Page 91 of Wicked Court

The rest of the pages are etched with transactions, treaties, and covert correspondences between long-dead Sovereigns.

“Jesus, I hope this valuable database isn’t one giant fire hazard. Ever heard of computers?”

It’s not just the writings that tell the tale; strewn among the texts are tools of the trade for any Court member—ciphers, seals, and instruments that speak of a legacy steeped in the supernatural and the sanctified. This room has seen more than bookish research; it’s been a haven for strategic liaisons and arcane rituals.

At the Cimmerian Court’s inception, the occult and immersion into dark magic was wholly accepted, even as they burned accused witches at the stake. Over the decades, belief in magic and the supernatural faded, the Court moving on to more practical tools and the study of science. With the current Sovereigns, there’s been a subtle shift in their preferences, caught mainly by the four of us. I’m shocked they haven’t found this section of Thornhaven. It would be such a delightful treasure goblin for them to find.

My gaze then settles on an innocuous sculpture nestled between grimoires and treatises on warfare. It’s a raven, wings mid-beat as if ready to take flight. I treat the statue as I would a woman, stroking it for any special spot.

This one is a tease, however, refusing to yield any of its secrets.

When I tip the bird to the side, what lies beneath captures my attention—an encrypted hard drive, sleek and modern against the age-worn stone.

“Touché,” I quip into the stuffy air.

Connecting it to my phone, I take it through a series of virus checks before allowing it to show a smattering of files labeled with dates, encrypted messages flagged with urgent markers, and digital photos capturing pages from manuscripts so old they seem to scream of curses if touched by the uninitiated.

I tap on the video dated the latest. I’ve learned it’s always best to work backward.

“Play,” I command, and a face that can’t be anyone other than Maverick’s fills the display. He’s the male version of Elara, auburn-haired and tiger eyed, but unlike her delicate charm, he’s alight with an intensity that I recognize all too well—like he’s starving for something that isn’t nutrition.

His voice, even in pixels, carries the weight of dread as he talks.

“Someone knows I’m close, closer than anyone has ever been,” Maverick confesses to the camera, his statement causing me to squint for more detail in his expression. “If you’re seeing this, trust no one.”

I squint at the screen. There’s no visible sign of duress in his surroundings—no gun pointed at him offscreen, no chained walls in the backdrop. Yet, the tension in his voice is unmistakable. As if he knew he was running out of time.

I close the video and begin meticulously exploring the remaining files on the drive. Dense text fills each document, encoded messages layered among pages of historical data and records. Cyphers that would take days to decode fill most of it—an array of symbols and obscure references that are as tantalizing as they are confounding.

A sudden noise behind me sends adrenaline pumping through my system like rocket fuel. Every nerve ending ignites with alertness. I turn around swiftly, knife first.

A rat scurries out from its hiding spot, white eyes gleaming and tail flicking nervously. I almost laugh at my startled reaction but keep a firm grip on the switchblade—there are certainly worse things than rats in Thornhaven Manor.

I need back-up.

Pocketing the USB securely, I begin my ascent back up the hidden staircase.

As I emerge from the abyss and into the neglected corridor, I can’t help but glance back at the painting—the innocuous guardian of secrets—and the anonymous writer who led me here.

“Damn you, Maverick,” I mutter under my breath. “Can’t you Wraithwoods be easy for once?”

I head to my room, lock the door, and prepare for a long day at my computer.

Chapter 28

Elara

The air is thick with burned rubber as we tear through the moonlit streets. Wilder chose a different route back to campus with flatter roads, but I’m still gripping his waist like it’s my life preserver. He’s eating up the road so fast, I doubt the motorcycle’s wheels are even hitting asphalt.

As the wind whips over my helmet, carrying away my whispered prayers for safety, I cling to him, my fingers digging into the firmness of his waist.

Wilder’s impassive hunch over his bike is a stark contrast to the vulnerability he’d shown earlier on the cliff, an unexpected softness that’s added another layer to my complicated dynamic with these men.

Laughter bubbles from my throat, a mix of fear-induced hysteria and an inexplicable sense of anticipation.

My body’s like its own person now, separate from my mind.

And I’m not sure they’re friends anymore.

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