Demonkeepers

Leah wasn’t the only one missing, either, Jade realized with a kick of unease. Rabbit wasn’t there.

Granted, Strike would’ve had to ’port out to UT for him, but still. Who better than a mind-bender to find a lost soul?

“Let’s get him up on the couch,” Strike said, not really acknowledging Jade. He glanced at Sasha.

“Unless you think we should haul him to the sacred chamber, or even down south to the tomb?”

She shook her head. “Let’s see what we’re up against before we change too many things at once.

Couch first, then triage, then we’ll make decisions about moving him.” Given that she was their resident healer it was logical for her to take command of the situation. But that didn’t stop resentment from kicking through Jade as the others crowded around Lucius’s motionless form, putting her on the outside of a solid wall of wide shoulders and too-perfect bodies.

The men lifted Lucius onto the sofa, jostled him until he was wedged in place, then nearly mummified him with the quilt. Don’t trap him like that, Jade wanted to tell them. He’d hate it. But she stayed silent, feeling invisible and unimportant. This wasn’t about her; it was about the Nightkeepers doing what they could for Lucius. And even if the nahwal actually had unlocked some part of her talent, it wasn’t like she could rattle off a spell capable of bringing him back. For now, Lucius was better off with Strike and Sasha taking the lead, with the others lending power to them, and through them into Lucius.

Feeling extraneous, Jade eased back farther.

“Where are you going?” Strike asked. It took Jade a second to realize he was talking to her.

“Sorry. Did you want me to stay for the uplink?”

The king locked eyes with her, his expression unreadable. “Sex forges a connection within the magic. You’re his lover, which means you’re our best means of finding him.”

“I’m not his—” She broke off the instinctive denial, because this wasn’t about the “L” word. And she couldn’t claim there wasn’t a connection. It didn’t make sense for her to argue on one hand that sex magic was just about the sex, then on the other hand claim that a magic bond between sex partners required an emotional bond that wasn’t relevant to her and Lucius.

“You said you wanted to step up into the fight, even without the warrior’s mark. Well, here’s a chance for you to do exactly that.”

Strike’s challenge hung on the air for a moment, seeming to suck all the oxygen from Jade’s lungs.

She was acutely aware of the others watching her, waiting for her response. Part of her wanted to melt into the woodwork. Another wanted to cut and run. Instead, she took a deep breath and nodded. “Of course. I’m in.” She only hoped she was strong enough to make a difference . . . and that the Nightkeepers together could bring Lucius home.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The library During one of the many roundtable discussions about what might or might not happen once Lucius connected to the library, he remembered Sasha suggesting that even if he managed to make the connection, his energy reserves might be too limited to sustain it. The Nightkeepers had high metabolisms and huge appetites, both designed to feed the magic. He didn’t. And yeah, as he bent over the notebook he could feel the drain, knew he had to get himself back to Skywatch. Problem was, the notebook’s construction and the warning on the first page were its most coherent aspects. The text was a scant three pages of cramped writing done in a strange stream-of-consciousness style. Some of it made sense; most of it didn’t.

Scrubbing the heel of his hand between his eyebrows in an effort to recenter his spinning brain, he went back to the beginning and started over.

Within my bloodline—the keepers of the library’s secrets—they say that a powerful Prophet will arise as we get close to the end-time. This Prophet will be an outsider, one who has lost his way, but once he finds himself, finds his magic, he’ll have the power to avert a terrible tragedy. How could I not think the prophecy was talking about me? Ostracized from my bloodline, stripped of my powers, yet born for so much more than I had become, there couldn’t be anybody better for the job.

Did this happen because of my pride? Because I wasn’t humble enough before the gods or the magic? Rather than dying and giving my people a Prophet, I’m stuck in here. I’ve got the answers, but no way to give them to those who once loved me.

That all made sense to a point, Lucius supposed, but he could’ve used more context. Unfortunately, the next page and a half contained confusing rambles about flames and staring eyes. Then, finally, on the last written page, there was something useful.

Therefore, as the last of my bloodline, the last keeper of the library’s secrets, I write this both fearing and hoping that nobody will ever read it. I hope that a true Prophet will arise at the end of the age, one who dies as is meant, leaving his body behind to transmit all that is hidden here. But I fear that this may not happen . . . and if you’re reading this, you’re like me. The gods didn’t take your soul during the spell, and they gave you only this small window into the library. To you, I write the following, some of which was known to my bloodline, some of which I’ve figured out here: The way-ya spell will get you back to your body from here, but only twice. If you enter the library a third time, you’re staying. Trust me—third time isn’t a charm in the library magic.

You’re here, so you probably figured out how to get in. Just in case, let me spell it out for you: It’s talent-specific, so you’re going to have to use your own magic to get back here. When you do, make sure you’re bringing the right questions, because you’ve only got one shot. Don’t screw it up, because I can only imagine that you’re it. You’re the last Prophet. The one who’s supposed to help save the world.

Finally—and this isn’t about the library so much as what I’ve figured out sitting here dying, wishing I’d done things differently—magic isn’t what’s going to save the world. Love is. So find someone to love, and tell them so. Better yet, show them you love them by making them happy rather than miserable. Don’t be an idiot like I was.

“Which in my experience is a total contradiction in terms,” Lucius muttered. In his experience, using the “L” word to a lover was the very definition of being idiotic. At least it was the way he did it.

Granted, all the talk about bloodlines meant the journalist had been a Nightkeeper, and from what he’d seen the magi tended to do a good job in the couples department. Still, it seemed like an odd thing to say, even odder to write as the very last entry in the strange journal. “And who the hell wrote it, anyway?”

His body jolted, lurched upright, and staggered back toward the stacks. “Whoa! Wait,” he said, “I didn’t mean—” But he broke off at the realization that he was far, far weaker than he’d comprehended. His legs shook and the stone walls blurred around him as he headed across the room, impelled by the magic. It was all he could do to stay on his feet, but he’d be damned if he crawled.

By the time he reached the other end of the narrow stone room, he was breathing hard, nearly doubled over as he fought not to retch. Then he got a good look at what the magic had brought him to, and he froze inside and out.

A woman’s corpse sat in the corner, wrapped in a yellow-edged green robe identical to the one he was wearing.

He had his answer. He’d asked who wrote the journal . . . and the magic showed him. For half a second, the torch flames flickering on the body made it seem to move, even though he knew it wasn’t alive. It couldn’t be. Not looking like that. She wasn’t a mummy in the formal sense of embalming and wraps, but she was mummified all the same, with her skin tight and shiny, stretched over where flesh had wasted from bones. Honey-colored hair hung to her shoulders, and the bone structure of her face seemed oddly elegant despite the hooked-nose, bared- teeth grotesquery of desiccation. The robe had ridden up over her forearm, baring three marks: those of the star bloodline, the warrior, and the jun tan.

“Bingo,” Lucius slurred. “Now we know that the stars were the keepers of the library.” Which was only partially useful, given that none of the living Nightkeepers were members of the star bloodline.

But it was information, and he’d always been a fan of info. And, dude, he was punchy. The torchlight