Page 39 of The Blood Queen

“But we’ll ask,” Caerwen put in bravely.

I rubbed at the ruined black wolf rune, Grayson’s dread lord sigil. White scars crisscrossed the wolf design to make it nearly unrecognizable. I hadn’t felt the wicked little twitch in so long, I’d lost the physical memory. All I had was the feel of slightly raised scaring to know where the twitch had been.

Snow was falling in the Alpha’s Woods. It was falling all over the Carmag since it was almost Christmas. The nymphs didn’t celebrate; they’d be doing something else with Aine in the wrinkle. There’d probably be no snow, only the well-kept gardens and flowers and mossy fountains. The odd flowers Aine spent decades—centuries on the outside—cultivating.

After the nymphs left, I occupied my mind with something else. I’d be having dinner later with Leo, Hattie, and Oscar. The food would be good but the strain unending, with everyone acting like they were happy and normal. But if I talked to Laura and pretended hard enough that I was doing something useful, maybe it would make me feel better. Make it easier to ignore the flinch whenever loud, unexpected noises broke the silence. The way I got jittery for no reason, unable to concentrate long enough to handle a conversation.

Laura had always been my touchstone, and if she found normality in the middle of madness, then so could I. Levi would arrive at any minute—his pass from military duties in the north was good for the weekend, and I wanted to see him again. Reassure myself that he had healed.

No, I would not ask him about Grayson… hearing any news about Grayson would only make the pretending worse, knowing he was doing something while I did nothing.

I closed my eyes. Reminded myself that this was a destin noir. A black destiny.

I shuddered out a long breath, then another. Amal would not destroy him through me. I’d find a way to defeat the queen. For Grayson. Julien. I’d do it. Take every risk. Follow every lead. Anger Anson if I had to and violate his precious security rules if necessary.

Grayson would not be the only one fighting.

“You’ll find Ms. Porter on level four.” The female archivist stood behind her oak counter with both hands clasped politely. Her striking brown skin against hair the color of white sea foam made her appear ageless, no wrinkles marring her eyes. No sagging jowls or hint of crepey skin. She had the air-brushed perfection of an “after” photograph from a high-end spa, and I wanted to dislike her.

But it was hard to dislike someone gorgeous and generous, genuinely friendly. She gestured toward the wide stairs leading to the lower levels. “We have an elevator, if you prefer.”

I stopped the unconscious rubbing at the muscle in my thigh and straightened. “Level four?” Had I not paid attention? She’d just told me what level.

Her smile was gentle. “Each level down has category signage. Comfort alcoves if you wish to pause and read in solitude. The truly ancient books are level four for added security and humidity control. When you get to the door, someone will buzz you through—although I believe the Alpha is already there. He headed that way an hour ago.”

“The Alpha does research?”

“He enjoys reading. And the company.”

Nothing negative in the archivist’s smile. Just that genuine, mature niceness that curled my toes.

The staircase was wide, the golden wood polished. Thick red carpet flowed over each step, and every landing expanded into the reading alcoves the woman had described: wingback chairs upholstered in forest green velvet, oak tables with reading lamps. Intimate spaces for two or four people to sit, read, or talk. One alcove was occupied by an elderly couple. He was reading a newspaper; she was knitting and chattering away, oblivious to the fact he probably wasn’t listening.

The other alcoves were empty, but I loved the idea of them. I wanted to return with a good book, or wander through the seemingly endless shelves in the expansive, softly lit rooms. Like any library, well-used and well-loved.

Apparently, the Carmag craved reading as much as they craved music. I’d been told that men from Carmag had collected the books from Azul’s archive, and conservators were already working on those that were damaged, a task that would take decades.

When I reached the fourth floor down, the ambiance changed. I recognized the soft buzz and click of a lock while I was still on the stairs. I glanced around for the inevitable cameras monitoring every move, unable to spot them. But I knew they were there.

As I walked through the automatic door, the scent of leather bindings and old parchments greeted me. My shoes were silent on the thick carpet. Bookshelves were oak; I admired the patterns on the ancient bindings and the brass bands reinforcing the cracked leather book spines. Egg-colored parchments peeked out. Glass cases held curiosities, the like I’d never seen before: sealed specimen jars filled with strange shapes. Body parts. I eyed the blob of stringy pink flesh floating in yellowed liquid. According to the jar’s label, the blob was all that remained of a nixie—a shape shifting water sprite known to eat humans. I didn’t bother to read the other labels.

Beyond the cases of curiosities, a set of library tables became a workspace. Books and papers lay scattered on the surfaces with pages marked, the perfect domain for a forgetful professor. Reading lamps added old world charm and softened the stuffy protocols of books locked behind glass with warning signs, and a vacuum-tube system for permissions to see certain books. A wolf needed to fill out a card with the book title and reason for the request, then slide the card into a brass tube and send it into the netherworld with a whoosh. The answer, if one was coming, appeared within minutes, clunking into the small compartment.

If yes, an archivist would silently appear to fulfill the request.

If no… I shrugged.

The process would drive me crazy, but Laura sat behind the table with a serene expression. Possibly because the Alpha of Carmag sat beside her, equally fascinated by what they were discussing.

Dozens of books lay open and scattered in front of them. I stood silent for several minutes before they noticed me.

“Oh, Noa.” Laura glanced up and met my smile. “You should read this—we have nothing like it in our archive.”

“What is it?” I asked as Anson rose to his feet.

“A comparison of all the packs, their common history and when they diverged.”

My gaze drifted past Laura to settle on the small sitting area with a simulated fireplace, flames cheery and fluttering. A simulated window framed a view: falling snow in afternoon light. For an instant, I flashed to the moment in Aine’s wrinkle, when the magic reproduced my fondest memories. For Laura, the enchantments on this level of Anson’s archive held everything she needed to feel safe and at home. There were no threats here. No Alpen.

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