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I gave the others a questioning look, but everyone seemed content to follow my lead as far as whether to trust Carl. I wasn’t sure if Seretis could read the arcane-immune Carl but, either way, the demonic lord didn’t appear bothered by him. Whew. Felt good to have another potential ally in all this shit.
“We’ll be working mainly in the library and attic,” I told Carl. “I’m sure we can stay out of each other’s way.”
“Good deal,” he said then returned to the kitchen.
Seretis made short work of shredding the wards protecting the library. We all filed in, and Idris went straight to work on the valve. Bryce let out a low whistle as he took in the horrific majesty of my aunt’s library. Shelves covered every vertical surface, all crammed with books, scrolls and papers. Books lay in tumbled disarray on the floor and in precariously balanced stacks on the heavy oak table. A crystal chandelier fit for a ballroom hung in the center of the room.
“Dear god, is Satan her librarian?” Bryce asked in amazement.
I laughed. “It’s insane, especially compared to the rest of her house which is always neat as a pin. I’ve never understood it.”
Seretis inspected the contents of the shelves, while Bryce peered at the books and papers on the table. I sent a calculating look around the library, mouth pursed.
“I’d love to relocate as much of this to my house as possible,” I said then sighed. “Except that it would piss off my aunt big-time.”
Bryce let out a rude snort and gave me a sidelong look. “You’ve pissed people off before, once or twice.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said with an air of total innocence that earned me an even ruder snort. “That said, this is my aunt, and she’s been a major part of my life for almost twenty years. The destruction of her wards will have her furious enough as it is. I’ll restrain myself and only take a few books that might be useful.” And what would those be? Arcane Fun Without the Arcane? Ordinary People?
Maybe I could write one. No Skillz, No Prob: A Primer for the Arcanely Challenged.
Seretis paused in the far corner by a collection of various outdated publications with stimulating titles such as The Chemical Rubber Company’s Handbook of Chemistry and Physics 37th edition or The Grand Tour Correspondence of Richard Pococke & Jeremiah Milles, Volume 3: Letters from the East (1737-41) or, for extra thrills, Ag and Food Statistics 1981: Charting the Essentials. But instead of moving on like a sane person, he leaned closer, scrutinizing the books before glancing my way with a slight frown. “Have you ever used these volumes?”
I angled my head. “Logarithm tables, and the collected works of Leonid Brezhnev—in the original Russian? Gee, can’t say that I have. Why?”
He straightened, expression serious. “This section is warded specifically against you.”
A weird rush of cold filled my stomach. I swallowed. “I assume you can unward it?”
“Perhaps.?
?? His fingers moved in deft execution of wards I couldn’t see. “I am not certain.”
The cold increased. “Who could ward it that you wouldn’t be certain?”
He exhaled. “Rhyzkahl.”
My blood pounded in my ears. I’d never taken any interest in the books on that shelf. Ever. They’d been there for as long as I could remember. Boring. Unappealing. Even now the thought of reading one filled me with a sense of annoyance at myself that I’d waste my time on an activity so stupid and pointless. “Can you bring out whatever’s in there? Please?”
Seretis considered for a moment. “I can. The protections on the individual volumes are not as dire as those on this area.” He fell quiet, fingers moving in infinitesimal gestures. After several minutes, he gathered up a half dozen books and brought them to the table then made a second trip with another half dozen.
The books still had ordinary faded bindings and boring titles, but any curious kid would have pulled them out at least once. Unless, of course, powerful aversions countered that curiosity. I opened one after another, essence-deep chill increasing with each one. The faded bindings were fakes that hid other books—ones I would have pored over for hours on end. An ancient volume with hand-scribed information on the demonic lords. Histories of summoning. A ragged bestiary of non-summonable demons. A treatise on fundamental summoning, including the pygah sigil, which I’d never heard of until Mzatal taught me.
And, a journal filled with neat script on translucent vellum from the demon realm. Not Tessa’s handwriting either. The front sheet bore a beautifully rendered mark of Szerain in gold ink. On the following page was an exquisite portrait sketch of a young woman, with “Graciella Therese Pazhel” written in a bold hand below it.
I traced the curve of her cheek with shaking fingers. Gracie Pazhel. My grandmother, killed by Rhyzkahl over thirty years ago. I’d seen pictures of her, but this sketch by Szerain captured far more of her than any mere photograph. Proud and confident, with a half-smile as if she held a delicious secret. One she’d died for? Why had Tessa hidden Gracie’s legacy from me? And what else didn’t I know? The foundation I’d relied on for most of my life now felt as sturdy as tissue paper in a rainstorm.
“Were these warded against my aunt as well?” I pushed the words past the bitter taste that filled my mouth. Though I knew the answer, I had to ask. Had to cling to the hope that we’d both been duped and used.
“No.”
Emotions churned as I dropped my gaze to the journal. “She lied to me,” I said, voice cracking.
“The qaztahl and their summoners are devious,” Seretis said with a heavy touch of self-loathing.
“I finally get hold of stuff I’ve needed, and now I can’t even use it.” My fingers dug into a fake binding, and I slammed the book against the table. “Ain’t that a piece of shit.”
Bryce muttered a curse. “You still balking at taking what you want?”
