“Oh, and here I thought you were kissing the Librarian’s ass in a last-ditch attempt to save yourself.”
My chest tightens angrily at her mention of Kyrith. “None of your business.”
“Not going well?” The false sympathy in her tone grates even more than the sashay of her hips.
I’d rather swim through a sewer than touch the poisoned chalice that is Pierce’s older sister. Doesn’t stop her fluttering those plastic lashes at me.
“The Librarian is the most knowledgeable woman in all arcandom. She’ll figure it out.”
“Oh, no doubt. But will she do it before poor little Lambert goes to sleep and never wakes up?”
The reference to my mother’s death cuts, and I flex my hands to stop them balling into fists.
“She’s not the only powerful arcanist who would be willing to help you, you know.”
“Magic, I always knew your head was up your ass, but?—”
“I’m not talking about me, imbecile. I’m talking about the new Ackland parriarch.”
Every fibre of my being goes still. She’s not talking about North. We both know that. The unspoken name lingers in the air between us, along with the implied questions.
How much do I know? What have I told my grandfather? Whose side is Ó Rinn on in the war that’s brewing on the horizon?
The fact that she’s turned up literally hours after the parriarchs received Kyrith’s summons can’t be a coincidence. She’s fishing for something.
“I’ll stick with the devil I know.”
“You’ve not heard our offer yet.”
I stop walking, pretending to admire the glimmering lights of Whiteabbey down the hill and the dark waters of the lough beyond them. “The Librarian’s help doesn’t come with a price.”
“Neither does ours.”
I scoff loudly.
“No, really. All my mother and Parriarch Ackland want is Ó Rinn’s support when it matters. Exactly the same thing you’re already giving her.”
“I’m not the one you should be asking.” I jerk my thumb back up the hill. “My grandfather might still be awake if you want to knock and offer to suck him off.”
“Your grandfather is a bitter old man who thinks every Ó Rinn should be forced to endure the curse just because he was.” Anthea echoes my own opinion with unerring accuracy. “Parriarch Mathias?—”
“VicegerentMathias,” I correct, “is overstepping and using you.”
“He has practical experience dealing with generational ensorcellments and a vision for our kind.”
Spoken like a true zealot.
“As a mark of his good faith,” she continues doggedly. “He’s given you this.”
She hands over a folded square of paper, and I flip it open, only to come face to face with the very runeform Kyrith used to break the first layer of my curse.
My disbelief must show on my face, because Anthea grins like she thinks I’m paying her more attention now.
Who—? No. It doesn’t matter which member of my family worked with them to come up with this. The degraded second layer will be different for each Ó Rinn. Kyrith is still the only one who’s seen my?—
“The degeneration of the second stage was a bit trickier,” Anthea continues. “Four runeforms….” She gives a low whistle.
My thoughts come to a screeching halt.
