9. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

Lexia

Even with the AC blaring, I'm sweating. When Lumen spends time outside, he's warmer than usual, and stays that way for hours.

I slip out from the blankets and head to the kitchen for some water. I don't want to tell Lumen not to sleep with us—I love sleeping with him—but it's getting more difficult each day, because he's getting hotter and hotter. Though it doesn't burn me, like I think it should but probably has something to do with the mate bond, it still makes me feel hot.

On my way back to the bedroom, I feel eyes on me. Pausing at the hallway that leads to the bedroom, I glance into the open living room and find someone standing in the corner. My heart jumps, and for a split second I almost run. Until I realize who it is.

"Why do you have to be so creepy?" I ask.

Slate steps out of the shadows, allowing me to see him fully. He looks as good as he did the last time I saw him.

"Why don't you get scared?" he asks as he walks to me.

"After everything I've been through, you think a person standing in the corner of a dark room is going to scare me?"

"I could have been a shadow here to take you."

"You're not."

He tugs on a piece of my hair. "You're tan."

"You're not," I respond.

He huffs out a laugh.

"Where have you been?" I ask.

"Trying to find you."

"Why did you leave?"

"I was protecting the book."

"Where is it?" I ask, knowing I'm bombarding him with questions but not caring. He's lucky it's only me here talking to him. Vesperon likely would have him against the wall with his hand around his throat. Lumen… I'm not so sure how he'd handle this. Maybe the same way I am, but I also don't think he'd stop Vesperon from attacking him either.

Slate jerks his chin and says, "On the table."

My gaze goes to the coffee table, and wouldn't you know, there it is.

I'm itching to go to it and look through it. Make sure it's not a fake. That pages aren't pulled out.

"I won't be offended," he says.

I flick my gaze to him. He holds my stare, his face blank. I hate that I can never tell how he's feeling or what he's thinking. How is he so good at holding everything in?

"If you go check, I won't be offended," he adds.

"I want to trust you," I say carefully.

"There's a but."

"Yes, there's a but." I shift my weight to my other foot. "I feel like you're not making it easy."

He nods once. "Which is why I won't be offended."

"So you agree?"

"I understand how it looks," he says, running his hand through his dark hair.

When I don't move, he steps away to pick up the book and offers it to me. I take it and flip it open.

"I was going to work on it while I was searching for you, but I realized I didn't have the Shadow Handbook or a shadow to help recall what is written. We won't be able to decipher it accurately until we have the book."

I close the journal.

"Thank you," I say. "Are you tired?"

"I don't sleep."

"So I've heard." I move to the couch and sit down, putting the journal on the end table beside me.

"What are you doing?"

He hasn't moved from his spot, so I look up at him.

"Sitting on the couch… with you, as soon as you get your butt over here." I tap the empty spot beside me.

He remains still, his expression not changing. After a long moment, his shoulders sag and he sits beside me on the couch.

"You have a lot of patience for a being with not a lot of time," he says.

I let those words sink in, really thinking them over. In the grand scheme of things, my life span is hardly a blip compared to his. Only, that isn't quite true, considering I've lived many lives. This body has an expiration, but my soul doesn't, it seems. My soul is eternal, but my memories aren't. What's the point in living multiple lives if they are all different?

"Do all human souls reincarnate?"

"Until they can't any longer."

"What does that mean?"

"The cleaner a soul is, the more it will come back. The more wear and tear someone puts on it during their life, the more they weaken it. Meaning, at some point, it won't return."

"Yet there are always bad people in this world."

"Because new souls are always made."

"How am I human if my parents aren't?"

"Your mother is the same as you. Your souls are made of the same thing."

"So my father played no part in my making?"

Slate sighs, running a hand through his hair before leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. Silence falls over us as he contemplates what I said.

"The universe made you what you need to be, Lexia. In this form, you could not contain the powers of what your father is. So yes, he made you, but what he is isn't what you need to be."

Funnily enough, that makes more sense than I thought it would. I expected some elaborate explanation that my human brain wouldn't be able to comprehend. And I guess if I really think about it, it doesn't make sense. How does the universe know what it needs? If it knows, why doesn't it just handle it and leave me and my family out of it? Why does it allow things like this to happen? Those are what I can't understand, and things I'll probably never have answers to. But on the surface, it is pretty simple, I guess.

I'm what it needs.

Me, a shadow, a radiant, and a grey.

"Do you know where we can get a handbook?" I ask.

Slate leans back, bringing his face toward the ceiling. "Possibly."

"There's a but," I say, repeating his words from earlier. I smile, hoping it lightens the mood, but his somber one isn't going anywhere, it seems.

"There's a but," he adds. "It'll cost us."

"Like money?"

"Unlikely."

"So, what then?"

"Anything from the hair of an Irishman to a dead fish."

What the…

"That doesn't sound so bad," I offer. We can find a dead fish in a lot of places, and I'm pretty sure a drunk Irish guy would give us some hair if we needed it.

"Not when what I named is relatively easy. But what if she wants a phoenix feather? Or a unicorn heart?"

"Where would you get that?"

He nods firmly. "Exactly."

I shift the pillow behind me to get more comfortable and pull my mother's blanket over my lap. Slate helps adjust it so it's covering my feet.

"Who is she , by the way?"

"Selma Greenheart. Oldest witch in the world."

"But she'll have it?"

"If not, she'll know where to get it."

"Why do you sound hesitant about this? Is she dangerous?"

"She always has something up her sleeve. Nothing is ever black and white with her. But the only other option would be going to the shadow realm, which—"

"We are not doing," comes a low voice.

"Ves," I turn to face him. "Did we wake you?"

His gaze stays on Slate, and I sense the tension in the room going up. I have no idea how I'm supposed to keep the peace between them. How am I supposed to get Ves to trust him? It seems my words aren't enough. Me trusting Slate isn't enough for Vesperon, and I don't know how else to explain it to him.

"No," he finally says, eyes still glued to Slate.

Slate ignores Ves's glare, but it's obvious he can feel it. The way he's ducking his head tells me he's submitting. Allow Ves to be angry, not bothering to fight with him. He admitted he knows how it looks from our end. I get up and go to Ves, putting my hands on his chest.

"Let's go back to bed," I say, adding a little pressure with my hands. "Ves, come on."

He finally pulls his gaze from Slate and puts it on me, his face softening slightly.

"Bed," I say.

He takes my hands, brings them to his mouth and kisses them. Then we head to bed. Slate doesn't join us.