Compelling infinity arch.., p.3
Compelling Infinity (Archivist 2), page 3
The gala had been my idea. Even though it had been Crystal who made it all exceedingly sparkly and intense, I was the one who’d decided that the Adepts of Dublin should take pride in their archive, and that they should get a chance to enjoy what was normally hidden in the basement behind heavy-duty wards.
Brendan Prince nodded at the witches dismissively, then gestured toward the relic on display. Constructed out of thick, age-darkened gold, the uneven square was about the size of my palm. Two of its edges were rough, as though it had been removed from a larger setting by great force. Symbols I didn’t recognize and hadn’t yet had a chance to study and identify were carved onto the piece’s front-facing surface. A larger symbol at the center of the relic was surrounded by a rectangle of smaller runes, all swirls and curlicues.
Brady and I had found the relic last month in Galway, in a hidden niche in the basement of a Byrne witch who’d passed away. The handwritten book I’d collected alongside the crown fragment was in the middle of a pile on my desk, neglected while I focused on the gala. I might not love the idea of historians like Brendan Prince peddling ill-researched and inaccurate tales of the fae for a profit, but the unknown language in the handwritten book was definitely worth a second look.
The book had also contained a sketch of a crown that might well have been connected to the relic in the display. Interpreting the symbols, both in the book and on the relic, would give me a better sense of its history. Its real history.
The relic had barely had a chance to gather dust in the basement of the archive before Crystal had unearthed it. Not that any item ever got dusty in an archive overseen by a Pine witch. She had somehow connected the piece to an elaborate story about fated mates who had attempted to seize territory so they could build themselves a haven free from the oppression of their families. To paraphrase, anyway. Personally, I didn’t find it surprising that any attempted seizing of territory would end badly. Adepts generally weren’t big fans of being overrun or slaughtered, not even in the context of a mythical love connection.
Even after handling it many times, I’d sensed nothing but a slight glimmer of residual magic from the crown piece. Not even enough to identify the particular power set of the Adept who’d last worn it centuries ago, though part of that was likely due to the fact that the piece had been severed from its original form.
I scanned the card Crystal had tucked into the display case — and realized, as I should have earlier, that the story of fated mates she’d made use of was credited to a specific author. An author who happened to be currently standing just a touch too close to me.
Brendan Prince. From his Book of the Fae, Part One.
Part one? Ugh. He’d written multiple books on the subject? And titled them all so mundanely? I could recount having seen at least a half-dozen popular books with similar titles. Though I certainly hadn’t read any of them.
“Do you know the tale of the fated mates?” Prince’s tone was hushed in a way that made me think he was attempting to be beguiling. Not magically, just in an affected way. “I’ve been piecing it all together for … years.”
Internally squirming, I nodded agreeably. I didn’t usually have any issues talking with strangers. So perhaps it was talking pop mythology with strangers who professed to be experts in that pop mythology that bothered me. It was a new experience for me.
Also, it was slightly odd that he was calling my attention to a display partially based on one of his own books. Oddly self-congratulatory.
“The lovers were torn asunder,” Prince continued. “Her life blood given to save him, to save their realm from invasion. I’ve been looking for this piece for some time.” He gestured again toward the relic, stopping just short of stroking the invisible magical warding between it and him. “I was surprised to discover it’s been in Dublin, for centuries perhaps? Though I understand from your librarian that it’s a recent addition to the archive. Collected by your fair hand.”
He grinned at me.
Apparently, ‘fair hand’ was supposed to be some sort of compliment. Or flattery? Except I had tanned skin and wasn’t interested in flirting.
Prince’s smile faltered around the edges. He returned his gaze to the display. “Most of the major archives are more … open about their collections.”
That wasn’t even remotely true, though I had serious doubts that Brendan Prince actually knew how many archives existed. The ones maintained by dragons, at least.
“We’re implementing some new initiatives,” I said stiffly.
