A glass of amber liquid caught my eye too, and when I picked it up for a sniff, the ice inside shifted and popped.
Freshly poured, then. And—sadly—notthe fae elixir I was hoping for.
Just bourbon.
I set it back down with a sigh, my senses picking up another familiar scent.
Roses.
Suddenly, Keradoc’s scent was everywhere, charging me up like the lightning, the magick, the forbidden thrill of sneaking around in his library in my bare feet, naked beneath the robe, my hair still dripping water.
I took another deep breath of it, sickly sweet and ethereal, and tried to convince myself the sudden fizziness in my stomach was unpleasant.
I blew out a breath and shook my head, as if that alone could somehow shatter the invisible hold Keradoc had on me.
As if you reallywantto shatter it, girl…
Right. The voice in my head was obviously sleep-deprived, bordering on delusional, so I ignored it and focused instead on the stack of journals.
Careful not to disturb them, I crouched down and peered at the neat lettering inside. The entry was dated decades earlier, the page already starting to yellow:
Another setback tonight after the Parvaillian fae took the Towers of Wrath and Vengeance.
They felled my useless, gutless soldiers with an army of undead, their necromancers stronger and more powerful than any I’ve ever encountered.
No matter. Soon those necromancers will bend the knee, and the surviving soldiers who failed me will know what it is to wish for a swift death.
In personal matters, Ashera has finally succumbed to her injuries, bringing an end to the experiment.
The child is inconsolable, clinging to me as viciously as the leeches of Hanging Lake. I know not what to do with her.
I fear she has inherited neither her mother’s strength nor her intelligence, but perhaps that will turn out to be a blessing.
Those who lack spine and wits are much easier to break.
Tomorrow night, we send another company to the Towers to face the Parvaillians and reclaim what’s mine. Should my soldiers fail me again, I will order them to march to the beach as soon as the Fog arrives.
—Keradoc of Midnight
“Holy shit,” I whispered.
These were Keradoc’s journals. Why was he re-reading them? Did he get off on revisiting his old tortures? His greatest hits?
And who were the Parvaillians?
Where were these so-called Towers?
And Ashera… Was that Oona’s mother?
And what did he mean, “bringing an end to the experiment?”
Before I could read another word, a whisper of dark magick tingled across the back of my neck, the scent of roses thick and inescapable.
“Looking for a bedtime story, little thief?”
20
KERADOC
