Chapter 66

66

Farryn

Aweek had passed since I’d visited Xhiphias. Every day, I sat at my computer, scouring the internet for information. One morsel that might lead me to the name of Lustina’s mother. Of course, nothing could be found on the city of Praecepsia itself, aside from debate as to whether, or not, it had even existed. The articles which referenced it were the same articles that spoke of Atlantis and other infamous lost cities.

I’d tried meditation, prayer, everything to summon her name to the forefront of my mind.?To tease it from the bank of memories that stretched from centuries before my time.

Nothing.

Not having slept much, at all, in weeks, I lay my head against my folded arms, giving my eyes a break from the hours of staring at the computer, but the flash of a winter blue eye flickering through my mind sent me upright.

It happened every time I closed my eyes. I saw him. Him. The apology and resigned look he’d shared, just before flames engulfed his body.

The computer screen blurred behind a shield of tears. It was a wonder they hadn’t dried out, as much as I’d cried over the months.

The visuals of him remained stuck on a loop inside my head, tormenting me with the same, vicious end. I could still feel the heat. Could smell the burning flesh.

“Lustina!” a voice rang in my ear.

Startled by the sound, I glanced around the dark room, finding nothing but Camael sleeping in her usual spot on a window bench between the two bookcases.

“Lustina! I will see you again, my sweet child! In the next life, I will see you.”

Flames. Screams. Hands reaching out.

It wasn’t Jericho I saw that time, but a woman with fiery red hair.

Daring to close my eyes, I let my mind wander into the unbidden thought.

The crackle of flesh. Red hair catching fire. More screams.

“Mother!” I called out, unwittingly, and opened my eyes.

Mother?

I’d seen the woman in my mind somewhere. Her face. That hair. It was familiar.

Where had I seen her?

Fire. Red hair. Books.

The bookstore! The strange woman who’d given me the book. The one whose name the clerk hadn’t recognized.

What was it? I tapped my temple, eyes screwed shut, trying to remember the name she’d given me.

On the tip of my tongue …

Catriona.

“Catriona,” I whispered. And at the mention of her name, a new memory appeared.

Dancing across a dirt floor. Taking her hand. Laughter.

“Lady Lustina, may I have the pleasure of a dance?”

“Why, yes, Lady Catriona.” I giggle and take her hand, and she spins me around in circles, until dizziness claims my balance, and I tumble to the floor. More laughter. “Were you truly the daughter of an earl, Mother?”

“I was. The Earl of Kildare.”

Catriona. Daughter to the Earl of Kildare.

I typed the name into my search bar. The only thing spat back at me was a paper written by a historian from Ireland. According to the article, Catriona seemed to be something of a rebellious young woman, an aristocrat, more feral than refined, who’d criticized and rallied against the hanging of two infamous criminals. On the eve of their execution, she and one of the criminals had mysteriously gone missing, in what was believed to have been one of the earliest recorded abductions. Unconfirmed, of course, as she was never found.

Checking the date of the publication showed it’d been written back in the early sixties. Dread weighed heavy in my gut, as I typed the author’s name into the search bar. Was she still alive? Did she even remember writing the damned paper? I’d already suffered a series of disappointing dead ends. Could I possibly bear another?

Breath held, I clicked the search button.

* * *

My hands shook as I passed the paper with the angel’s name to Xhiphias. It was bad enough that he’d led me down to the creepy basement of the abandoned building, where he apparently kept the scrying mirror, but on top of that, every nerve in my body felt like a livewire.

“How did you find it?”

“A historian from Ireland. Apparently, Catriona was the victim of a famous kidnapping centuries ago. A young aristocrat stolen by a criminal she tried to spare from death.”

“The kidnapper is the angel?”

“I’m not entirely sure. It was the only name associated with her, prior to her disappearance.”

Xhiphias unfolded the piece of paper on which I’d jotted the name from a log of those sentenced to be hanged by the king. “Ceallach O’Ruairc? That’s quite a mouthful.”

“Do angels tend to keep their names throughout their lifetimes?”

“Not typically their earthly names. But if it belonged to him at any time, one he may have gone by, it should still work.” With a huff, he unsheathed the mirror, whose surface was an obsidian black with an ornate iron frame. In the light of the candles he’d lit about the room, it gave off only a faint reflection.?Definitely not something I wanted to stumble upon in a dark room by myself.

“Are you ready?” Xhiphias asked beside me, only stoking my nerves.

With a frantic nod, I rubbed my hands together, palms sweating and cold.

He gave a nod, then closed his eyes, facing the mirror. Head tipped back, he spoke a quiet chant of words I didn’t understand. After taking a puff on the pipe clutched in his hand, he blew the smoke toward the mirror then spoke the name. “Ceallach O’Ruairc.”

More foreign words followed. The smoke seemed to absorb into the black of the glass, creating a misty reflection.

He spoke the name again.

The smoke in the mirror cleared away to show a stormy sea and a ship. Deckhands scrambled to draw up fishing cages, as waves crashed against the boat, rocking it over the rough and turbulent waters. The mirror narrowed its view onto a man. A tall, hearty-looking male who moved about the vessel, as if unbothered by the storm. He drew up an empty cage and tossed it onto the pile behind him.

“Gabriel!” Someone on deck called, and the man turned and strode over to help another, who seemed to struggle with his balance. The much smaller man teetered as he reached for one of the lines, and when he tipped forward, over the edge of the boat, I slapped a hand to my mouth on a gasp. The man named Gabriel lurched after him, taking hold of his foot before it could slip out of reach, and pulled him back onto the deck.

“It seems he goes by Gabriel these days,” Xhiphias said beside me. “And what surname?”

The scene clouded with smoke, turning the mirror a foggy white, then cleared again, showing a newspaper article. Local Man Saves Fellow Seaman During Storm. There was no picture, only a small story at the bottom of the first page. Gabriel Angelus was listed as the hero.

The date was two days prior. Tempest Cove Gazette.

My pulse hastened as the possibility of seeing Jericho became more tangible than even a week ago. “Are we sure this is him?”

“What else do you have, Farryn? Or, more importantly, what do you have to lose, if it isn’t?”