“I’ve heard.” He tore his gaze from the crown piece, offering me a grin that was sharp-edged now. “And actually managing to get a ticket to your gala was a most satisfying hunt in and of itself.”
I caught sight of movement across the dance floor out of the corner of my eye, chastising myself inwardly for doing so even as I turned my head just enough to see him more fully. Kellan. He was watching me from the other side of the gallery, leaning casually against a marble column. His eyes narrowed. On Prince, I thought.
The so-called historian sorcerer followed my gaze but took in the dancers between us instead of spotting the predator not-too-subtly lurking across the way.
“There is comfort in believing that there is one person who is perfect for you,” Prince murmured in his oddly intimate tone. “A fated mate …”
“Is there?” I said, trying to avoid sounding glib. “What if you never find them?”
“But fate is destined to bring you together. As the tales go …”
“What about fated enemies?” I asked blithely, forcing myself to look back at the historian instead of watching Kellan as he watched me. “Is that a thing?”
“Well …” Prince snorted, amused. “Logically, magic demands a balance, doesn’t it? Energy can be harnessed, but only transformed. Not destroyed.”
I met his violet gaze, raising an eyebrow. “So that’s a yes.”
He grinned at me. “I’d love to discuss it further. In a quieter venue. And … after a tour of the archive?”
“You can make arrangements with our resident historian, James Anderson.”
The sorcerer sniffed dismissively. “More than a few minutes in Jim’s company would bore anyone to death.”
I didn’t find James boring. We weren’t particularly friendly, but he was articulate and thorough. He’d also been rather gleeful when I’d opened the archive up to acquisitions again, and had been traveling extensively over the last two months, returning with boxes and boxes of books.
And yes, I was exceedingly aware that I would put up with just about anything if it came with a new book.
Brendan Prince pouted playfully. “I’ll just have to win the silent auction.”
Bidding against Mesa Byrne? I doubted whether Kellan or Prince would get anything the formidable coven leader wanted for herself. And I just might need to wander over and assure that outcome myself. I glanced around for the elder witch, but spotted Ravine traversing the dance floor instead, alone and heading for me.
“Do you dance?” Brendan Prince asked, holding a hand out to me and clearly switching tactics.
“Not tonight,” I said as politely as possible. I was more than ready to move on from the conversation. “Unfortunately, I’m working.”
“Certainly your guests can spare you for a moment?”
I opened my mouth to refuse him a second time, but managed to avoid appearing rude when Ravine stepped up beside me. She tucked her shiny, dark-brown hair behind her ear and offered me a saucy grin. Then she focused her attention on Prince. A hint of witch magic curled over the intricate gold cuffs on her wrists.
“I’m available,” she purred to Prince, slipping her other hand into his. “Ravine Byrne. Metal mage.”
His grin, which had been souring around the edges, widened. “Brendan Prince. Historian.”
“Oh, yes?” she purred. “Why don’t you study me for a turn? Poor Dusk is overworked and underpaid.”
“It would be my pleasure.” Prince nodded to me. “I look forward to continuing our conversation.”
I smiled tightly. I would need to figure out how to pawn him off on James or even Crystal.
Prince stepped away, leading Ravine toward the dance floor. The metal mage winked at me over her shoulder, letting me know that the rescue had been deliberate.
I grinned back at her, then moved on to the next display — a china dinner service for two, perfectly arranged on a small antique table. A journal was tucked into a glass case set just before the table, open to a particular entry. A thin silver bookmark that was genuine Irish metalwork was set slightly off to one side of the journal. The china was from a wedding celebration, nineteenth century. The journal entry was Crystal’s evidence of the newlywed witches being destined mates, describing how they’d fallen for each other at first sight.
It was more than apparent that Crystal had been working on her own fated mates research for some time. I expected her to present me with a book proposal sooner than later.
