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“Well?” Marrok prompts.
“One of my history professors. The symbol means nothing to her, but I also asked her about Morgana and instruments of her magic. One of her secret passions is Arthurian lore. She says that, in some circles, there’s talk about Morgana Le Fay having created a book that allows the one who controls it to have nearly unlimited power, but they keep to themselves because the rest of the academic community thinks they’re crazy. Do you think she means this?” I point to the tome.
“Aye, and we cannot let her—or anyone else—know I have the Book of Doomsday, as Bram calls it. We will be in great danger if anyone discovers.”
“Okay.” It sounds ridiculous. Then again, I thought the same thing about Marrok’s immortality, and that bit me in the ass.
I scan the professor’s email again. “She says something about it being an object of feminine reverence.”
“Which means what?”
I shrug. “Obviously, the book has enormous power. It hums every time I touch it. Something that awesome must be revered by someone, right?”
“At least by one person I know,” he answers darkly. “And likely a lot more.”
“It was created by a woman… Maybe that’s what she means? I’ll ask Dr. Chastain to elaborate.”
Quickly, I craft my follow-up and dash off the email. Then I open the final piece of correspondence, this one from Dr. Reynolds. He’s a pompous ass with a sweating head who always insists on being the smartest person in the room. But he definitely knows art history.
I skim the email and gasp. “Dr. Reynolds has seen the symbol! According to him, it appears on writings believed to be Morgana’s. The symbol also appeared in two paintings. The first in the fourteenth century of a young unnamed girl. She’s wearing it around her neck. He sent me a scan.” I show Marrok the open attachment.
The symbol dangling from her fragile neck matches the one on the book.
“For all we know, the girl saw the symbol and fancied it.”
“Maybe…but it’s really unusual. And who could have reproduced it so exactly?” Something else occurs to me. “There’s something similar among the things my mother left me. Different shape, but like it might have been made during the same time or by the same craftsman. Even in this painting, the pendant looks old, but fast forward four hundred years…” I open the next attachment.
And I gasp again. A man in Regency dress wears the symbol affixed to his lapel. Even more shocking, he has familiar violet eyes.
The caption stuns me. Richard Gray of London.
“That’s my father’s name! Could he be…?”
Marrok glances at the painting, then at me again. “I know someone who will give us an answer.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Marrok
I retrieve my mobile with a sigh. For the first time, I am glad Bram insisted on leaving me his number when he departed with his aunt. Using the rock was effective but too magical for my taste.
Still, ’tis another conversation with Bram Rion I must have. By God’s blood, I have spoken to the wily wizard more in the past week than all the last century put together.
Gritting my teeth, I punch in the varlet’s number and listen to the device ring.
My gaze strays to Olivia, still toying with my hated computer. She is likely the means to end my curse; I need her. But against her potent lure, I am troublingly weak. I cannot abide the thought of losing her. And I doubt our bond is solely to blame.
Though she is both magical and of this century, Olivia behaves differently from others I have met. She listens. She seems not absorbed in her problems, though she has plenty. And she has heart.
The last woman of this century I spent a night with cared only about her social media follower count. She constantly posted fish-faced selfies. She spoke of naught but herself and angled for compliments.
Olivia, by contrast, seems thoughtful and kind. She possesses a bright smile that illuminates my soul like a burst of light after centuries of darkness.
And now I am a bloody poet.
When she extended her offer of assistance in researching the symbols on the diary, I was stunned. But well I know that magickind is tricky. ’Tis possible she will use my feelings against me, regardless of how sweetly she fits in my arms. She is a Le Fay…and suddenly being helpful. Two plus two does not equal five.
I would do well to remember that.
