22. Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Two

Bronwyn

Iknow exactly where Petrov Hansimov is laid to rest. Truly the only thing that had been standing in my way was getting Sofarynn's key. I was always worried I'd have to find a way to steal it, indeed I think my family wondered why I hadn't stolen it in my first year.

But instead, she gave it to me willingly. All I had to do was ask. It makes me wonder if all those afternoon meals spent with her finally paid off.

Or perhaps she saw something in me that I didn't see in myself… something that lead her to believe that I'm actually a good person.

That I'm not taking this book for myself to help further my father's criminal empire. Or maybe she realized she had no choice one way or the other, and she decided to remove herself from the equation.

After all, her last home burned, and it was blamed on her.

Bards still sing about it to this day.

How weary she must be after everything she has lived through. Perhaps if I were in her shoes, I would have done the same thing. I suppose I'll never know because to me this key is more than just a key, it's something my father told me to retrieve and if there is one person in this whole godsfrosaken peninsula I don't want to let down, it's him.

He gave me my life, he gave me hope, and a family.

I'd steal all the spellbooks he required of me.

The keyhole is a small nick in the stone at the base of a fountain to the east of the courtyard, easily ignored if you didn't realize what was lying underneath.

Hansimov, like all the rest of the founders of the academy, was buried in tunnels underneath the city of stone. None of the other founders' tombs have actually been found, save for Hansimov, but that's fine because according to our best knowledge, only Hansimov was buried with his spellbook.

My sisters have been tasked to find the other spell books, but I was sent to collect the one known to be at the Academy of Magickers. Since the rest of my family are sorcerers, I'm the only one who wasn't in danger of being branded as a heretic.

I drop to my knees next to a still pond located at the edge of the courtyard. There is a statue at the center of the pond, Hansimov himself. It's probably why his tomb was found and those of his fellow founders were not. Hansimov was apparently ostentatious.

I mean, I suppose one would have to be to adopt the title of Lord of the Seas in a landlocked mountain range. Ostentatious or downright mad, but that doesn't mean that his magic is useless.

After all, blotting out the sun to create a vampire paradise is just one possible application for this magic, and once I get my hands on that spellbook, that will be my father's power.

My own power since technically I'm the only member of my family capable of wielding it. I will be his arcane master and finally have a place in his criminal empire.

Natasya can knit a monster out of the bones of men, making an unkillable army.

Corallin is like a shadow, unseen and unheard with all the skills of a master assassin.

And me? Well, I can read a spellbook without being cursed by madness.

There is a clicking sound as I insert the key, followed by a rumble as the statue shifts to the side, moved by some hidden mechanics within. Underneath the statue I can make twisting stairs that spiral downward.

I glance at Wilder and smirk. "I guess there is nowhere to go but down."

He swallows hard as he looks at me, speaking for the first time since we left Sofarynn's office, "Who are you exactly, Bronwyn the Eel?"

I push to my feet ignoring his words. I hike up my skirts so that they do not trail in the shallow pool as I step through it to reach the statue. I peer downward. There is an opening below, wide enough to fit a narrow spiral staircase that is so tightly packed in that I cannot see beyond it.

"I'm not asking that question rhetorically," he says coming up beside me. "I'd truly like to know. You know all my deepest secrets now; I think it's only fair I know yours."

"It wasn't a trade, Wilder," I reply muttering the first glow spell I can think of off the top of my head. It's the one that I used in Morozov's office. Just a small orb that follows me. When it comes to basic spells simplicity is best. Why would I have need of a light that shines a different color or for a set amount of time?

No, I need only memorize one singular light spell and worry about mastering more complex spells in more useful fields of magic.

"I still want to know," he mutters morosely.

I feel myself smile. I'm sure he does. I look over at him. "All you need to know is that I will take that spellbook far away where Morozov will never be able to use it." Hopefully, that will at least stymie his plans for vampiric conquest.

That's the best I can offer the world.

I am no hero. I just have my own uses for that spellbook.

Wilder's hand lashes out faster than I can blink, clamping down on my arm. I turn back, first taking it in and the cold seeping through the arm of my sleeve from his touch. Then I raise my gaze to him. "Wait, you're leaving?" he demands.

I find myself mesmerized by his crimson red eyes. So brilliant that the northern lights highlight them even in the night. They are like twin rubies that would be found in my father's treasury.

And they shine with desperation.

I swallow before I force myself to nod. "Yes, I—I—will have gotten what I came here for. There would be no reason for me to stay."

Indeed, it would be too dangerous for me to remain. Not just because of Morozov, but because the theft of the book might be traced back to me.

I pull my arm, but Wilder's grip is unyielding. "But…" he whispers.

"But what, Wilder?" I demand as I yank again. This time he releases me, and I fall down two steps in my surprise before I'm able to catch myself. But not before I manage to scrape my arm fairly badly. I hold it and glare up at him. "But what?"

He blinks, glancing away. "But nothing, I suppose," he mutters as he passes me a handkerchief. "Now cover that up, you reek of blood, and I haven't eaten for a few days."

I snatch the handkerchief from his hand as I press it against my arm, disappointment welling up within me. I don't know why I should be disappointed. Yes, there is something unspoken between us. Something that neither of us are willing to say out loud. But it is better for it to remain unspoken. To say it would make it real.

Unspoken I can pretend that I am imagining the longing look he throws my way. I can assure myself that my heart does not break just a bit at the thought of saying goodbye to him.

I can try to pretend that what I feel toward him is loathing plain and simple.

That the kisses were all a part of a ruse that we put on to buy us time.

But if he admits what I fear he is thinking then I will no longer be able to ignore it. I'll know beyond a shadow of a doubt that our fake relationship got too real. For him as well as me.

And I don't know how to deal with the consequences of that. I quickly turn and start down the stairs, keeping my hand on the wall as I follow the downward descent toward the sound of rushing water.