Page 106 of Into the Isle

He didn’t smile, though the expression was in his eyes: mirth, giddiness, excitement. I could read him just as well as any man, sociopath or not.

“I’m wondering if I’ve just discovered what I was meant to find here,” he said. “Maybe I was after the wrong thing all along.”

My breathing came shallow. He was too close, too damn close, so I stepped back again.

Bump—

The back of my head smacked into a bookshelf, sending one of the books thudding to the floor.

“Careful.” He bent down next to me and picked up the book from the floor. His long crimson hair brushed my leg on the way down. When he stood, he handed me the thin hardback tome.

“Thank you,” I said. I took the book and turned to put it back in the shelf—

And then paused. Brow furrowing, I read the cover.

Snorri Sturluson’s Edda, Revised.

“The hell,” I muttered. I looked at some of the other spines on the shelf where the book had fallen from. They were all dated, with last names, first names, and ages. Record books . . . like I should find in the records room.

Certainly not a book of epic poems.

I recalled orientation, when Tomekeeper Dahlia had demanded Dagny return her lost copy of “Snorri’s poems,” or else she risked losing her resident assistant position. A smile crossed my face.

“What did you find?” Magnus asked.

“Not what I was looking for, but definitely a bonus.”

I turned and kept the book with me, tucking it into a small empty pack on my waist.

Magnus gave me an impressed nod. “Stealing books from Mimir Tomes, silvermoon? Bold.”

“It doesn’t belong here,” I chided. I scratched my scalp, blushing. “Okay, that doesn’t sound any better. You’ll just have to trust me on this one.”

He shrugged, turned, and gave air back into my lungs as he strolled to the table with his open book.

“We’re both looking for records,” I said, quite stupidly. I just wanted to keep him talking, because Magnus Feldraug utterly intrigued me. When I walked closer to his table, I asked, “What records are you looking for?”

He glanced over his shoulder, face solemn. “Just because we’re in the same room, doesn’t—”

“Mean we’re friends. I know.” My shoulders sank. “You said the same thing about us being in the same initiate combat trio.”

“Good memory.” He didn’t apologize, and didn’t show any regret on his face for deflating me. I wasn’t sure if “apologetic” was one of his settings.

“If you won’t tell me why you’re here, will you at least tell me what happened . . . to your skin?” I implored. I knew I was being nosy, but it was hard not to with such an alarming aura surrounding this man.

With a sigh, he faced me again, setting a bookmark into the crease of his book. He settled his rear against the edge of the table, putting his arms behind him.

“Are you a Leper Who Leapt?” I asked. “Given the conversation you had with Arne—how you wanted to meet up with him. I took your place, by the way. At Liv’s Libations.”

“Good. I don’t like those people much. Then again, I don’t like most people. And no, I am not apart of their little ‘secret society,’ if that’s what you want to call it.”

My head reeled. It was a harsh response aimed at people who had only been helpful to me so far.

He studied my face, eyes dancing over every line, as if deciding how much to say. Then he pushed off the table toward me. “I am what is called a bloodrender. It is a rare type of magic. Unlike other sources for Shaping—elements, shadows, light—my primary source is my own blood.” He lifted his arm toward me, took my hand without asking, and traced my fingers along the raised lines of his forearm.

I held my breath as my fingers ghosted over his rough skin, the puffy tissue, and over the swirls of tattoos hiding the scars. “What does a bloodrender do?” I asked, my word coming out shaky.

“When I carve into my skin and draw my blood, I can empower any Shaping spells I cast. In essence, my blood amplifies the strength of my runeshaping.”

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