Page 90 of Prince of Masks
Since my name isn’t on there, and the pages are old and beige and crisp, I’m guessing it isn’t up to date in the last century.
I toss it.
It lands on the tome with a light thump.
Dray’s eyes wander the side of my face.
Each time I glance at him, his stare is unfaltering. But it isn’t cruel or hard, so I turn a cheek to it and keep looking.
He only pulls his gaze away when he lifts his wrist and checks his watch.
“You don’t have long,” he says as I flip open the third book. “They will be wondering where we are.”
The hum I answer with is curt.
I turn the book over in my hands, my mouth flattened into a slanted line. The title is peeled letters down the spine, scratched and scuffed. Unreadable. And, flipping it open to the table of contents, I read the chapter list, and loosen a disappointed breath.
I reach for the fourth and final one.
Dray stills, hand returned to his thigh, and he watches my fingers glide around the pocketbook.
I lift it, turn it over in my hands—and my heart flickers in my chest.
It is the same one.
The exact same book that I found in the village, the same one Mother destroyed.
‘THE IMPACT OF DEADBLOODS’
“Where did you get this?” I ask, a whisper, and the look I swerve to him is nothing short of accusatory.
Dray arches a brow. The tip of a stray strand of hair brushes over his long, thick lashes. “VeVille.”
I blink, once, twice, then, “The village?”
Still, that brow is pinned high. “You know another VeVille?”
I tighten my grip on the book. The leather creaks in my hand. “When?”
“A year ago, maybe two,” he says with a gentle one-shouldered shrug. “In the second-hand aisle.”
“I bought it from that shop, too.”
He nods, patient. “It is a witching village with a long history.”
I make a face. “So?”
“So,” he starts, cold, “it would make sense that there are old texts circulating through the village. They likely had a deadblood or two over the centuries.”
I consider him for a moment, sweeping my gaze over his piercing eyes, a gaze unfaltering, then to his mouth, full lips, steady. No trace of a lie, no hint of nothing more than curiosity homed in on me.
I rattle the book in my hand. “Can I borrow this?”
Drizzle still glistens his face, glosses his slightly parted lips. “You already have one.”
“Lost it.”
He scoffs, gentle. “Why would I trust you not to lose this one?”
