Page 64 of Liminal
Access to the Vault is any arcanist’s dream and potentially the key to my salvation, but if I seem too eager, she will never, ever allow me down there. “And they hold no answers?”
Kyrith sighs, shaking her head. “They were damaged beyond the Arcanaeum’s ability to repair.”
Five huge tomes thump onto the leather-topped desk in front of me, replacing the piles of paperwork. Kyrith jumps like she’s just as surprised as I am, and I frown.
Another piece of evidence to support my theory about other ghosts.
My hands hover over the cover of one—a warped black leather with runeforms carved across the surface—waiting for her nod of permission before I flick it open.
The first page is promising, a single line proclaiming it once belonged to Magister Margaret McKinley.
Every page after that is covered in hundreds of tiny lines of text, crammed densely into the space at odd angles. But not one of the sentences is written in a language I understand.
And there are no runeforms inside. Not one.
“It’s gibberish,” Kyrith explains, as my heart falls. “It doesn’t match any language I know. I’m certain their original owners cast a powerful transmutation spell on them as a last act before their deaths, to hide what they did.”
Makes sense. If other arcanists became aware that the heads of their illustrious six families were murderers, it would challenge their authority. If Kyrith’s killers were anything like the modern parriarchs, their power and influence was everything to them.
“Ackland’s grimoire is the last one?”
Her solemn nod confirms what I don’t want to hear, and the two of us lapse into our own heads for a long moment.
“Is there any way I can help with your curse?” Kyrith finally asks.
My eyes squeeze shut, and I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Not currently.”
The Ó Rinn family curse is well-known to most arcanists, but Kyrith is so cut off from our world that she’s missing gossip that got old two hundred years ago. That’s a good thing in a lot of ways—like Lambert, she doesn’t look at me like I’m diseased—but unhelpful in others.
If she knew what I stand to lose, she’d never trust me. I need that trust. Combined with her gratitude for saving her from her affliction, it might just be enough to get me access to the Vault.
“I’m one of the biggest sources of knowledge in the arcane world,” she prods. “If I’m dying, I might as well do some good before my end.”
“You’re not dying,” I snap, then instantly curse myself for it. “Wewilldiscover the cure for this.”
Kyrith gives me a tight smile, one I know too well. It’s the same smile I wear whenever someone tries to convince me I’m the exception to the curse. The smile of someone who knows that there’s no way to escape destiny.
Nineteen
Kyrith
“Librarian—Kyrith—he’s awake!”
Dakari’s words drag me out of the fabric of the Arcanaeum with a jolt. I reform just in time to watch him helping Jasper to sit up in bed. A thought summons more pillows behind him, and I float closer, inspecting those mahogany eyes with a critical gaze.
His pupils are fine, and his jaundice has gone completely, too. He’s a little weak and shaky, but my work on reversing the atrophy in his muscles appears to have paid off—a little too well, if I’m honest. My poor, sex-starved brain drinks in the sight of his lightly fur-covered abs and the corded muscles of his deltoids as he rotates his neck experimentally.
Now that he’s awake, he can eat to regain what he’s lost, rather than relying on my daily infusions of restoration energy.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, scrutinising him carefully for any hint of pain.
Jasper jolts, frowning as he examines me. “A ghost?”
His voice is rough—as if from screaming or disuse—but edged with a rich burr.
“You’re in the Arcanaeum,” Dakari explains before I can. “This is Kyrith, the Librarian. She’s been looking after you for the last week while you recovered.”
Jasper nods woodenly, and I grimace. He’s already looking lost, tired, and overwhelmed. I can tell just by looking at him.
