Page 71 of Teeth To Rip & Tear

“Weaver.” The Huntsman’s voice echoed throughout the room as he faced us. He narrowed his eyes as Kacia dipped her head and excused herself.

“I believe these journals will be of use to you.” The Huntsman’s voice echoed through the stacks.

My eyes flicked down to the books and then back to his face. “I can’t close the Gate. I’m not powerful enough.”

The Huntsman ignored my words as if I hadn’t even spoken. “The journals begin with the first Weaver. Brigit, a goddess of the Tuatha Dé Danann, bestowed her magic on her devout. Patron of the Black Widows. Several Weavers have graced our halls since Éabha, but many have failed in the task they were needed for.”

I eyed him suspiciously.

The Huntsman’s wide lips quirked with a sneer. “What is your family name, Weaver? Perhaps you might find one of your relatives wrote a journal for my collection.”

“Hunt.” I kept all emotion from my voice. “Mallory Hunt.”

The Huntsman considered my name with a shrug. “A fine name, though not one from the Aos Sí.”

I said nothing.

“I do hope you will find something in those journals. Inspiration, perhaps?” The Huntsman put his hands in his pockets, whistling as he sauntered away.

I waited until he was gone before I sat down, opening several volumes and searching for any names I recognized.

I scoured every leather-bound journal but could not find mention of my grandmother’s name.

Éabha.

Though my grandmother had taught me, in her own way, most of my human education was half finished. She had taught me math and English. She taught me how to knit, craft, and paint but avoided my magic altogether.

Once upon a time, I believed she was frightenedforme—that I would seek out the otherness in the world and leave her behind, like mom.

I found myself enamored with one particular journal, though it was mostly braiding techniques that would be useful for macrame. There was no mention of hair or weaving magic into clothing. Instead, the author made references several times to the ‘threads,’ it took an embarrassingly long time to realize that they were talking about the ambient magic that lived all around us.

I’d never tried to touch the magic in the air before.

It was always justthere.

Like shadows, sounds, or smells.

I wasn’t sure how long I sat, hunched over, with my nose close to the page, when the door to the library opened.

I felt foolish for letting my guard down.

I recognized Donovan, the slimy man from the day before, as he glided toward me.

Dean had threatened and warned him away, but based on his expression, the message hadn’t stuck.

As much as I wanted to sit there and believe that Donovan just happened to be in the same place at the same time as me, my luck wasn’t that good.

“I can hear your heartbeat, little wolf. Are you frightened?” Donovan grinned, showing every tooth in his mouth. “I just came to welcome you, as Dean rudely interrupted us before.”

I didn’t care about making a good impression. I didn’t care about being rude.

“Fuckoff.” I snarled, my nose wrinkling.

“Oh.” He elongated the sound. “Feisty.”

Donovan drew closer, and I grabbed the journal from the table, eying the exit.

I stepped around my chair, putting a barrier between us. “What is your problem?”

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