It’s well enough, because just then a tendril of smoke hits our noses, calling attention to the glow of a campfire in the distance.
Farin and I exchange a look that communicates we’re tabling killing one another until we have a better idea of who else is inhabiting this abandoned island.
We reach the campsite quickly, our feet padding the sandy ground almost silently. The campsite is set on the edge of the beach, far enough from the waves to keep from washing away during high tide.
On a pile of rubble sits a girl who’s muttering to herself in a language I don’t recognize.
One silent look at Farin tells me he doesn’t recognize it either. That shouldn’t be surprising. We’re in a different realm. There’s no reason to expect to recognize any languages here.
Exhaustion mingles with exasperation in my gut. It seems there’s no barrier to getting back home that the Fates won’t put in our way. I’m debating whether it’s even worth trying to communicate with the girl when Farin fidgets, and her neck snaps to the side, following the sound of rustling leaves.
The light of her campfire dances across her features, highlighting a tanned complexion, wide blue eyes, and hair of golden flax.
My heart stutters to a stop when my sister’s eyes lock onto mine.
“Well, then,” says Farin, stepping out from our hiding place in the brush and beckoning me to follow. “Seems like we’ve found our story.”
CHAPTER 3
KIRAN
Humans die.
Asha is human.
Therefore, Asha…
Someone slips into the dark dungeon, the pitiful excuse for a library in the basement of Mystral Castle. According to Blaise, Nox and his mentor spent years building this “library” into what it is today.
What it is today is an insult to the concept of organization, but I can’t exactly afford to be as picky as I might like.
The information I’m searching for doesn’t tend to make it into civilized collections.
Besides, we’re to leave for Othian tomorrow, and I won’t be able to take the contents of this library with me. If I’m going to find the answer to my predicament within these volumes, I need to find it today.
The untimely blizzard has kept us trapped, confined to this dank, depressing castle where shadows writhe in the corner of my vision and the drafts from leaky windows whisper paranoia into my ears.
Evander and I have tried to send an explanation of our delay to our wives, but even the couriers refuse to weather storms such as this one.
I’ve spent every moment aching to return to Asha’s side, but now that the storm has cleared and the time to depart draws near, I can’t help but wish for more time.
More time to research.
More time with Asha.
That’s the thing about being married to a human. Suddenly a resource that has always been unlimited now seems as if it’s being squeezed from both sides.
A shadowy figure slinks through the piles of books, melding with the darkness.
“I can see you,” I say, shutting the grimoire that’s causing a sharp throbbing at my temples and placing it in my lap.
For a moment, no one moves.
“Blaise,” I say, unable to hamper the annoyance in my voice.
She wriggles out from behind a stack of books, hands interlocked behind her back, looking the picture of innocence.
She is anything but, but I don’t blame her for it. I don’t know anyone who could, not after what I witnessed the night she killed her stepmother. We found her cradling her dead stepmother’s body, drained of blood, as she cried and wept over a child she never got to name.
No, I don’t blame Blaise for the flighty, untrusting woman she’s become.
After all, I know what it is like to be so consumed with rage, you feel control slip from your fingertips and into the hands of someone else. Someone who doesn’t simply mind spilling blood, but craves it.
That doesn’t mean I like her spying on me, regardless.
“I didn’t peg you for a reader,” she says, swaying slightly. She has a way of doing that, carrying herself so that she seems younger, unsure of herself, boisterous and easygoing.
It’s unnerving considering what I’ve seen her do.
Well, the aftermath of what she’s done, I suppose.
“Was it my lively demeanor that dissuaded you?” I ask, sighing.
“That, and that you’re usually the guy who gets pegged as the villain once the story gets penned,” she says, and though her tone is teasing, her eyes are assessing, watching for my reaction. “And everyone knows villains don’t read.”
It’s something Asha would say. In fact, I’m pretty sure Asha might have said something similar to me when she first arrived at the palace.
“That’s ridiculous,” I say. “If villains don’t read, where do they get all their sinister ideas?”
