Page 33 of Necromance
Lucien’s brows drew together as he studied it. He was quiet for a moment—too long. Then, with a shrug, he said, “I don’t recall.”
I frowned. That didn’t seem like something he’d just forget. He had been trapped inside that painting for years. He had spent more time staring at it than anyone… or at leastthroughit anyway.
Something about his nonchalance unsettled me.
“You don’t recall?” I repeated, watching him carefully.
He smiled though I could see his jaw tensed. “It’s old, Mia.”
I stared at him. It was a good point, but still. Something seemed off. The painting was the heart of his curse. Any change to it—no matter how small—could mean something.
I turned back to it, studying the brushstrokes, the layers of paint, the way the shadows blended into the background. I reached out, my fingertips hovering just above the surface.
Lucien’s voice was sharp. “Don’t touch it.”
I snatched my hand back, startled.
“Why not?”
When I looked at him, his expression had shifted…he wasn’t just tense, he was worried. Another piece of the puzzle settled into place. Suspicion settled somewhere in my stomach.
Lucien knew something.
And he wasn’t telling me.
“Last time you touched it,” he said with a slight tilt of his head. “It released me so what if touching it again forces me back?”
I frowned, my eyes narrowing slightly. “I suppose,” I replied slowly. Though he made a good point, there was somethingoffabout his demeanor. Ever since I’d found him in the gallery, he seemed… different.
He reached out, taking my hand to gently pull me along. I let him, but my gaze drifted back to the painting as we started down the hall again. The words from the story my grandmother had told me echoed in my mind.
Call him forth with careful thought, his time shall never be bought.
Curling dread swelled in my stomach. Something was wrong. I didn’t have time to dwell on it long though as we entered the library, the heavy scent of aged paper and dust hitting me immediately. The room was vast, filled withtowering shelves that seemed to stretch endlessly in every direction. Thick volumes lined the walls, the very air feeling thick with the weight of forgotten knowledge.
I moved toward a nearby table, brushing my fingers across a stack of books, hoping something would jump out at me. I glanced over my shoulder at Lucien, who was standing near the entrance, watching me with his arms folded over his broad chest.
“Do you have any idea what we’re looking for?” I asked, trying to focus as I picked through a few old leather-bound books, my thoughts still lingering on his portrait and the way he had reacted.
Lucien frowned then sauntered over to join me. His steps were slow, deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world. “You’re the necromancer,” he teased, leaning casually against the table, but his usual light tone was just a bit too tight. “I’m just a ghostly, cursed, man with no memory. What do I know about books and riddles?”
Portia’s ghost hadn’t given us much to go on, vague as always, but my magic stirred the moment we’d stepped inside the door. I could feel it now, humming fainting just beneath my skin, guiding me as I trailed my fingers along the shelves.
Lucien moved a few rows down, muttering to himself as he flipped through the brittle pages of an ancient book. The remnants of a stained-glass ceiling hung fractured above us, itsshards casting broken patterns of colorful light onto the marble floor. Cobwebs veiled the highest shelves, and entire sections of books had been claimed by time, pages curled, ink faded to ghosts of words. Yet, there was something reverent about it, as if the room still remembered it had once been treasured.
I moved slowly through the aisles, fingers skimming the spines of forgotten volumes. My magic tugged gently like a thread pulling me forward. I let the sensation guide me curiously, weaving in and out of the shadows. There were thousands of books here, maybe more, and most of them hadn’t been touched in decades.
A faint unease stirred in my chest, quiet but insistent. I turned down a narrow row tucked deep into the back of the library. The shelves here were more crooked, the floor beneath my feet creaking with every step. The candle in my hand quivered, its flame bending as if drawn toward something.
I froze.
And that’s when I felt it.
Wedged between a crumbling book on early noble lineage and a thick morsel of poetry, it sat, dust covered and still. The onyx leather was cracked, the silver sigil engraved on its spine dulled with age, but unmistakable.
A serpent eating its own tail—an ouroboros—curling around a five pointed star.
No. It couldn’t be.
