Page 19 of Awakened Ash and Alchemy

“I’ll come with you.”

Zarek dunked his head under the showerhead, letting the heat fill the room with steam.

He told himself this was strategy. That the weight in his chest was fatigue, and not that pull toward the woman with the mismatched eyes that showed her fears, tears, and lack of sleep. He wanted to take away her pain, erase the memory of that night, when by rights there should be no connection at all.

He had work to do. He needed to forget her and focus on the job.

And yet he could not stop thinking about her.

It was bordering on an obsession.

Zarek straightened, water streaming down his face as his jaw tightened.

He was a captain who had a duty to protect the realm, not behave like some predator who lurked in the shadows. If it were anyone else doing this to her—tracking her movements or appearing uninvited in her yard at night—he’d put his fist through their ribcage and rip out their spleen without hesitation.

Yet his reasons were justifiable. He was keeping her safe. Monitoring the situation. Ensuring no further threats emerged.

Except that’s what they all said, wasn’t it?

The water continued to pound against his shoulders, but it did nothing to wash away the truth settling inside his chest.

Helviti! Something was wrong with him. He’d never behaved like this; it was unacceptable.

Yet, whatever was hijacking his will was getting worse.

NINE

Angela steadied the book on its cradle, careful not to let her breath disturb the tissue-thin gold leaf she was pressing along the pages, where water damage had bloomed through the vellum like an old bruise. Someone had loved this book once, then it was abandoned before it found its way to a new owner who wanted it restored.

Angela liked this part best, bringing a book back that had once been written off as ruined. She adjusted her grip on the fine brush and smoothed the edge of the restored filigree, feathering the gold until it disappeared into the original pattern on the book’s cover. The repair was not meant to be seen. That was the point.

She had learned the skill from countless long afternoons in the back of the shop, killing time after school, while her aunt finished with clients or her mother wrapped up a class. A retired bookbinder, a regular to the store, had shown her how to mend a torn hinge, to mix paste by feel, and how to know when a book wanted to be left alone.

What started as a way to kill boredom became a way to make pocket money. Then, somehow, requests followed, and with them a reputation she hadn’t expected. She wasn’t certified, and had never formally studied the trade. All she did was rescue books her aunt had declared unsellable.

Yet, through Angela’s hands, they became whole enough to be loved again, where some ended up in auction houses that helped pay for the extras toward her law degree. The same auction house that would send her requests or clients.

Most of all, it helped when her mind refused to cooperate. Back when she practiced law and struggled with a legal case, she’d sneak into the bookshop and restore a spine or retouch a cover and let the solution surface on its own. Working slowly on a project with her hands somehow loosened thoughts better than force ever could.

But this book had been a wonderful challenge. A volume with no title and little spine.

The heavy pages had irregular edges, showing a language she didn’t understand. Norse, or Icelandic, possibly sixteenth century. The private collector called them staves, carved-looking symbols and sigils from folklore.

Some of the staves were delicate snowflake designs, while others held rigid geometric grids. Each was a fascinating magical symbol created either for protection, love, luck, or for warding off evil. Her quick online research showed that staves were spells created in shapes, and how their patterned repetition held a sort of logic, like variables in an equation. Of course, her aunt, a lover of all things esoteric, was all over that and had instantly nominated Angela to take the job. While Angela nodded politely as her waiting list got pushed back.

Now, after three weeks of working on this book, the staves were both beautiful and fierce, that re-creating the right book cover to suit their story took time.

She adjusted her grip on the fine brush and smoothed the edge of the repair, feathering the stabilizer until it disappeared into the vellum. The work was not meant to be seen, but give the impression that the book was still in its original order.

And that was how she knew she’d done the job right.

Satisfied, she set the brush down and reached for the blotting paper as the bell over the shop’s front door rang.

Angela didn’t look up right away. Customers came and went all day.

Only this time, beneath the air rose a scent that didn’t belong to the shop’s usual mix of paper, herbs, and candle smoke.

Angela’s fingers froze.