Chapter 21

Twenty-One

Kyrith

J asper McKinley is dangerous.

Not in the same predatory way that Dakari is. He’s not shrewd like Galileo or callous like Pierce.

He’s good.

Too good.

And I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with that.

“I’m so grateful for what you’ve done for me,” he mumbles for the hundredth time, barely daring to meet my eyes. “Thank you.”

A beautiful blush stains his cheeks, and the softness in his expression is disarming to the point of distraction. He’s sitting on the edge of his bunk, wearing grey jeans and a pale blue shirt that’s unbuttoned to display those pretty muscles with every move he makes. Occasionally, it reveals a tempting glimpse of hair-dusted skin, and I…

I hate myself.

Because this sweet Scot was my patient—is still my patient—and he’s charming and kind. Angelic, almost. He's undoubtedly gone through trauma, given that he was locked in a basement for years. Yet, here I am, perving on him like a horny, broken old ghost who needs to get her head on straight.

“Drink this.” I thrust the potion at him. “Give it a little while to work. Later tonight, I’ll try to undo some of the ensorcellments on you.”

“Is that wise?” Dakari asks.

“You want me to forget a decade of my life?” Jasper gapes at him.

“It wasn’t a good decade,” Dakari insists. “You don’t want to remember where I found you, trust me.”

Jasper pouts, then grimaces as he throws back the tiny shot glass of fizzing pink liquid. He’s trimmed his beard, too, and it glitters with remnants of magic for a second before he wipes it away on the back of his hand.

“What was that for?” he asks, and I want to slap my palm into my forehead.

He’s too trusting.

“It was deadly poison,” I deadpan, rolling my neck even though it does nothing to assuage the imaginary tension in my shoulders.

“Naw, really, what is it?” Jasper stares at the glass as if it might provide answers.

“It’s a magical block. I want to see if giving your psyche twenty-four hours without magic will allow your well a chance to reset.”

He’s already been making scraps, which is why this is necessary.

“No magic for a whole day?”

“And no streaming services either,” Dakari adds. “You might have to read a book.”

Jasper waves him off. “I don’t mind reading. I just… It feels like I don’t spend days without magic often, even though I have no memory to back that up.”

That lines up with my theory that the Carltons were forcing him to use his magic repeatedly.

“You think they wanted you for your restoration skills?” Dakari prods.

“Restoration?” I drift away. “That’s master level magic.” Too advanced for someone who was taken as a teenager, surely?

Jasper blushes, his cheeks darkening endearingly. “I was always good at it.”

“A prodigy,” Dakari corrects. “Your father used to tell anyone who would listen that you were going to change the world.”

Jasper gives a soft, self-depreciating chuckle. “I think he may have spoken too soon there.”

“You’re hardly in your dotage,” I mutter grumpily. “Most arcanists don’t achieve anything of note before their fourth decade—it takes them that long to pull their heads out of their backsides. Now, go and do something. Take a walk. Your muscles will thank you for it.”

Not that his muscles need much help right now.

Agh! Stop. Noticing. Them.

“And do up your shirt,” I tack on, my tone a little too harsh to be innocent. “This is a respectable Arcanaeum.”

Jasper’s lips quirk. “Aye, mistress.”

The words are said jokingly, but if I still possessed the ability, my mouth would be bone dry. Those two little words, delivered by those lips, are sinful. Worse still, Dakari has noticed the way I’ve frozen. One of his eyebrows—the scarred one—lifts in a silent question that I will never ever dignify with an answer.

I whisk myself away from the room without another word, heading straight for my tower with a groan.

“Magic save me from attractive arcanists,” I mutter, flopping over the bed.

Only to frown when I see a poorly bound modern romance novel on the pillow.

“Is this supposed to be funny?” I ask the Arcanaeum, picking up the book—which has a blue-haired lady on the cover—and gingerly chucking it onto the nightstand. “Or are you judging me for what is a completely natural response to attractive men? I’m dead , not blind.”

I can feel the building’s laughter, and I hate it for it.

“If I were alive…” I mutter, not daring to finish the sentence.

Against my better judgement, I pick the book back up and start to read. I instantly regret my choice. Modern writing doesn’t repulse me like so many of the older patrons, but what I don’t enjoy is being horny when I can’t do anything about it. According to the blurb, this girl has six horny aliens at her beck and call.

Ugh, I suppose it’s too late now.

It’s a blessing and a curse when the Arcanaeum tugs at my consciousness, and I have no choice but to reappear in the Lineage Room. So much of me wants to be annoyed at the disruption, but at the same time, I know I’m just taunting myself with fantasies about what I’ll never have.

