.

Control of my body returns in a rush, and I throw myself from the altar with all of my remaining strength. I curl against the grey stone floor, wishing that I could feel the steadying cold of the rock to ground myself.

Weakness, I think to myself, should not be something that affects a ghost, yet as always, I’m so drained by the ordeal that I can barely hover. But staying down here, in the dark, foreboding vault, sets my teeth on edge.

So I force myself up, then collapse on the floor of the Rotunda.

I curl up there for hours, panting, though I have no breath. Normally, I retreat to my tower shortly before dawn, as it’s the farthest place in the Arcanaeum from the Vault, and refresh myself before the first patrons arrive at nine.

But the sky is still dark when a narrow grey door opens on my left.

Frowning, I force myself to my feet as I wonder if this is one of those times.

Every now and again, someone wanders into the library by accident. Sometimes it’s an inept who leaves the way they came with a confused look on their face, other times…someone other will step through.

I’ve never understood why, or how, but my prevailing theory is that whatever happened to the Arcanaeum when I died tore it from my home dimension. Now it sits at a magical crossroads of sorts, and the magic used to travel here is…unstable.

But it’s not some confused inept or some creature of lore, who staggers through.

It’s Dakari.

He has to turn his wide shoulders sideways and duck to get through the small frame. The endeavour is made more difficult by the magical strikes pelting him and whatever he’s hauling along the floor.

He’s dragging a person, I realise, grimacing as I waver across the gap between us. Thanks to his hold on his grimoire—which is smashed against his chest along with a second tome—he only has one arm free to drag the other person with.

“Sanctuary!” he roars, loud enough for his pursuers to hear, as a bolt of ice soars over his head, smashing into the floor tile beside him and cracking it. “I claim Sanctuary for us both.”

He knows about that old rule? Who on earth told him? Panic flashes through me, and a doom-laced foreboding chills the air.

But a bolt of violet lightning flashes past next, scorching another tile with a hissing snap , and I know I have no choice.

“Granted.”

I haven’t granted Sanctuary to a patron in decades, rarely wanting to draw the trouble that always accompanies such a petition. In the past, it was for minor threats, helping arcanists who were victims of abusive partners regain their footing, or those who unexpectedly found themselves homeless for whatever reason. It was always short-lived and never for something like this.

I’ve never had someone fleeing what looks like an all-out magical battle.

Getting in the middle of a fight between arcanists is dangerous. Drawing the ire of the six families—and I can’t think of anyone else Dakari would be running from, given that I sent him after Ackland’s grimoire—is even more dangerous.

But the Arcanaeum sent him on this crazy errand. The least we can do is protect him from the consequences.

He’s most of the way inside already. A pearlescent, hastily created shield shimmering between him and whoever is throwing such destructive magic around. I tug on the magic of the Arcanaeum, pulling the legs of the man—and the slight figure he’s carrying is definitely male—inside before the door slams closed.

It shudders, glowing briefly with a surge of heat as it captures another blast of magic, before something crackles in the air, and the door disappears in a blast of ash.

Just how badly did their attackers want to kill them?

I sweep closer to the two arcanists on the floor, then pause, stiffening, as I watch Dakari press his fingers to the side of his accomplice’s throat.

Checking for a pulse?

When he finds one, he falls back in relief.

“Thank you, Librarian,” he murmurs, peeling away a piece of his black tee that’s become stuck to a nasty burn on his upper arm with a hiss.

Given the ferocity of what he escaped, that’s likely not his only injury.

Mute with panic, I fiddle with my sleeve as I try to think of the next steps. I don’t regret granting him Sanctuary, but this changes things.

“Come,” I finally say. “I can heal you and your…friend. You are welcome to remain as long as you need.”

Dakari winces as he stands, but before he can reach for the unconscious man, one of the book trolleys appears. It morphs, becoming longer and wider, until it’s just large enough for a person to lie on. The books it was carrying fly to my desk, stacking themselves neatly.

“What happened?” I ask, as I float his body onto the cart. “And who is this?”

I’ve never seen this arcanist before, and I’ve seen most of them at least once. I’m certain I would’ve remembered this one. Even injured, sick, and malnourished, his features hold the promise of beauty.

He has the cheekbones of a god and the lashes of Aphrodite, I think to myself as I lean over him. Even given his scraggly, long beard and the even longer strands of his unkempt chocolate brown hair, he looks pretty.

“This is Jasper McKinley.” Dakari staggers forward, scooping up and buckling his own grimoire into the holster at his hip, before grabbing the tan one beside it as well. “The heir to the McKinley clan. I found him chained in the Carltons’ basement, while I was searching for that book you don’t want.”

