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Since my name isn’t on there, and the pages are old and beige and crisp, I’m guessing it isn’t up to date in the last century.

I toss it.

It lands on the tome with a light thump.

Dray’s eyes wander the side of my face.

Each time I glance at him, his stare is unfaltering. But it isn’t cruel or hard, so I turn a cheek to it and keep looking.

He only pulls his gaze away when he lifts his wrist and checks his watch.

“You don’t have long,” he says as I flip open the third book. “They will be wondering where we are.”

The hum I answer with is curt.

I turn the book over in my hands, my mouth flattened into a slanted line. The title is peeled letters down the spine, scratched and scuffed. Unreadable. And, flipping it open to the table of contents, I read the chapter list, and loosen a disappointed breath.

I reach for the fourth and final one.

Dray stills, hand returned to his thigh, and he watches my fingers glide around the pocketbook.

I lift it, turn it over in my hands—and my heart flickers in my chest.

It is the same one.

The exact same book that I found in the village, the same one Mother destroyed.

‘THE IMPACT OF DEADBLOODS’

“Where did you get this?” I ask, a whisper, and the look I swerve to him is nothing short of accusatory.

Dray arches a brow. The tip of a stray strand of hair brushes over his long, thick lashes. “VeVille.”

I blink, once, twice, then, “The village?”

Still, that brow is pinned high. “You know another VeVille?”

I tighten my grip on the book. The leather creaks in my hand. “When?”

“A year ago, maybe two,” he says with a gentle one-shouldered shrug. “In the second-hand aisle.”

“I bought it from that shop, too.”

He nods, patient. “It is a witching village with a long history.”

I make a face. “So?”

“So,” he starts, cold, “it would make sense that there are old texts circulating through the village. They likely had a deadblood or two over the centuries.”

I consider him for a moment, sweeping my gaze over his piercing eyes, a gaze unfaltering, then to his mouth, full lips, steady. No trace of a lie, no hint of nothing more than curiosity homed in on me.

I rattle the book in my hand. “Can I borrow this?”

Drizzle still glistens his face, glosses his slightly parted lips. “You already have one.”

“Lost it.”

He scoffs, gentle. “Why would I trust you not to lose this one?”