The circular tower-top room is probably one of the sparsest sections in the library, containing a mere six mahogany bookcases—one for each of the families—and a handful of comfy chairs. Patrons rarely come here. Arcanists tend to keep meticulous records of their own, mapping each of their liminal offshoots with careful precision.

So when I spot Jasper struggling to liberate a book from the Carlton section, my brows furrow.

“Can I help you?”

He turns those deep brown eyes on me, and a sheepish blush graces his cheekbones.

“I was just… I mean, I can’t seem to—” He gestures at the shelf with one hand while pushing a few escaped strands of hair back from his face with the other. “The books are stuck.”

Oh. Of course.

“You don’t have a library card.”

It’s very rare that this happens, given that most arcanists enter the Arcanaeum and are given their cards as soon as the building accepts them, so I never considered it would be an issue.

Jasper has never been here as an adult.

Thankfully, because he’s already inside, I don’t have to touch him to allow the Arcanaeum to connect with him. The building rushes forth eagerly, like an excitable wave seeking the newness that accompanies every patron at their initiation. In fact, it’s a little too eager, because his card appears instantly, glowing in the space between us.

I let him examine it for a second, then wave it away, summoning a copy of the rules for him to look over. Usually, I prefer to do this at the desk, but I’ll make an exception. I’m not sure he should be spending time in the busy Rotunda being gawped at by the arcanists. His family should be told first.

Once that’s done, the Arcanaeum floats the book he was trying to grab earlier down to him, the pages flicking forwards until we reach the current generations.

Jasper’s soft gasp makes me consider the book as someone seeing it for the first time, and I suppress a small smile at the innocence of the noise.

The pages of the genealogy books are magically illuminated, each one covered in illustrations of golden trees, with portraits of each and every Carlton painstakingly drawn and meticulously dated. Facts and accomplishments swirl across the connecting branches, giving tiny teasing glimpses into each recorded life. Each link to one of the other families lists the exact volume and page number where the next branch can be found.

“Was there any particular reason you wanted to read this one?” I ask, although I suspect I already know the answer.

“I wondered if I’d recognise their names or faces.” His confession is barely a whisper. “I don’t think Dakari would approve, but if there’s a chance…”

He’s looking for his captors, for answers.

There’s an earnest kind of pleading in his eyes as he stares down at me, and I soften. “I understand.”

Perhaps too well. After I banished the magisters who killed me, I kept myself up to date with what they were doing and dug into their pasts. I don’t know what I was looking for—perhaps I hoped to find some karmic justice or traumatic history that might explain their actions.

I found nothing.

Sometimes people do detestable things, for no reason other than that they believe it serves a higher cause.

He’s clearly waiting for me to condemn his quest, but I’m not going to. Instead, I busy myself by turning away and casting a critical eye over the room. The decor in here is beginning to bore me. I’ll have to make some changes soon, especially if he’ll be up here for any length of time. Perhaps a pretty lamp in that corner, or a fern…

My distraction perks me up for the first time in a while, and I absently say, “I’ll leave you to it.”

Magic is stronger than the mind in most instances, but it won’t harm him to familiarise himself with the other families and the key players after so long away from the game.

“Hey, Kyrith?” His tentative call has me turning back to him.

“Yes?”

His fingers trace the pages, like he’s using the tactile contact to ground himself as he flounders for words.

“Which one are you in?” A blush tints his cheeks. “Please tell me it's not McKinley. It would kinda suck if…”

I raise a brow, waiting for him to finish his statement. His discomfort is endearing.

“I just mean—I wouldnae want to… I’m sure there are enough generations between us, but still… Incest isnae my thing?”

The last comes out as a question, and the books around us rustle with good humour.

“We’re not related,” I finally say, watching the tension drip from his shoulders. “You can continue to look, without fear for your morals… As will I.”

As if my invitation was all he was waiting for, those warm eyes travel up my body, lingering on my breasts for half a second before he swallows and meets my eyes.

Heat, embarrassment, and too much sugar-sweetness are all locked away in that angelic face. The kind that makes me want to give in and grant him what he’s silently asking for.

I can’t help but wonder if he’d kiss me politely, too. Would he say ‘aye mistress’ in that rich brogue the same way if I ordered him to get on his knees for me?

The moment lingers in the air between us, rich with potential. The Arcanaeum buzzing softly in anticipation…for something that can’t happen.

I deflate as I remember that, although we’ve both acknowledged this attraction, there’s nothing to be done about it.

I yank my gaze away, trying to regain the control from earlier, and Jasper clears his throat awkwardly.

“So,” he begins, voice hoarse. “Which family did you come from?”

If my stomach still worked, it would’ve dropped through my feet.

“I didn’t. I was an orphan when I was discovered, and no one knows who my arcanist parent was.”