A quick glance at the wrists of the Arcanaeum’s latest guest reveals redness and scarring consistent with the story, the colour vibrant against his puffy, yellowed skin.

Then his words sink in.

“He was Carlton’s prisoner?”

This is not good. Not good at all .

Of all the six families, Carlton remains the most powerful. A position it achieved long before I was born and has maintained ruthlessly since. If this arcanist was their prisoner…

“You should not have brought him here,” I mutter under my breath, then freeze as the cart begins to move towards Kinetic Hall.

Upstairs, across the parapet wall, I feel things shifting. The storage closet below my tower empties, expands, and furnishes itself in the space of a few seconds. A bed, bandages, a cupboard of alchemical equipment, a small alembic…

The Arcanaeum is making a sickroom. It wants this man to stay, and it expects me to care for him.

Not for the first time, I silently beg it to tell me why.

“I had no choice,” Dakari finally answers, as we scale the stairs, following the floating cart. “The book wasn’t there, and I wasn’t about to just leave him. He’s been missing for years . I thought he was dead.”

Understandable, given the condition of the man. Jasper McKinley might once have been a powerful arcanist, but he’s currently in terrible shape. Even without the obvious signs of liver damage, his body is thin, his skin dirty, and there are bruises on his abdomen like he’s been beaten recently. There’s a duelling scar on his left cheek, though I didn’t realise that was still a practice, and more circling his throat, like he was once collared.

At the top of the stairs, the door marked ‘no entry’ opens onto the parapet wall, and Dakari’s footsteps start to slow. He’s looking over the edge, at the interminable foggy landscape beyond. I glazed the windows to prevent the arcanists from seeing this.

It’s disquieting.

Nothing in all directions but dense, cold mist. Like we’ve entered the Niflheim of Norse mythology. The Arcanaeum once stood proud on cobbled streets, surrounded by university buildings and bustling with life. Now it exists in this dead in-between, where even sound is muffled.

“Come,” I murmur, drifting back to him when he stops completely. “Do not stare at the mist. It will drive you mad.”

He jerks, eyes fixing on me. “Really?”

I nod. “Episodes of psychosis are common after staying up here for too long. It is not a place meant for the living.”

That Lambert, Northcliff, and Galileo managed to ignore its pull when they sought me out is a small miracle, but then again, if the Arcanaeum was nudging them along like the interfering building it is, then I suppose it knew to keep them safe.

Dakari follows the stretcher, and I keep a careful gap between us to avoid accidentally touching him. My distance means I don’t see the Arcanaeum transfer Jasper onto the bed, but I do catch sight of the cart—returned to normal size—as it trundles happily through my ghostly form on its exit from the room, leaving me standing in the doorway.

Dakari has collapsed into the armchair beside the bed, and I take a deep breath as I walk over to him.

“I’ll heal the worst.” It’s the least I can do, given that the Arcanaeum, and by extension myself, is what got him into this mess.

“Him first,” Dakari grunts.

There’s a depth of concern there I wouldn’t expect for a stranger, and I frown.

Are they friends? They seem roughly the same age, so I suppose it’s possible. They must at least know each other, given his concern.

Huffing my acquiescence, I abandon him and head for the new arcanist, taking his wrist in my hands.

Only to drop it instantly as tingles engulf my palm.

Another heir with the power to hurt me. How marvellous.

“That makes things more challenging,” I murmur under my breath.

And I’ve granted him—both of them—Sanctuary. Magic only knows how long they’ll be here, with all the risk that entails.

“Librarian?”

“It’s nothing.”

Shaking my head, I hold my hands over the skin and dig deep into the Vault for the grimoires I need.

It has been so long since I had to heal anyone. Restoration magic used to repair the spines of books is a far cry from the spells needed to heal a body, and then there’s the divination magic required to look beneath the skin and diagnose whatever other problems might be lurking…

I’m getting ahead of myself. Bruises and lacerations first, so I can see what I’m dealing with.

“ Hiel braosi .”

Deep, deep below, a grimoire flashes with power, a runeform lighting up with the glow of magic as I channel the spell through my palm and into Jasper’s chest.

Purple splodges disappear slowly, wiped away like they were never there. His skin glows, and I move onto the marks at his wrists, muttering more incantations under my breath.

Soon only old scars remain. I’ll deal with them later.

He needs more. Tonics to reverse the damage to his organs. Spells to fix his obvious undernourishment, to reverse the effects of years of imprisonment. But right now, I focus on the more immediate dangers. Besides, restoration magic is taxing, and if the Carltons will be coming after him, I don’t want to pull on the Arcanaeum’s reserves more than I have to.

The building recharges, just like any other arcanist would if they were depleted; but it’s more prudent to use alchemy where I can.

