Page 89 of Skyshade
The Nightshade ruler was buried there. The maze had been built around his grave.
She studied the coffin, knowing now why power was drained here. It was completely made of sparkling black metal. Shademade.
She didn’t know where Lark Crown was buried, and Oro had never mentioned anything about Horus Rey’s body. Perhaps the knowledge had been lost with time.
Since they couldn’t portal out of the maze, they had to walk out of it. The ground was damp, and their footprints had been frozen solid by the time they exited. It became a trail out of the labyrinth, leading their way out. By the time they were in the gardens again, Isla was shaking.
“The library has a fireplace,” he said, and she nodded, anticipation building in her chest.
In moments, the fire was raging. The hearth was so large, even Grim would be able to walk into it. The flames were unnaturally high, nearly brushing against its ceiling.
Frost melted down her skirts immediately, forming a small puddle around her shoes. Without thinking about it, she slipped out of them and undid her cape. It fell to the floor. She looked up to see Grim watching her.
Now that she had given up on burying her feelings for him, they surged forward at every opportunity. She didn’t fight them as her eyes traced his body, his damp shirt pressed firmly against every muscle in his chest and stomach. She didn’t look away from a gaze so hungry, so intense, that her skin prickled beneath it. His chest was rising and falling just as he looked at her, like it was an effort to keep still in her presence, to battle against the growing want that she could see right in front of her.
It was a frenzy.
Her lips crashed into his, and then her freezing fingers were weaving through his hair, still damp from the cold. His tongue was hot against hers and she moaned. “I need you,” she said against his lips.
He seemed to need her too. With a burst of power, the texts and papers on the table behind them were swept to the floor, and then he was bending her over it. He pulled her stockings down, and then she was filled with pulsing heat. She clawed at the table, sending cracks forming along the thick wood.
They were ravenous, starved; nothing was enough. Soon she was kicking her tights off completely, and he was hauling her against the wall.
No—not a wall. She discovered it was a bookshelf when books began crashing down around them, falling from their shelves.
“Don’t stop,” she said, her ankles locking behind him. She formed a Starling shield around them, the books flying wildly.
“I never intended on it,” he said, as the wood groaned behind her.
She woke up draped in a half dozen blankets. Grim must have portaled them here to make her comfortable. The fire crackled just a few feet away. Somehow, they had ended up on the floor, right beside it. She remembered now, how Grim had groaned as she had climbed atop him, how he had pulled her down against his chest afterward. Their clothing was strewn across the floor, along with dozens of books. There were gaps in the shelves he had pressed her against.
“We made a mess,” she said. Grim waved the thought away.
“I’ll put them back,” he said. His power began to work, but she shook her head.
“I—I want to look through them,” she said. “I’ve never had a library to myself—not like this. Not without restrictions.”
“Now you have several.”
She told the truth. “Maybe there will be something to help find the portal.”
He brought her some fresh clothes, and she slipped them on, before moving to the table. She began stacking books with her power. Grim watched her.
She turned to face him. “You’re distracting.”
“Am I?”
Isla looked from the cracks in the table, to him, laying in the fabrics with nothing on, shadows from the flames playing across his pale skin. He was already ready again, and part of her wanted to go back to him, but—
Grim laughed. He walked over to her, kissed the top of her head, and said, “Enjoy your library.”
Then, he was gone.
The room suddenly felt too empty. But she had a job to do. She found her discarded dress and pulled something from the interior pocket.
The feather.
She struck its point against her palm, watched the blood burble, and wrote on a fresh piece of parchment.
