Imerys stares at me for a long time.
And then she clicks her fingers, and a book floats toward her from the top shelf. “This one too, I think.” She places it next to Myths of Arcaedia. “As I said, they’re hungry. Will you do the honors?”
There are certain rules among the fae.
To give another your blood, hair, or fingernails grants them the ability to link a spell to you. If you’re powerful, then you needn’t worry, but that’s why we rarely cut our hair, and nails are tended in the privacy of your rooms where you dispose of them yourself.
It’s a rare curseworker who can wield the magic in your blood, but I’ve had more than enough experience with curses in my life.
And yet… to deny her is to tell her I don’t trust her.
I need the information in that book.
And more, I need to find some sort of alliance within Ravenal.
“Move aside,” I murmur, tugging the dagger from my belt and pricking my finger. I press the bloody smear on the cover of the book, where the leather—or what I hope is leather—absorbs it.
Golden light flares over the lock, and Imerys’s face brightens as she unlocks it and opens the book with slow reverence. Every page is yellow with age, and dark ink blots across the page like little spider scrawl. I can barely understand a word of it.
“Anduluvian was one of the first refugees from the home world,” Imerys murmurs. “She speaks the Old Tongue, so some of it is difficult to decipher.” Flipping through the pages, she pauses when she comes to a familiar rune.
A crescent moon, full moon, and waning moon superimposed over each other.
“The Mother of Night.” I swallow the lump in my throat. Just thinking of the creature I made a deal with sends a shiver down my spine, as if the mere thought is enough to summon her.
Another page. Another symbol. A triangle with a set of horns. “The Horned One,” Imerys murmurs.
The Old One that Angharad wants to use my blood to raise.
I shiver.
Each page reveals new symbols, some of which I’ve seen on the corresponding Hallows. The Dream Thief. Red Mag. Bloody Mara. The Frost Giant. The Green Man. All of them Old Ones that have been locked away in their prison worlds.
But then the pages keep turning, and there are other symbols.
A pair of half-circles joined together, like a child’s equivalent of a bird. Behind it is a full circle, which could be a full moon. I’ve seen it on the stones in Valerian, though I don’t know what it means or which Hallow it aligns with.
“You were right. There were more Old Ones.” Imerys’s fingers continue turning the smooth pages. “But only thirteen were ever captured. Only thirteen went to war against us.”
And we couldn’t even truly kill one of them.
Imagine if all of them had picked up their weapons and fought the fae?
“The Old Ones were worshipped by the creatures who ruled these lands before the fae arrived.” Imerys pauses, running her finger down the page as if she’s trying to translate. “This is the Daughter of the Three Moons. She was once worshipped as a huntress of the night, before the Mother of Night took over her aspect. I wonder if her worshippers forgot about her and turned to the Mother?”
Which would mean the Mother grew in strength while the Daughter of the Three Moons faded in power. Prayer and belief give the Old Ones their strength, and at their height of power, there were entire cults dedicated to them. Every sacrifice that was given to the Hallows they used as nexus points would have directly strengthened them.
More pages flutter by.
“You were right,” Imerys breaths. “There were more of them. The Prince of Thorns. The Silent Lady. The Fire Whisperer. Jack of Frost. Brother Tooth.”
Brother Tooth? “I’ve heard of him. My nurse, Nanny Redwyne, used to tell us stories about how Brother Tooth would steal our teeth during the night if we didn’t leave a coin out for him on Samhain.”
“Did you?”
“Of course I did. I didn’t want any creepy nightcrawler stealing my teeth while I slept. The coin was always missing by morning.”
We share a smile.
“Though now that you mention it, I do recall Nanny Redwyne showing off her lovely red velvet cape one week after Samhain, when I was six or seven.”
A breeze stirs across my skin, and I lift my head. I shut the door when I came in, but there’s no sign of anyone else. “Did you feel that?”
But Imerys rifles through the pages with quick grace. “There’s another section in the back of the book, detailing the creatures who lived in this world before the fae arrived.”
Every single candle snuffs out, leaving only the light that spills through the circular window in the ceiling far above.
Both of us freeze.
I’m quicker to move than she is.
Drawing the dagger sheathed at my hip, I spin around. Imerys snaps her fingers, and light blooms throughout the library, stinging my eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Imerys cranes her neck. “What’s going on?”
I don’t know.
Gossamer peers over a pile of books, no longer threatening to halt any intruders.
Nothing moves. But the bracelet around my wrist gives a twitch.
It’s not until I notice my breath is coming in a cloud of fog that I realize how cold it is in here suddenly.
Something moves down one of the long rows of bookcases.
“What was that?” The pulse still kicks in Imerys’s throat.
I cross the floor, knife held low. There’s no sign of anything shifting in the shadows. No stir of breeze.
But my heart’s racing, and the coppery taste of blood magic dances over my tongue.
Something was watching us.
The fetch?
Angharad, one of the queens of Unseelie, set one hunting me four months ago. The bracelet around my wrist keeps it from finding me, but I know it’s still out there. Once one of the Heartless are given an order to hunt, they don’t stop until they capture their prey.
But
