Page 67 of Foresyth Conservatory
Red burst across my cheeks. Knowing that he could see it made me blush even harder. I swallowed hard before finding my words. How was it that my enemy saw me for who I was, when so many others never could? Either he was perceptive, or I had been a complete failure at hiding myself. Regardless of which it was, there was still a part of me that saw this as an opportunity. I wanted to prove him wrong. I wasn’ttruth; I was a liar, just like him. I’d lie my way to find the truth about Julian, and I’d use whatever means were necessary.
In a moment of reckless bravery, I gripped the collar of his shirt and pulled him close into me so that my lips touched the outer edge of his ears. “Fine, you want the truth? Thenwhy don’t you start, tell me somethingreal,” I said, letting the wind of my breath fan his flames. I knew he couldn’t deny a challenge. I’d get the truth about Julian out of him one way or another.
Aspen’s features mixed with surprise and delight, pulling his head back up to look me squarely in the eyes. His pupils dilated with excitement, green and brown streaks being swallowed up by black. “I would love to,” he said, almost too eagerly, like he’d been waiting for the invitation. He put his hand over mine where I still held a clump of his shirt. Why did it feel like I’d already lost, even as he stepped willingly into my trap?
I swallowed my pride, trying to ignore how naturally his fingers threaded with mine, like they had with Sequoia’s. I tried to ignore how the heat of his coarse palms flush against mine soothed the cold inside of me. I tried to ignore how his eyes, like burning embers, found mine equally transfixed to his. I really tried.
But I still followed him, out of the dining room and down the hallway, as if I had no choice at all.
The Acolyte & The Alchemist: Part VI
The two scholars tore through the Archive books, their fingers smudged with ink, their candles burning low. Each discovery unraveled another layer of untold history.
One book was a personal journal from Patty Mearsheimer, a member of the Founding Five and Advisor to Nikola Tesla. She claimed to have guided him in harnessing ocean magick—the rhythmic pulse of the tides—to shape electricity into the alternating current he would later perfect.
Another account detailed an Advisor’s role using glamor magick to help negotiate a treaty with the Lakota Sioux. George Crook, a U.S. Army general, had relied on occult counsel to manage delicate talks over gold mines in the northwestern Americas.
But neither of these compared to the black tome Quill had pulled from the archives.
It was an unabridged version ofThe Book of Skorn, penned by Aleric Khorvyn, another of the Founding Five. Quill and Hamra hunched over it, flipping between its pages and the versions they had found in the library. Entire sections had never been seen before. It didn’t take long for him to regret finding the book in the first place.
Quill frowned, skimming a passage.This shouldn’t exist.
“Maybe it’s a misprint,” he said.
Hamra shook her head. “No. These sections were meant to be here. They don’t just describe the use of magick cards, they discuss the origin of their power.” Her voice droppedlower, almost reverent. “They say that the cards’ powers come from the Shattered Mother, who imbued the cards with seventy-eight pieces of her soul.”
Quill shifted. A low, almost imperceptible hum rang in his ears, like the faint vibration of a tuning fork.
“Does it feel strange to hold it?” he asked.
Hamra’s fingers traced the cover. “It’s as if the Book itself is infused with—”
“Magick.” They both said it in unison.
A silence stretched between them.
Quill exhaled, setting the Book down as if it had suddenly grown heavier. “I think we should give it back.” The tome felt intoxicating, its presence curled around his thoughts, pulling him under. This couldn’t be right.
Hamra didn’t even look up. “I think we should test it.”
Quill’s gaze snapped to her. “That is firmly Advisor territory. We aren’t supposed to practice magick outside of leadership-sanctioned ceremonies.”
Hamra smirked. “And why should all the power be reserved for the Advisors? Why let them keep it locked away when it’s right here, at our fingertips? Why should we spend our lives preparing rituals for clients when we could use this for ourselves?”
Quill hesitated. She saw it, too—the slight dip in his shoulders, the line in his brow, the moment of doubt. And in that instant, her voice softened into crushed velvet.
“This could become our magnum opus,” she mused. “Didn’t you come to Foresyth for this very reason—to understand where power comes from? Well, here it is. Right in front of us. A theory waiting to be tested.”
She stretched her arms out across the Book and intertwined her hand with his, her final play. The warmth rushing to Quill’s head wasn’t just from the Book anymore. Her skin was warm against his hands, and blood was rushing behind his ears.
A source implied that the magick was real, not simply persuasive ritual. This was the closest proof he’d ever gotten. What was the harm with testing a theory?
The Book sat between them, waiting. And Quill—despite everything—was already reaching for it.
Chapter 23: The Kiln
We were standing in front of a dark green door several down from the entrance to the lab. Aspen took out a key from his back pocket.
