Page 33 of Ruthless Ends

But I didn’t come this far just to turn back now.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I push my fingers through the barrier…

…and feel nothing at all.

My entire hand goes through, and still, nothing. I step forward until I’m on the other side and look up at it again, but there’s nothing visible from this side. There’s a sort of glimmer in the air, a hint that something is out of the ordinary, but you probably wouldn’t see it if you weren’t looking for it.

Strange, but I don’t have time to dwell on it. It may have let me through, but I have no idea if it somehow alerted whoever created it.

I let the next teleportation spell take me all the way to the estate, specifically, to my mother’s old room. It’s messier than I ever remember seeing it, but that’s probably from gathering her things in a hurry when they evacuated. Or someone has scavenged it since.

Clothes and papers are scattered across the floor, candles overturned by the fireplace. I head down the hall to her den first. If someone wanted to steal from her, this would probably be the first place they cleaned out. But when I step through the curtain, the shelves are fully stocked. I head straight for the bookshelf, pushing aside jars and containers until I can see the spines at the back.

Volume 12 .Volume 12…

They’re all out of order, some shoved in sideways. I pull out the stack of volumes 3, 7, and 10 in case there’s one wedged behind it.

Voices sound on the other side of the wall, too low for me to make out what they’re saying. Setting the books down, I dive back into the shelf, desperately searching for number 12. If someone comes in here, they might not be able to see me, but they’ll see things moving around. Where is this goddamn book? But even after I go through the entire shelf twice, there’s no sign of volume 12.

I swallow a curse and survey the rest of the room. They couldn’t have sent more specific instructions? It’s not on the altar, not on the other bookcases. But there are all of the needed ingredients for a locator spell in here.

I freeze with my fingers around a jar of raven feathers, then slowly trace them along the grooves in the shelf instead. It couldn’t have always been like this. I would have noticed.

The edges—just for a few inches in the back—are blackened, thick, like they’re shrouded in shadow.

Like you wouldn’t be able to see the abnormality normally, but the shadow world is highlighting it.

I dig my fingers along the edges, trying to find a notch, a button.

“Ow,” I hiss and pull my hand away, a drop of blood welling on the tip of my finger. Whatever pricked it was sharp as a blade, way too sharp for a splinter.

Then the slat glides to the side, revealing a hidden compartment in the back of the bookcase. The pocket is deep but only a few inches wide. Just wide enough for a book.

Dust swirls around me as I pull the volume out, this one much heavier than the others. The leather cover is black instead of the faded reds and browns of the others, the spine cracked and barely holding on. The compartment’s cover slides back into place the moment the book is removed. The cover is plain, nondescript. But engraved on the spine near the bottom is the number twelve.

I start to flip to page 313, but then voices sound on the other side of the wall again, louder this time. It’ll have to wait. Tucking the book under my arm, I hurry out to the main part of the room.

How much time has passed since I crossed over? I know I should head back, not take any unnecessary risks, but it also feels like a missed opportunity to leave without looking around. To see what I can find about what Westcott’s up to here. Maybe I can find something useful, something that could help stop him.

I skid to a stop as I reach the main living space. Directly beside the door is a black figure, more shadow than tangible, so dark my eyes nearly can’t detect it. It’s as tall as a man, though its limbs are thin, spindly. Black mist swirls around its edges. It watches me and cocks its head.

Ice cold fear slithers down my spine. I don’t know what it is or what it’s doing in my mother’s room—on the side of the shadows or not—but I’m not waiting around to find out.

I teleport myself from the room, but not out of the estate. Just to the wing that houses the royal accommodations. With Westcott’s ego, if he’s staying here, this is where he’ll be.

Shadows like fog hang in the air as I wind down the halls. Guards are on patrol, but they can’t see me. I can’t smell them from this side of the veil, but they seem like vampires, if I had to guess. But there are only a few of them. If Westcott were here, I think he’d have more protection.

My brain must switch to autopilot at some point, because when I blink, suddenly I’m standing in front of Reid’s old room.

I shouldn’t go inside. This isn’t essential.

I nudge the door open an inch, then all the way when I see it’s empty. I should be able to pass through the walls if I concentrate, but I’m not sure how that would work while holding a physical object like the book.

But the guards passed me in the hall without a second glance, so maybe by picking up the book I brought it into the shadow realm with me? Otherwise they would’ve seen a random floating book in the hall—definitely something attention-catching.

Reid’s room is such a disaster, I’m momentarily frozen in place. Every time I was in here it was pristine. Now there are folders and papers covering every table, the bed, the floor. I pace to the seating by the fireplace. A book on wendigos is spread wide, along with a background check printed out about Cam, articles on the barrens, and all the documented attacks within a hundred-mile radius of the estate.

His research. From when he’d been trying to help me. When he’d been trying to find me.

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