Aisling Conall, alpha werewolf and Kellan’s mother, was leaning over to read the journal. Tall with dark-red hair, she was dressed in a shimmering champagne-colored dress that fell straight to her ankles. She turned as I approached, nodding slightly. A black-feathered mask framed her bright-green eyes. “Well done, archivist.”
“It’s mostly Crystal’s work,” I said.
She snorted offishly. “Under your leadership.”
I nodded, oddly uncomfortable with even offhand praise.
Aisling’s gaze shifted over my shoulder, and I twisted to see Gitta as she spun past in the arms of her new … lover? Boyfriend seemed too frivolous a term to relate to a mother of two, but perhaps that was some sort of oddly ingrained perception of mine. Admittedly, anything I knew about modern relationships came from fiction, rather than experience. Dragons were rare enough that choosing a partner for life wasn’t widely practiced — let alone dating. With so few of us born to each generation, the idea of waiting around for a fated mate to appear was ridiculous.
“None of your generation is ever happy with what’s good for them,” Aisling said. “Thereby making choices that will only lead to more unhappiness.”
I had no idea what she was talking about. I had even less idea why she’d included me in the remark.
Aisling shifted her focus.
To Kellan. Who was making a beeline for us across the dance floor.
Perhaps he felt I needed rescuing from his mother? Or, given the fact that I still wasn’t certain he was actually flirting with me, perhaps he was rescuing his mother from me?
Kellan got tangled up between Bethany and her dance partner, then got further tangled with Brady as he twirled his fiancee, Erin, around the room. Swathed in blue silk, including her mask, Erin Conall was Kellan and Gitta’s half-sister, as well as technically their cousin. She’d inherited her height and her light-brown skin from their father, Odane, but her hair was a dark auburn.
All of them laughed as they separated from each other.
The hollow point in my chest ached again. I looked away.
Aisling Conall was watching me with a slight smile. Then she nodded, stepping from the niche toward the next display. She brushed her fingers across her son’s shoulder as they passed. Kellan leaned in to kiss her cheek, causing her to chuckle and bat at him.
Then Kellan turned all his attention on me, silently holding out his hand. I stood there for far too long, hanging in the moment.
“I don’t know how to dance,” I said finally.
“The music will guide you.”
“I just turned down someone else … I’m here to work.”
“I know. I saw.”
He kept his hand held out to me steadily. Inviting, not pressuring.
I was making too big a deal of it. Of all of it. I was giving the so-called lie I was currently living too much significance. I was still me. I still made the same choices, whether or not I was a dragon in a witch’s guise.
A single dance wasn’t a binding contract that I was signing under false pretenses.
I slipped my hand into Kellan’s, and he tugged me toward him. “You are breathtaking,” he murmured.
“Ravine did my hair.” Even in my barely broken-in heels, he was still easily ten centimeters taller than me. And I liked that, probably more than I should have. “And my makeup.”
He snorted quietly. “It isn’t your hair or makeup.”
I settled my fingertips on his shoulder, barely touching. Then, pulling my magic in tightly, as if it might shield me from the onslaught that was Kellan Conall — or what I perceived as an onslaught, at least — I lifted my gaze to meet his. “Are you going to twirl me or what?” I asked teasingly.
He laughed huskily, turning my insides to mush. Again.
Warm, eager mush.
Off-limits, off-limits.
His fingers ghosted across my back, turning me into the flow of the other dancers. We raised our other lightly clasped hands to the side, his calluses a hint of roughness against my skin.
I tried to stay light on my feet, to move with Kellan rather than against him, conscious of how completely and utterly contrary it felt to most of my solo martial arts training. Only when Sisu was older would he and I train to fight in tandem.
Kellan kept his steps simple.
Thankfully.
Bethany swirled past us with yet another partner. The witch lights overhead caught in her laughing eyes, streaking her golden hair. “Kellan!” she cried. “Finally!”
Kellan frowned, seemingly chastising her.
She just laughed and spun away, surefooted.
