I got nothing.
I push off from the bookshelf I’m still leaning against and chalk it up to more Hidden secret bullshit. That crap never seems to end when it comes to them. I haven’t seen the green-eyed spy since the day I was fake marked, and no one else other than the archivists gives me a second look. Not that I’ve spent much time anywhere other than here and my room. I’ve been doing exactly what I was told to do, which is laying low and staying as far away from Lazza and his posse as possible.
With the exception of Treno, that is. Yeah, he’s Lazza’s little brother, but he’s as far from evil as anyone can get. That, and no one has whispered pssst from the bushes and told me that I’m not allowed to hang out with him. Not that I would listen even if they did.
I make my way back down to my procured table and start scanning the pages. I get about halfway through when my heart does a little leap in my chest. I blink bleariness from my eyes and lean in, tracing each familiar name with eager eyes.
Noor Solei: Born 1619, to Anik Solei and Verse Solei. Died —.
Mated —. See archived writings XCPU.529 recovered in the year 1927.
Noor Solei...could that be a coincidence? My mother’s name and my middle name right there side by side. Gran’s last name was Steward, but what if that was her married name and not her maiden name? Maybe I’ve been looking for the wrong combo this whole time.
I read over the two lines of information four times before a passing Archivist draws my attention.
“Excuse me.” I wave at him frantically.
I push out of my chair and have to quickly bend over and catch it before the back crashes to the ground. I right it and then spin back around and wave the robed elderly male over. I don’t miss his huff of irritation, and I bristle as he makes his way over to me. I mentally add this dude to the list of other workers here who aren’t a fan of my taking up space. It’s about a fifty-fifty split right now.
“Can you help me find this?” I ask, pointing to the line and letters mentioned next to what just might be my mother’s name.
“You can submit a formal request for it, and I will pass it along to the proper channels,” he monotones to me.
“You can’t just point me to the right floor and shelf?” I ask, trying and failing to keep the impatience out of my voice.
“No. Even if it were that simple,” he arrogantly states, “these collections are not kept in this building.”
“What building are they kept in? I’d be more than happy to go there and make things easier,” I offer overly sweet.
He narrows his eyes at me like I’ve just said something highly offensive. “The Altern has permitted you space here and decreed we assist you. That does not give you free rein to explore every archive in existence. You will put in a request, which will be reviewed by the proper authority. If approved, the writings you have requested will be brought to you.”
“And how long will that take?” I ask, dropping the sugar from my tone.
“As long as it takes,” he clips back.
I tilt my head in a you just fucked with the wrong bitch kind of way. I’ve been looking for clues for weeks now. I finally fucking find one, and this pompous windbag thinks it’s time to put me in my place.
“Pigeon,” I mentally call, sugar dripping from my tone. “Wake up, little pidgey widgey,” I try again when I feel her stir and then practically roll over and ignore me. I mentally tap my foot and cross my arms over my chest at her antics. “Stop pouting, Pigeon, or I’ll take away your new favorite toy,” I threaten, calling up an image of dimple-chinned Treno and shoving it at her.
She calls my bluff.
Fine. I’ll just take care of the prick myself.
I quickly run through what the potential consequences might be if I just so happen to deck the douche. But as much as I’d really love to do that right now, this is only the first clue. I need to be grateful and demure until I have everything I need, and then I’ll track the fucker down and let him know exactly what I think about his arrogant indifference.
“What’s your name?” I ask calmly, studying his features so I can easily recall them just in case he gives a bogus name.
“Purt,” he finally tells me after eyeing me for a suspicious beat.
“Purt, I would like to submit a formal request to view these documents.”
He grudgingly takes note of what I’m pointing at and then promptly spins on his heel and scurries away. Irritation simmers inside of me as I sit back down and continue scanning the pages for my father’s and gran’s name. It’s then that it hits me. That can’t be my mother, Gran’s first name was Sedora, not Anik—or maybe it was Verse that was the mother; it’s hard to tell gender from these weird ass names.
I sigh and let the excitement of finding a possible clue float away. Maybe my mother’s name and my middle name were common here? Once again I’m assuming my family was actually from this world. Maybe my parents never set foot in this place, and I’m just reading too far into fragmented memories and a crumbling ring. I could have been Stargate portalled here simply because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I let those thoughts float around in my mind for a while, but even as I do, it doesn’t ring true to me. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but I just can’t believe this is all coincidence. The things I know...what I am...there’s no way that’s all by chance. I close the records I’ve been skimming through and sit back in my chair with a huff.
“No luck today?” a familiar deep voice asks from behind me.
Pigeon sits up like a hyper golden retriever who’s so excited it can’t keep its ass from wiggling. I give her the side-eye.
“Oh, now you wake up?” I observe, a heavy dose of judgment in my tone.
Pigeon sends me an image of a person batting a fly away. I snort incredulously.
“Right, because I’m the fly in this scenario.”
I flash Pigeon an image of flies on shit and then flash another image of her trying to be all fangirly with Treno. “I don’t see much of a difference, do you?” I ask her.
I can feel Pigeon’s eye roll, and I shake my head. I should probably just be grateful she’s talking to me at all. That’s the most we’ve said to each other since the whole fight over Ryn. I look over my shoulder and watch Treno make his way over to me. I try not to appreciate his long stride and powerful presence, but Pigeon is flooding me with hormones. That shit forces me to appreciate dumb things like his walk or the way his hair lifts on the breeze.
Pigeon is a weirdo.
“No luck today,” I admit, turning back around to face my pile of books.
He sets a hand on each side of me, leaning over to take in the books on the table.
“I thought I might have found something, but it turned out to be nothing,” I go on, as Treno sneaks a deep inhale of my hair.
I don’t know if he’s aware that he’s not so sneaky about smelling me, but I don’t point it out either way. So he likes to smell me, it could be worse. He could be a raging douche bag. An image of Zeph sparks in my mind, and I’m instantly flooded with irritation.
“What’s wrong?” Treno asks, apparently picking up on subtle cues of annoyance I didn’t even know I was emitting.