“Should we be worried?” Rook finally sets aside his tablet. His amber eyes darken as he takes the offered drink. “You only share the good stuff when we’ve got something to celebrate or something to fear, and judging from the dour look on your face, this isn’t a celebration.”
“Actually, it’s a bit of both.” I pass out the other two drinks, then raise my glass. “Forsythe and his wife have acquired the elusive Cerridwen Codex. Cheers, then.”
Chapter Four
DRAEGAN
I down the drink in one go, enjoying the burn of the liquor even if its true purpose is wasted on me. When I lower the glass, I find all three of my men watching me intently, their drinks untouched.
“Why are we just hearing of this now?” Augustine asks, the casual glimmer in his hazel eyes replaced with an intense vulnerability he rarely allows.
The sight of it makes my chest ache, and I have to turn away from him to gather my thoughts.
The curse that changed us from mortal men into immortal gargoyles—the bane that will ultimately turn us into permanent statues—is a powerful combination of dark fae and demonic magic so destructive, even the most sinister curseworkers avoid it today. Across all known magical systems, only a handful of spells exist to counteract it—to literallyunmakea fae-made gargoyle. It’s dangerous, complex magic promising all the side-effects one would expect from a dalliance with the dark arts: insanity, permanent disfigurement, magical coma, eternal damnation.
Et cetera.
For the afflicted, however, the magic represents something else.
Hope.
Originating from a dark fae grimoire so ancient it was little more than a series of carvings etched on a seaside cliff, the Codex was translated in antiquity by a coven of fae-descended Celtic witches dedicated to the goddess Cerridwen. Over the last two millennia, the translation was lost and found several times over, making its most recent reappearance in the basement archives of a nameless museum in Dublin just last week.
Among other things, it’s said to contain an extremely rare dark fae Spell of Unmaking.
During our tenure among the cursed and the damned, my men and I have collected all manner of ancient grimoires and magical texts. We’ve become master scholars on the legends of Faerie, earth, and Hell alike. Rook, renowned spymaster and ace hacker, has gathered enough intelligence on the living witches, mages, fae, and demons of this city to fill the great Library of Alexandria twice over.
Yet in all that time, the key to our freedom—to eternal peace—continued to elude us.
Until now.
Crossing the sacristy, I crack open the heavy oak door and peer into the nave. The guests are already gathering—a veritable cross-section of New York’s magical elite. Other than us, however, the city’s supernatural population is noticeably underrepresented. Witches and mages are still human, after all—an exclusive lot by nature. Forsythe’s shadow magic society takes it to another level entirely.
I close the door and turn back to my men, relieved to see they’ve finally imbibed. “No point in mentioning it until I had more than a rumor and a hunch to go on.”
“And you’ve got that now?” Rook shakes his head, once more reaching for the tablet—the world of bits and bytes where he feels most at home. “I’ve been searching for intel on the Cerridwen translations for centuries. Every new technology humans invent presents a new research opportunity, but it’s all been futile. I hit so many dead ends, I wrote it off as legend years ago.”
“Fortunately for us,” I say, “Forsythe did not. Thanks to his connections with the magical community overseas, he finally tracked it down.”
“So this is why you’ve been so cozy with him of late?” Jude asks. “Following a lead down the rabbit hole?”
“A couple of months ago, we got to chatting about his interest in fae lore after I showed him Graystone Manor in the Bronx,” I reply. “Darkfae lore, specifically. He mentioned he might have a lead on the Codex and wondered if I’d ever heard of it. I was dubious, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to start building a stronger bridge between our organizations.”
“Fucking dark fae,” Augustine sneers. “If any of these upstart mages ever went toe-to-toe with the real deal, they’d shit themselves. I don’t get why they’re all so obsessed.”
“Unsurprising, given Forsythe’s proclivities,” Rook says. “Shadowmancers are notorious for hoarding dark magic, cobbling together spells from any tradition that suits them. Fae, druidcraft, witchcraft, conjure, voodoo, Catholicism. You name it, they’ve stolen it, consequences be damned.”
“All the more reason not to trust the bastard,” Jude says.
“Who said anything about trust?” I ask. “In any case, knowing my affinity for fae magical history, he was more than happy to brag about the acquisition over drinks the other night.”
“So he’s got it in hand?” Augustine asks.
“He and his wife traveled to Dublin last week. Bought it from a shadow mage scholar and museum curator who specializes in fae translations.”
Rook’s eyes light up with academic curiosity. “Have you seen it?”
“Not yet,” I admit, “but he promised me a private showing the moment his people finish the authentication. I’ve no reason to doubt him. He was quite excited about it all.”
