Page 51

The water fell, and I lifted my head and stared at the bookshelves that lined the walls. I’d built them myself, dragging rare, precious driftwood from the frozen shores of the sea. One by one, I’d cut the boards and nailed them into place. In the beginning, I made the nails, too, heating the forge in the bowels of the White Gate and sweating as I poured iron into molds. Then the world grew older and travelers seeking the Oracle brought small, sharp nails spit from the mouths of machines.

Even then, it had taken years to collect enough to build a bookshelf. But I’d had time. Century after century, shelf after shelf, I’d filled the study with the knowledge I pulled from pockets and packs and saddlebags.

Plop. Plop. Plop.

I’d read everything—every word and spell. Every recipe and enchantment. I’d studied. I’d experimented, pouring salt in a circle and invoking gods and monsters and things too dangerous to be named aloud. But I had spoken their names. A few times, I’d been certain the beings I pulled from various voids and dark planes would find a way to kill me. But always, the ice had held. The beings railed and thrashed, furious at being summoned by someone who couldn’t be killed.

Plop. Plop. Plop.

Always, the ice held. Always.

Until the witch and the lad appeared.

Century after century, I’d searched and come up empty-handed. My empty hands hadn’t bothered me. My futile search never disappointed or upset me. When a book revealed yet another dead end, I closed it, shelved it, and selected another. When a shelf filled to the ceiling, I built a new one.

I studied.

I searched.

I brewed beer and elixirs and watched the Brotherhood dwindle. Watched my race rush to the edge of extinction. On the rare occasions one of my brethren visited the White Gate, they had despaired. But I’d been unmoved.

Because always, always the ice had held.

Plop. Plop. Plop.

The bookshelves blurred. Diamonds dripped down my cheeks. My breath came faster, and then turned into shuffling, gasping sobs. With trembling hands, I eased my chair back from my desk and opened the sole drawer. It held but one item—a faded drawing sketched in haste.

The colors were almost all gone now, but they were vivid in my memory. His sun-kissed skin. His sweet brown eyes. His auburn waves tied back with a red ribbon. I’d teased him about it, pointing out how the color clashed with his hair. But secretly, I’d loved it—how nothing, no matter how radiant, could ever rival him. He’d burned so brightly, it was like all that fire inside him needed a place to go.

My throat burned as I stared at Hamish Cameron, the man I’d drawn as he leaned against the side of a tavern with the sun on his face.

“Be quick about it,” he’d teased. “I haven’t got all day, and this place smells like shite.”

“I’ll take as long as I please, thank you,” I’d answered, but I’d worked faster—mostly because I wanted to get him home and into our bed but also because he was right about the shit. Then again, just about every human village had smelled like shit in those days.

I wished I’d taken more time.

Plop. Plop. Plop.

Sunlight spilled through the study’s windows and over the parchment, which was creased from where I’d folded and refolded it. I ran a finger down one furrow, brushing the bend of Hamish’s arm. My chest tightened, and the pressure climbed into my throat until I had to open my mouth and release it.

“I’m sorry,” I gasped, rocking forward, and I longed for the ice and the oblivion it had brought me. I’d forgotten how much it hurt to feel.

Plop. Plop. Plop.

Wind swept through the study and ruffled my hair. The temperature plummeted. A floorboard creaked, and I brought my head up sharply.

Hamish stood in the doorway. My bedchamber showed through his body, which was fainter than ever. But he was smiling. He turned his head and looked at the shelves. The ribbon in his hair was as gray as the rest of him.

“It’s red,” I rasped, tears clogging my throat. “It’s supposed to be red.”

Plop. Plop. Plop.

Dammit, where the fuck was that water coming from?

Hamish looked at me, and for the first time in eleven centuries, I heard my mate’s voice. “I have to go, Graeme. You found what you were looking for.”

I stood so quickly, the chair crashed to the floor behind me.