I held the hound tighter, until the fur fell away. I held him until his bones began to break and reshape as he moaned in pain, deliriously clawing at the floor. My breath ached in my throat, and I squeezed my eyes shut, refusing to release the burn of tears.
Because every curse could be broken.
Even his.
I was being watched.
The guild library was quiet, save for the crackle of the fire in the old stone hearth and the whisper of the books tucking themselves back into place on the shelves. I’d been annoyed to find Phineas Primm, an old Hollower with more scars on his face than fingers left on his hands, reading in one of the overstuffed leather armchairs. His gaze had narrowed as he’d followed my path to my usual worktable.
It wasn’t until an hour later, when I looked up from yet another reference book that had no record of the Servant’s Prize, that I realized two more Hollowers had quietly arrived. One, Hector Leer, watched me through the shelves of old map scrolls. Septimus Yarrow leaned against a shelf a few rows away, pretending to read an Immortality. I recognized the silvery snakeskin of the Sorceress Ardith’s Immortality, volume one.
I’d read the complete set of that Immortality at least three times now, combing through all six hundred years of her memory for any sign of what Cabell’s curse might be, and could confirm that the most interesting thing the Sorceress Ardith ever did was die.
In her early years, the entries were readable but dry. The later volumes, especially in the last decades as her sister began the slow, methodical work of dosing Ardith with poison to steal her collection of venom, became more of a misty stream of consciousness.
There was nothing in it to engross the reader for more than a few minutes. And while I was used to being eyed with suspicion, this was something completely different. Because they weren’t just looking at me—they seemed to be tracking what I was reading, too. Phineas appeared to be jotting down actual notes.
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. “Something I can help you with, gentlemen?”
Hector and Phineas both startled and turned away, but Septimus was as serene as the frost gathering on the windows. No wonder he and Endymion Dye were such pals. Both had that smooth, refined way about their speech and appearance, smiles brittle with contempt.
“No, kitten,” Septimus said, coming toward me. “Just wondering what a little girl like you is doing in the library so very late, and alone.”
“Not staring at teenage girls like an absolute creep,” I said.
He gave me a cold smile as he sat on the edge of my table, purposefully crowding my space. He craned his head to see what I was reading, and his low black ponytail slipped over his shoulder. “The High Kings of Ireland? Any reason you’ve decided to explore the stories of the mystical Emerald Isle this fine evening?”
His brown tweed suit was the least conspicuous part of him. He’d traveled the world over and turned up several legendary relics, including Herakles’s club. He carried himself like a warrior king, his sharp, dark eyes always searching for the next battle.
“I’m almost done with it, if you’d like to read up on Balor of the Evil Eye. He’s your ancestor, right?”
A smile slithered across his face. “You’re just like your father, you know. Always with the smart mouth and sly fingers.”
“He’s not my father,” I said coldly. My gaze drifted down to the pin on Septimus’s lapel. It was identical to the one his bestie, Endymion, always wore: a hand holding a silver branch. How cute. The rich asshole version of a friendship bracelet.
Septimus looked confused for a moment. “Well, then, your guardian. He stole my hand axe—”
“I’m not sure what you want me to do about it,” I said, keeping my voice low. “You know as well as I do that if he took it, he took it to the grave.”
“You sure about that?” Septimus asked, bracing a hand on the long worktable to lean in closer to my face. I fought not to squirm under the scrutiny. “Where was it that he left you and your brother again?”
My instincts prickled. It was time to end this charade.
“Librarian!” I called sweetly. “Mr. Yarrow is bored and needs your help finding something interesting to read!”
Librarian let out a chirp of acknowledgment, dropping the stack of new books he’d been sorting, always ready and willing to be ruthlessly helpful, even if it meant spending hours recommending different titles.
Septimus gave a humorless laugh as he rose from the table and called out, “Never mind, Librarian.” With one last glance at me, he added, “That looks like quite the nasty wound on your arm. Take care, kitten. I’d hate to see you end up with one much worse.”
The bite on my forearm throbbed beneath its bandage as I gave him a dismissive flick of my fingers. I’d cleaned it as well as I could and glued the worst tears in my skin, hoping for the best. Most of the shallow cuts and bruises were covered by my sweater, but every time I shifted in my seat, they made themselves known.
I reached for an Immortality in my stack of books.
It was an old favorite. Unlike some of her sistren, who were about as interesting as an empty paper bag, the Sorceress Hesperia was a diamond. Devastatingly sharp and glittering in turn, she’d had personality in spades.
Cyrus of Rome is sculpted by the hand of a generous god. His piercing blue eyes watch my every move from across the darkened bedchamber . . .
I took a long drag of my instant coffee.
No one knew exactly how the Immortalities were made. I used to imagine the words draining from some sorceress’s mind, her blood like ink as it dripped from her ears to pool on the floor. A river of it gliding its way to the nearest paper it could find, whether it was tissue or newspaper or sheaves of parchment. And once it found what it needed, the thoughts would begin to stain the pages, one letter at a time, until the letters became words, and the words formed a memory.
One after another, until her whole life was recounted as her last breath left her body.
But an hour later, I closed that heavy tome too, grimacing at the feeling of the furred cover. Downy white tufts drifted up into the silent air like dandelion seeds, making me sneeze.
Frustration turned into a battering ram against my ribs as I sat back, wrapping my woolly blue cardigan around me. Over the last four hours, I’d gone through at least two dozen compendiums, archived Hollower journals, appendices, Immortalities, and other ancient references. And turned up precisely nothing.