Total pages in book: 194
Estimated words: 187021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 935(@200wpm)___ 748(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 187021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 935(@200wpm)___ 748(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
Graves shrugged. “As it has protected so much of your kind.”
Shannon bristled again. “Her magic will save her.”
“Her magic is no different than your magic, or that of any of your kind.” His eyes flicked to Adair. “Perhaps even lesser.” As if having a human father was an affront. “You’ll need to do something more than hide her if you want this one to survive.”
He disappeared into the stacks, the darkness enveloping him as he left.
Shannon glanced at Adair in sheer terror, a look she had refused to give to Graves but could barely contain now.
He was only gone a moment before returning with a large, old leather tome. “Ah, here it is. There’s a spell. It works on a child before they develop into their powers.” His eyes lifted to her mother. “So it wouldn’t hide you.”
“We’re not here about me,” Shannon said sternly. “We have a plan for me.”
Graves shrugged as if it wasn’t his concern how to hide a fully grown wisp.
“I don’t have the specific spell, but I could retrieve it…for a price.”
“More than the knife?” Adair demanded.
“The knife would be worth the spell, if I already had it,” he said, his eyes going dark with displeasure. “If I have to go looking for it…then the knife is worth less than my time.”
“Fine,” Shannon growled. “Who has the spell? Can we go get it ourselves?”
He considered again for a second. “Probably a Druid.”
“Absolutely not,” Shannon barked.
Graves’s smile said he knew exactly what can of worms he’d opened, and he couldn’t help to prod it open wider. “Aren’t your lot friendly with Druids?”
Shannon and Adair exchanged another fleeting look. The answer was clearly no. Not anymore.
“Lorcan Flynn is across the bridge. He could help you at the next full moon,” Graves said. The deadly glint in his eye was the only thing that even hinted he was sending these people to his greatest enemy.
“We can’t go to Lorcan,” Shannon said.
“Obviously,” Graves said. “Or else why come to me at all?”
“We heard you would give us information,” Adair argued. “Not just jerk us around.”
Graves smirked as if that was half the fun.
“Is there anyone else who would have the spell?” Shannon asked. “Surely the knife is enough for a name.”
“There is another,” he said thoughtfully. “You wouldn’t like it. He hasn’t been much connected with Druids and wisps since he was on the outs.”
“If he’s not connected, that’s what we want,” Adair argued.
“I haven’t met him personally, but he’d have the spell.”
“Who?” Adair asked.
“Cillian Ryan.”
“He’s a rogue Druid!” Shannon cried.
“Then he won’t spill your secrets.”
“And a sociopath,” she tried next.
“And exactly what you need,” Graves argued. “If Lorcan hasn’t killed him, then he’s doing something right.”
Shannon shot her husband a stern look. “We can’t go to him.”
“We must,” Adair said. “We came here for a way to hide our girl. This is what we have to do.”
Shannon looked down at her daughter and brushed her blond hair aside. She sighed, resigned. “You’re right. Anything for you.”
Graves’s eyes landed on the little girl. Kierse saw a brief look that was almost warm, before he wandered off into his library again. He returned after only a moment. “The knife is worth more than the name.” He tossed a palm-size metal piece down on the table. “Take this amulet and trade it for the casting.”
Shannon stared down at it uncertainly. “What’s the trick?”
Adair grabbed the amulet quickly. “Who cares?”
Shannon glared at Graves a moment. Finally, reluctantly, she stood, thanking him for his help. And it was help. Kierse could see that plainly. A mystery she was still grappling with as the memory dissolved.
Interlude
Oisín flipped the lock on the bookstore.
Today had made him heartsick. He rubbed the spot under his robe where the Fae curse still sat in stark silver against his heart. On days like this, when the veil was thinnest, so close to a Celtic holiday, he could almost feel his wife’s fingers pressing the gift where it now rested. The last thing he had from her.
Now it hurt like a wound predicting the rain, reminding him that faerie was still out of reach. As it had been for so very long.
Sometimes he felt like he was a snap of his fingers away from his faerie bride, Niamh, and sometimes he felt every single year down to his bones. He was an old man and had been since the curse took root. He would remain an old man until the day faerie opened and he could return to his beloved. He hoped she still loved him as the man he was now instead of the wide-eyed youth he’d been when she had claimed his heart.
Ah, but such ruminations were for another day. Nothing to be done now.
He collected books and, despite Niamh’s pestering, set them down on top of another stack he hadn’t put away, where they would rot for a few years before he needed something in them.