Ash folded his arms, his shoulders moving with a heavy exhale. “You sure?”
“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know. The book is different with you. It worries me.”
“You never had a problem or concern with it before.”
“I didn’t really pay attention until the last time with Tad. It didn’t let him in, Brex. I thought it was strange when it kept me out, but he is one of, if not the most, powerful Druid alive. If anything, the book should be bowing to him. It is made by his kin.” His forehead wrinkled. “But it’s like it’s obsessed with you... drawn to you.”
“If I hear that fucking word again.” My lids shut briefly, growling under my breath. “I don’t have another option.” A flare of anger prickled at my spine. “I have no leads on the nectar, except for some pirate stealing it, which Killian says is a dead end. I need to see for myself what the book knows. It has to be in there, right?”
“Not necessarily. The books will show you what truly happened, not someone’s version of it, which doesn’t mean every single moment was recorded if there was no contact with it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just like your history, ours is recorded through people. They don’t follow inanimate objects if they aren’t in contact with people.”
“Someone had to take it. Worth a try. I only have a month and nothing to go on.” I licked my lips. “I have to try... for Eliza and Simon.”
Ash’s head bobbed, lips pinched together, a sadness flickering his expression. “Yeah,” he replied with a heavy sigh, reaching over, picking up the bag on the floor next to him. “Lead the way.”
It was hard to locate a room that was free of people or not jammed with weapons and supplies, which is why Ash and I found ourselves sitting on the floor in one of the only private rooms available, crammed with potatoes, wilting vegetables, stale bread, and canned items. Pulling out the book, Ash set it between us. I instantly felt the vibrations buzz at my skin, the magic curling around me. It felt as if the book and I had known each other far longer than I had even existed.
Ash watched me closely.
“Stop looking at me like that.” I sensed a seesaw teetering in my stomach, the balance of magic tipping toward me.
Lines dented into his forehead. “I’ve never seen a book act this way toward a person before. It’s like you are its master or something.”
“I thought these books weren’t owned by anyone.”
“No.” He wavered. “Books are available to anyone if they deem you worthy. But at one time, centuries ago, the first ones, the original fae books, were gifted to a fae king from his Druid servant. Other fae kings heard about it, and all wanted one. There were originally ten, which were technically owned by each noble family. The book was crafted for the family, to be passed down through the generations, staying in the magic line.”
“Magic line?”
“Each family, no matter how many generations, has a signature magic characteristic to them.”
“You think this is one of those books?” I motioned to the ancient volume.
“I doubt it.” He scratched his head. “Those volumes are said to have been destroyed or lost a long time ago. This book is one of the oldest I’ve come across, but I couldn’t imagine it being an original. If it survived, it would stay within the family.” Ash’s mossy green eyes met mine, his sexual aura always humming at the edges. “It seems to be draw—”
“Don’t you dare say it.” I held up my hand. “I will hurt you if I hear that word again.”
His lip curled up on the side of his mouth. “Don’t tell me you are upset people are draw—attracted to you.”
“But it’s not me.” I folded my legs in front of me. “It’s not real. It’s not who I am; it’s because of whatever I am...” My voice cut out, coming back soft and wobbly. “What am I, Ash?”
“I don’t know.” His tone was quiet, matching mine. “But I swore to you I’d help you figure it out, and I meant it. I’m not going anywhere until we do.” His sentiment caused my eyes to sting with tears. He cupped my hands in his. “And Brex...” He squeezed my fingers, lifting my focus back to the sincerity in his eyes. “It’s not because of what you are... it’s all because of who you are. You can’t be one without the other.”
A small smile pinched my lips, my chest lowering with Ash’s support and love. It would be so easy to fall for him. Not just gorgeous and intelligent, he was a good man.
Except I didn’t seem to like nice men.
I liked assholes.
Before Warwick could take any residence in my brain, I blocked all thoughts of him, turning back to the book. “Okay, let’s do this.” I breathed out, my hands still in Ash’s.
“Probably won’t let me go with you, so remember to ask precisely for what you want.” He lowered our arms to the cover, the tingle of magic rubbing against my palms like a cat. Blowing out tension, Ash placed our hands on the book.
The familiar burst of magic whipped through my body, twirling my mind into a vortex. Electricity pumped inside my veins, crackling at my skin.
“Brexley Kovacs,” the raspy inhuman voice greeted me. “The girl who defies nature... the one who should not have survived or even exist.” It had called me that from the beginning, but I never really questioned why.
“What do you mean?”
“Is that your question?” the book replied.
There were far too many other things that came first over his cryptic greeting. Various inquiries rolled around my head, but the most direct came off my tongue.
“Where is the nectar now?”
“Not all questions have a clear answer.” Before I could even reply, images flipped through my mind. Nausea thickened in the back of my throat.
Images flickered quickly through the scene in the tunnels with Killian and the pirate. Them running out with the box. I followed them for a while, everything on fast forward. They headed toward the river to a ship. My skin prickled as dark figures shifted in the shadows, moving toward them, expanding across my vision like fog.
Then it went dark, stepping into a black void almost like the pages were cut out or history just stopped.
“Wait?” I spun around. “What happened? Why did it stop?”
Instead of answering, I felt myself tumble, scenes flipping again, like pages being thumbed through in a picture book.
Now I stood in a small cottage-style house. There was a bed in the corner, a sofa and chair in front of the crackling fireplace, a table and two chairs by the tiny kitchen. Simple, clean, and cozy.
I had been here before. In my dream. This was the same house.
My gaze caught on a coat hanging from the coat rack by the door. Grief punched a hole through my lungs, a soft sob hiccupping in my throat, my eyes burning. The coat was my father’s. I’d know his officer’s coat anywhere. Long, gray with red trim, a patch on one elbow, the recognizable metals and insignias on the breast and arm. One I knew he got in a battle a year before his death.
Like a magnet, I ventured to it, the floor squeaking under my feet as my hand reached out slowly. A gasp hitched my throat when the wool material brushed my fingertips, the rough fabric of the military bands sewn onto his sleeve. How many times as a child had I traced them? Felt the scratchy material on my arms and legs when he picked me up?