Page 58 of Heir

A noise rumbled deep and foreboding in Zandren’s chest behind me, and I turned to see him glaring death and destruction at Drak. “You mean when vampires broke the code and went after cubs?” he growled.

Mr. Fiddleman nodded. “Yes. He was a psychic mage, and he saw the war coming. But he also saw the good that would come of it. The peace that the new leaders would bring. He was executed for not warning the shifters about what would happen.”

Zandren growled even deeper. “He could have. He could have said something and we still would have won the war.”

I glanced at Drak, who was staring at the ground, a deep red stain on his cheeks.

“What happens when a mate dies?” I asked.

“The grieving period is long. Painful. But you can get through it.” The sadness in his eyes said he wasn’t just recounting something he’d read or witnessed. He’d been through it personally. The heavy bob of his throat and the way his mouth remained in a deep frown made my chest ache. Did he love Delia? Did she love him back? Was he grieving more than just the death of a friend and loyal customer? But rather, the death of a woman he’d fallen for, but for whatever reason, couldn’t bring himself to admit it to her?

I’d never been a romantic or a bleeding heart, but the idea of Delia and Mr. Fiddleman going through the rest of their lives without a mate, without love or companionship, caused the ache in my chest to get so strong I had to reach out with my free hand and hold on to the post at the bottom of the stair railing.

“Will you be able to tell us what spells are here and how we can either break them or trigger them so that way they can run their course?”

He nodded slowly. “I can try.”

Finally, he released his grip on the gate and stepped forward onto the stepping-stone path, following us up the stairs to the porch.

Maxar had explained my theory regarding the triggering of the first spell that suffocated me. Mr. Fiddleman nodded and agreed that it was plausible, and I was probably right.

We allowed him to enter the house first, since he could clearly see and sense things that the rest of us couldn’t.

He entered the study and walked over to the desk my aunt spent hours at in the evenings, recording everything she’d done that day in her journal. Most of it was in reference to the different tinctures, salves, and balms she made with her herbs. Which ones worked, which ones didn’t. She also recorded some of her recipes—which now that I think of it, were probably potions—and had a running list of all the plants in her garden.

When one leatherbound book was finished, she stored it on the bookshelf, then started another one. The wall of shelves was full of these books. And she always went in the same color pattern. Green, blue, red, brown, black. Always. Every book was dated from when she started it, to the date of the last entry. She could find a recipe in no time due to her impeccable organization and cataloging skills.

Mr. Fiddleman pulled open the top drawer of her desk, waved his hand, muttered some other language under his breath, and a big puff of pink smoke burst from the drawer.

It filled the room, and we all coughed. Maxar ran to the window and opened it, while Zandren headed to the door and began to waft it open and closed.

My mouth filled with the disgusting taste of . . . blood?

“What the hell was that?” I asked, gagging a little.

Drak, seemed entirely unaffected. He probably liked the taste, the freak.

Maxar made a similar face to mine, and Zandren showed very little disgust.

“Blood dust,” Mr. Fiddleman said. “I managed to remove the toxic part of the spell, but not the dust itself.”

“So wait, there was a toxin in that dust?” I asked.

“A paralytic, yes.”

“I need water,” Maxar said, running to the kitchen.

I took a bite of my sandwich, but that just tasted like the blood dust too. “Great, now it’s on my sandwich.”

“I’ll eat it,” Zandren said. “I eat raw, dead animals all the time. Blood doesn’t bother me.”

Right. He was a bear. Of course he ate raw, dead animals.

With my own appetite sufficiently gone, I handed him the sandwich.

“This drawer contains a key,” Mr. Fiddleman said, picking up a large, iron skeleton key that I’d never seen before.

“Where does it go?” I asked.

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