Page 14 of Liminal
What book could the Arcanaeum want that it doesn’t already have? A new publication, perhaps? Though, often it will steal those when they’re brought in by unsuspecting patrons…
Reaching into the drawer, I find a stack of money—his payment—and atop it, a small square of folded parchment.
I pull both out, slide the money towards him, and carefully smooth out the parchment.
Only to recoil the moment I read the words stamped in neat, monospaced typeface on it.
Magister Mathias Ackland’s Grimoire
There are other words too, a promise of payment, and a vague location, but I don’t pay attention to any of them.
“I willnothave that book in here,” I hiss, flicking my fingers at it. “Inflemi.”
The note catches light, fizzling into a pile of cinders.
Dakari’s expressive dark brows furrow, but he doesn’t have a chance to ask what’s happened, because the Arcanaeum isn’t done with us.
Another drawer pops open, and I don’t need to look to know that the contents are the same.
I draw it out, shoving the money his way but barely glancing at the note. “Inflemi.”
The building has the nerve to creak in annoyance.
Then, in a petulant act of rebellion, every single drawer on my desk springs open. All of them full to the brim with more copies of the same typed note.
I’m so busy trying to shove them all closed that I don’t notice when the scarred collector reaches across the space and takes one.
“For magic’s sake! No. Don’t accept that!”
Too late. He unfolds it, and that scarred brow twitches in disbelief.
“I’m on it,” he says.
The drawers I was doing battle with all slam shut in one finalcrackof defiance that saps my strength. My shoulders droop, and I hug my middle as I try to process what this means.
Dakari watches me with cold, curious eyes. Even if I wanted that grimoire—which I don’t—collecting it is far too dangerous. Old books lost before the purges are one thing, but this is something else entirely.
A forgotten arcanist tome can be stolen from under an inept collector’s nose without effort.
But in most cases, upon the death of an arcanist, their grimoire is summoned automatically to the Vault. That the magister’s wasn’t means that the Acklands have employed some serious magic to prevent it being taken.
Sending someone—even someone as experienced and powerful as Dakari—into a place undoubtedly protected by necromancy and other foul magic in pursuit of a book, is wrong.
“It is too dangerous,” I whisper, voice hoarse. “And that book… That book is evil.”
He meets my gaze levelly, then starts to turn, still clutching that piece of paper.
I reach out to stop him.
I don’t know why I do it. I’ve had years to get used to being incorporeal and all the limitations it brings. Perhaps it’s instinct, or desperation, or sheer stupidity. Maybe it’s some force of Fate.
My hand passes straight through the rich chestnut skin of his biceps, but I jolt back with a gasp as tingles erupt across my palm and morph, spearing up my arm like fiery needles.
Deep below us, somethingcracks, and the sound echoes through the halls, alarming me into stillness.
Dakari twists around to pin me to the spot with that gorgeous dark stare of his. He takes in my wide eyes, then the spot where my hand still bisects his arm.
A fissure now runs through my translucent skin, spreading past my wrist to end at my elbow. Where the rest of me has been ghostly pale since the day I was murdered, this crack is a dark inky black, making it glaringly obvious.