Apparently, not even the Arcanaeum’s magic has figured that one out.

Truthfully, I don’t want to know. Without ties to any of the six families, my position feels more impartial, and I can’t be accused of favouritism. I also, selfishly, don’t want to know which house betrayed and murdered their own kin.

He shuffles in place awkwardly. “Oh, I just assumed… You’re so powerful.”

I shrug. “I was a liminal. It’s an anomaly, but not unheard of.”

How many times have I wished that I wasn’t one of the select few? If I hadn’t been powerful, I might’ve been spared this. Edmund and the magisters would’ve found a different liminal, and I could’ve lived a normal inept life.

I suspect North probably feels the same, though our fates are very different. At least Josef values him too much to kill him.

Another tug at my consciousness draws my attention to the Rotunda, and I groan.

“Excuse me, there’s a queue at the desk that requires my attention.”

His face creases with regret as I disappear, but I wasn’t making excuses to get away from the uncomfortable topic. Five patrons have lined up in my absence, and the woman at the front is already tapping her foot with impatience as I take my spot and start dealing with the mess.

Uneasiness skitters down my spine as I go through the motions of my self-appointed job. It takes me a few minutes to locate the source, and once I do, I can’t stop my eyes from wandering up to the Gallery every few seconds.

Pierce Carlton leans over the balcony, his monogrammed cufflinks glinting in the light as he studies me. His presence, and the lingering thoughts of my encounter with Jasper, consume my thoughts as I work. So much so, that I don’t even notice I’ve forgotten to cover the cracks on my arm with an illusion until the murmurs and nosy stares from patrons draw my attention to it.

Great. Just great.

There’s no use covering the arm again, the rumour mill is already abuzz. All I can do is shoot withering glares at anyone talking too loudly about it.

By the time Pierce finally deigns to approach me, the patrons have settled down a little. Still, I level him with my frostiest glare.

His haughty answering look is the complete opposite of Jasper’s shy glances, and I know which of the two I’d rather be spending my time on. Unfortunately, I can hardly ignore him, given that he is technically a patron, and he hasn’t broken any rules…yet.

“Can I help you?” I ask, crossing my arms.

He shrugs. “Are you willing to return my house’s lost property?”

I gape at him. “You did not just describe a person as?—”

He slides a piece of paper onto the desk. “This contract, between his family and mine, should clear things up.”

I skim the document—noting with disdain the blood staining one corner—and roll my eyes. Jasper’s father was indebted to the Carltons and apparently agreed to foster his son with them as collateral until such time as he’d managed to repay them.

“If you believe that this will change the conditions of Sanctuary, you’re sorely mistaken.” I slide it back toward him. “Besides, it’s clearly fake.”

The Arcanaeum can tell, and the shelves bristle at the attempted deception.

I summon Pierce’s library card into my hand, watching as a strike burns across it. “And if you’ll recall, lying to the Librarian is against the rules.”

Pierce is completely unruffled. “I never lied or pretended it wasn’t forged. This is an olive branch, Librarian, a way for you to save face and yourself. Pretend that it is real and hand him over. No one will blame you. My parriarch will allow you to continue your sad little existence. It’s a generous offer.”

My fury straightens my spine, resting both hands on my hips. “You’re threatening me?”

He raises a regal brow and shifts his weight until he’s leaning against my desk. “I don’t have to threaten you, Librarian. Not when you’re so clearly running out of power. It takes a lot of magic to keep a soul tethered for hundreds of years, and it appears the Arcanaeum is finally about to run out.”

The temperature plummets as those gunmetal-grey eyes linger on my cracked and broken arm.

He’s talking about my death—about necromancy—with a surety that makes it clear he knows more about both than most. The arrogance of it makes me want to slap him, even as a tiny, scared part of me wants to drill him for answers.

I refuse to give in to either inclination.

“The Arcanaeum does not give in to intimidation. Sanctuary is Sanctuary.” I can only hope that my arctic tone makes it clear we won’t be discussing this again.

He sighs, resting his palms on the desk as he leans into my personal space. “Last chance. You’ll regret not taking my offer.”

Before I can reply, a familiar hand taps lightly at his shoulder, interrupting us.

Pierce turns, only to be slugged in the gut by a fist covered in granite. He bends double, coughing and gasping for breath, revealing Lambert. The Winthrop heir smirks as he shakes off the transmutation spell with a wave of his hand. North and Leo flank him, grimoires out and held loosely, in case Pierce decides to retaliate.

I’ve almost never seen Lambert angry, but this…this comes close. His tempest eyes are downright stormy as he glares down at the stuck-up blond.

“Fuck off, Carlton.”