Page 45 of Liminal

He knows about that old rule? Who on earth told him? Panic flashes through me, and a doom-laced foreboding chills the air.

But a bolt of violet lightning flashes past next, scorching another tile with a hissingsnap, and I know I have no choice.

“Granted.”

I haven’t granted Sanctuary to a patron in decades, rarely wanting to draw the trouble that always accompanies such a petition. In the past, it was for minor threats, helping arcanists who were victims of abusive partners regain their footing, or those who unexpectedly found themselves homelessfor whatever reason. It was always short-lived and never for something like this.

I’ve never had someone fleeing what looks like an all-out magical battle.

Getting in the middle of a fight between arcanists is dangerous. Drawing the ire of the six families—and I can’t think of anyone else Dakari would be running from, given that I sent him after Ackland’s grimoire—is even more dangerous.

But the Arcanaeum sent him on this crazy errand. The least we can do is protect him from the consequences.

He’s most of the way inside already. A pearlescent, hastily created shield shimmering between him and whoever is throwing such destructive magic around. I tug on the magic of the Arcanaeum, pulling the legs of the man—and the slight figure he’s carrying is definitely male—inside before the door slams closed.

It shudders, glowing briefly with a surge of heat as it captures another blast of magic, before something crackles in the air, and the door disappears in a blast of ash.

Just how badly did their attackers want to kill them?

I sweep closer to the two arcanists on the floor, then pause, stiffening, as I watch Dakari press his fingers to the side of his accomplice’s throat.

Checking for a pulse?

When he finds one, he falls back in relief.

“Thank you, Librarian,” he murmurs, peeling away a piece of his black tee that’s become stuck to a nasty burn on his upper arm with a hiss.

Given the ferocity of what he escaped, that’s likely not his only injury.

Mute with panic, I fiddle with my sleeve as I try to think of the next steps. I don’t regret granting him Sanctuary, but this changes things.

“Come,” I finally say. “I can heal you and your…friend. You are welcome to remain as long as you need.”

Dakari winces as he stands, but before he can reach for the unconscious man, one of the book trolleys appears. It morphs, becoming longer and wider, until it’s just large enough for a person to lie on. The books it was carrying fly to my desk, stacking themselves neatly.

“What happened?” I ask, as I float his body onto the cart. “And who is this?”

I’ve never seen this arcanist before, and I’ve seen most of them at least once. I’m certain I would’ve remembered this one. Even injured, sick, and malnourished, his features hold the promise of beauty.

He has the cheekbones of a god and the lashes of Aphrodite,I think to myself as I lean over him. Even given his scraggly, long beard and the even longer strands of his unkempt chocolate brown hair, he looks pretty.

“This is Jasper McKinley.” Dakari staggers forward, scooping up and buckling his own grimoire into the holster at his hip, before grabbing the tan one beside it as well. “The heir to the McKinley clan. I found him chained in the Carltons’ basement, while I was searching for that book you don’t want.”

A quick glance at the wrists of the Arcanaeum’s latest guest reveals redness and scarring consistent with the story, the colour vibrant against his puffy, yellowed skin.

Then his words sink in.

“He was Carlton’s prisoner?”

This is not good. Not goodat all.

Of all the six families, Carlton remains the most powerful. A position it achieved long before I was born and has maintained ruthlessly since. If this arcanist was their prisoner…

“You should not have brought him here,” I mutter under my breath, then freeze as the cart begins to move towards Kinetic Hall.

Upstairs, across the parapet wall, I feel things shifting. The storage closet below my tower empties, expands, and furnishes itself in the space of a few seconds. A bed, bandages, a cupboard of alchemical equipment, a small alembic…

The Arcanaeum is making a sickroom. It wants this man to stay, and it expects me to care for him.