Page 59 of Shattered Jewel

My dad, Darian Wraithwood, his fiery auburn hair and hazel eyes, more gold than green, immortalized in oil and canvas.

Kaspian’s bright gaze moves to me, meeting my own with a flicker of emotion—a wild desire or maybe a promise of more deceit—rapidly masked by indifference. He peels off his tailored jacket with a tiny wince and doesn’t ask for my help to remove it. He tosses it over the stairs’ balustrade, his white shirt sticking to his torso under his sling, revealing the ripple of defined muscles in his back.

He doesn’t seem to notice—or care—about my lingering gaze on his body.

“Where’s this office?”

I press my lips together, hating that his ambivalence is starting to hurt me. “End of the hallway up the stairs, at the grandfather clock.”

Kaspian gives a stiff nod before heading up. I follow him closely, desperately trying to ignore the way my heart throbs erratically in my chest, like a terrified bird caged within bone and sinew.

He prowls deeper into the manor as if he owns it. Forced to keep up, I come up behind him down a narrow hallway housing dozens of portraits, both bought at prestigious auctions or custom-ordered. Gram has a thing for Renaissance-style paintings, these long-dead individuals gazing down at us from their painted prisons, their watchful eyes piercing through time and seeming to focus more on me than Kaspian.

Kaspian stops in front of the seven-foot antique clock that barely dwarfs him. He turns to me then, those intense green eyes housing more intelligence than most humans should be allowed to possess.

“Go ahead,” he says in a tone that’s a shade above bored.

It’s then I realize my hands are still stuffed inside my coat’s pockets. I pull them out, my fingers remaining icy despite the protection, and move the clock’s hands to midnight. A soft click follows before the wall beside the clock opens into a stone corridor.

Kaspian shows no surprise at the revelation. Not that he would, considering the number of secrets he keeps, hidden rooms being the least awful.

Our phones’ lights help us navigate the narrow passage, the ceiling nearly hitting the top of my head and forcing Kaspian to stoop forward.

We stop when we reach a worn wooden door with iron hinges.

Without a word, Kaspian extends his hand toward it. His fingers move to the rusty latch, prying it open with a grunt. The door creaks open, revealing a room the size of rich man’s home office. Our lights cut through the pitch black, glinting off the large oak desk heavily ornamented with golden filigree and an eroded brass plaque engraved with the name William Jonquil.

Kaspian withdraws, the warmth of his body vanishing along with him as he strides in and begins exploring the room with an efficient precision that should be confidence-inducing. Instead, it sends bolts of anxiety across my shoulders.

Kaspian pauses at the desk, his eyes registering every inch of the woodwork. He doesn’t touch anything just yet, scanning the room, absorbing details while his inner robot churns. His focus then shifts to a tall mahogany bookshelf stuffed with faded journals and books bound in deteriorating leather.

“This seems promising,” he murmurs absently, forgetting I’m even in the room with him.

He starts pulling out books sporadically one-handed, setting them aside as they fail to meet his mysterious criteria. Kaspian’s actions are swift and methodical as if he’s done this a hundred times before.

To give myself something to do other than gawk at him, I get to work on the desk. It’s covered in a layer of dust so thick, it mimics fur, disturbed only in the spots I explored the last time I was here. My phone’s light finds an oil lamp at the desk’s corner.

“Do you have a lighter?” I ask Kaspian.

Kaspian pauses in his perusal of the bookshelf. He retrieves a silver lighter from his pants pocket and tosses it to me, the small device spinning in the air before I snatch it out of midair clumsily.

“Always be prepared,” he says, a hint of derision creeping into his voice before he gives me the Boy Scout salute and turns back to the shelf, resuming his hunt. “What do you suppose the Girl Guide’s motto is? Cookies for world peace?”

At least I have two working hands, asshole.

I clamp down on my retort, aware it would only make this forced proximity worse for us. Flicking the lighter on, I carefully hold the flame over the wick in the lamp, waiting until it catches fire.

The room fills with an preternatural flame that turns the shadows into spider legs as they crawl up the wall.

The lamp’s glow illuminates Kaspian’s profile, lending him a demonic beauty. It highlights his sharp cheekbones, cut jawline, and thick lashes concealing his eyes. I feel an inexplicable urge to reach out and trace his features with my fingers. But instead, I swallow down those confusing feelings and focus on our task.

I specifically search for the diary I’d found under Jonquil’s plaque, the crumbling, yellowed pages filled with Sarah Anderton’s name and strange symbols reminiscent of arcane circles—a series of lines, numerals, and angular symbols that look like they were written by someone who just came off a hallucinogenic trip. Yet the repetition of certain symbols and numbers hints at a structured method to the madness.

But I go straight to the faded sepia-colored photo of William posing by his desk. Maverick’s doppelgänger.

“This is what I wanted to show you,” I say to Kaspian without taking my focus off the photo.

Kaspian turns and pauses, as if noticing my sudden grief before approaching me.

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