“This … ah, is this a waltz?” I asked awkwardly.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” he said. “I’m just trying to follow the tempo.”
I laughed, oddly relieved that I wasn’t the only ignorant one.
Kellan pulled me a touch closer.
I didn’t resist. If I turned my head slightly, I’d be able to brush a kiss just under his jaw.
Oh gods, this was a bad idea.
“What do you transform into?” he murmured against my temple, moving me to the music.
“Nothing.”
“You might be witch-blooded, Dusk Godfrey,” he purred. “But that’s not all you are. You try to hide your golden glow, but I see it between the cracks. It’s the same as the trail Sisu left through the city.”
He meant the night Sisu and the twins had been taken by Ayre. “That was a spell.”
He hummed doubtfully. “Then why was the trail for Neve and Lile the same color as their magic?”
“I’m an archivist,” I said stiffly, clinging to the truth of that title.
“I never said you weren’t.” He sounded amused.
Stalking me, I realized.
I tilted my head back, deliberately catching and holding his gaze. “I’m not prey. I’m not to be hunted.”
“Oh …” He flashed me a smile full of all sorts of promises. “I’m not hunting.”
“Bethany,” I blurted. Then I found myself blinking at him like an idiot instead of explaining my abrupt change of subject.
“Bethany?” he asked in a low growl when I didn’t continue, eyes narrowing. “What did my mother say to you?”
I shook my head. “No. Nothing like that. Aisling just said something about our generation never being happy with what’s good for us …”
He grumbled.
I had started this conversation. I wasn’t a coward. No matter how oddly I behaved around Kellan.
I would just keep reminding myself of that.
“The picture on your phone,” I said. Then I added for clarity, “The picture of Bethany …”
The music faded, then stopped somewhat abruptly.
The other dancers parted, clapping and chatting quietly.
Magically amplified, Crystal’s bright voice emanated from the back of the room. “The silent auction closes in ten minutes. Make sure to get your final bids in!”
I stepped out of Kellan’s arms, clapping softly. “Excuse me.”
“Dusk,” he murmured, snagging my elbow, “the picture … it’s just a remnant …”
I shook my head at him, already forced to smile at a gray-haired witch in a silver mask that matched her dress perfectly. She had deliberately caught my eye as I’d turned.
“Ms. Godfrey,” she asked, her accent pure British, “I have a question about the sixteenth-century vase you’ve accredited to the Byrne coven …” She gestured toward the nearest display. “I believe it was actually cast and painted by a Dunkirk ancestor of mine.”
“Of course,” I said, stepping away from Kellan.
His hand fell from my elbow, his fingers momentarily tangling through mine as our arms stretched apart.
Just a remnant, he’d said …
I squeezed his fingers, just slightly, as if my body was acting of its own accord. Making promises I rationally couldn’t keep.
But not wanting to let go.
It was after midnight, early into Saturday morning, before I crossed through the intricate wrought-iron gate that separated the estate of Wilding Manor from the rest of Dublin. One moment, I was dashing from the taxi through a light but chilly mist, through a courtyard tucked between Georgian apartment buildings. The next, I was crossing through heavy-duty boundary warding. Though the mist continued beyond the gate, I slowed to luxuriate in the magic embedded into every stone, every blade of grass, and every gnome-trimmed hedge of my home. Points of light winked awake along the edge of the path, as if Wilding Manor was coaxing me toward the main house. The lights faded as I passed.
The gala had been rife with magic. Energy had emanated from every guest, over and above Crystal’s fairy lights and the individually warded relics on display. But Wilding Manor was different. It was literally anchored to a deep, somnolent well of power, rooted in that natural magic by at least one — and most likely two — ancient walnut trees. One of those trees had been converted into the carved front door, and the second was now my desk in the library.
I shouldn’t have been surprised by the estate’s slowly awakening magic, since the property had been claimed by a guardian dragon at least four centuries ago.