“ Riviel treame, ” I murmur.

Parts of his body light up, an intrinsic knowing accompanying each glowing injury. Liver and kidney damage as a result of regular forced exposure to potent alchemical ingredients. His organs are bruised, his mind shady with the darkness of trauma. His heart is enlarged, likely a result of prolonged stress, and there’s a hint of jaundice, vitamin and mineral deficiencies, and other issues caused by chronic undernourishment.

I turn to Dakari, still bleeding all over the leather armchair and staring at me intently.

“He’s stable, but I’ll keep him unconscious until I’ve healed the long-term damage. I’d like to see to your burns now, if you’ll allow me.”

His chin dips, and I float closer.

“Don’t touch me,” I warn, adding, “please,” as an afterthought.

Another softer chin dip.

“ Hiel dirmos .”

Unlike my other patient, Dakari doesn’t have the mercy of being asleep to mute his pain as his skin begins to rejuvenate beneath my palm. He grunts, gripping the arm of the chair with white knuckles as I work.

“How can you do this?” he asks, finally, voice glazed with pain. “Without a grimoire.”

I stop, the magic halting. “Who says I have no grimoire?”

Resuming, I’m forced to pause again when he continues. “No one has ever seen you use one.”

Because my own, a beautiful purple leather book, has been lost almost as long as Magister Ackland’s, but I keep my mouth shut, lest the Arcanaeum decides to send him after that next. Besides, it’s not like I got to do more than copy out the basic binding runeform on the cover before I was sacrificed.

Humming beneath my breath is barely an answer, but I’m trying to focus, damn him. “Take off your shirt.”

His expressive brows climb higher.

“You’re bleeding,” I explain hastily. “It might need mending.”

He grips the hem and pulls, mouth twisting with pain as the action inevitably jostles whatever wound I’m trying to mend.

“I hate being dead,” I mumble under my breath as the fabric is discarded, revealing the toned lines of muscle across his chest.

Dakari is just as muscular as Lambert, and now that I’ve healed his arm, the strong lines of him tempt me to touch. Or it would, if touching him wouldn’t hasten my own slow demise.

I sigh under my breath. I’ve always had a weakness for pretty eyes and attractive arms. Apparently, we can add sculpted abs and pectorals to that list.

Perhaps it’s simply the influx of stupidly attractive men to the Arcanaeum that’s making me miss sex this much. Perhaps it’s simply another useless bout of moping on my part. Either way, I wish this view wasn’t wasted on me.

Dakari coughs, and I’m so glad for my inability to blush when I glance up and find him staring at me with those black eyes of his and one lazily cocked brow.

Darting my gaze back to his chest, I grimace at the long, frostbitten cut along his side. I check to make sure he’s still not at risk of moving before bending over him and murmuring more incantations.

When I finish and pull back, there’s nothing but unbroken, warm brown skin there. Trying to reclaim a modicum of professionalism, I skirt my gaze up and down his body, searching for injuries I might’ve missed.

“Anything else…” I trail off, my eyes catching at the bulge just below his waistline.

Turning away sharply is the only way to stop him from seeing how my brows rise in response.

My, that is impressive.

“You’re both welcome to stay as long as you need.” Is my voice really that husky? “If the Carltons cause trouble, please leave it to me. My only rule is that you must refrain from leaving your room between the hours of eleven at night and opening time in the morning. There’s a shower back the way you came on the first floor.” I had to install those when Lambert started turning up fresh from practice. “Take care with the mist. The Arcanaeum…”

Hasn’t provided a room for him. What?

I hit the building with a curious frown, and in answer, I feel my own door pop open.

“No.” I cut the library off with careful calmness.

I won’t be offering up my Sanctuary to him, even if I would love the sight of him in my bed. Naked.

In answer, the building pouts. The shelves literally sag in disappointment as Jasper’s cot grows taller, morphing into a comfortably sized wooden bunk bed. A wardrobe appears in the corner, the doors popping open to display a rail full to bursting with men’s clothing.

“Thank you, Librarian.”

“The building cannot provide food.” I pass my hand through the flame of the oil lamp by the bedside, silently wishing this was easier. “I will have someone arrange to collect some for you.”

Lambert owes me a favour, though making North do it would be more satisfying.

“While you are here under the rules of Sanctuary, your care is my responsibility,” I say finally. “If you need anything, call out for me. I will hear you.”

Something in me wants to linger, to grasp this opportunity for company with both lonely hands and hold on for dear life, but they’ve just been through an ordeal. My hovering won’t help them.

“I’ll be back to continue healing him in a little while.”

But it’s opening time, and as I predicted, there’s an aggravated presence waiting for me by the front desk.

Time to face the Carltons.