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“Your father is the only author still alive.”
That was what Meg had told me, and she wouldn’t have lied to me.
“I was under the impression Dad was the only surviving author.”
“I slumbered for a time.” Proctor tugged a gray-green lichen off his cheek. “It’s the troll in me.”
“I see.”
“I can fall asleep in the shade one afternoon and wake up as a rock five years later.” He dusted the front of an old linen shirt streaked with dirt that appeared to have been worn for several days. “Six months ago, I woke up as part of a water feature in a…” he twisted his wrist, “…sub-di-vi-sion.” He wrinkled hisnose. “I stank of chemicals, humanity, and canine urine.” He glanced around. “It’s good to be home.”
The book was filled with lethal spells Dad had purged from his mind to prevent himself from becoming a monster. He didn’t regret his choice. He made it for Mom, and for me. For our family. For our future. But I could see how, if he hadn’t been confined to a cell for so much of my life, his hatred might have turned to resolve to hunt down the grimoire and devour the magic he had once sacrificed and take his revenge.
Proctor claimed to have been sleeping, which might have fooled Meg into thinking he was dead. Maybe. But the long years he spent without the magic he fed to the book, and his avarice when he learned what I had created, left me concerned he might want his pages back. Worse. He might want themall.
Angling toward Dad, I wished I had some privacy to quiz him. “How did you know he was alive?”
“I could sense him.” He hesitated, as if loathe to admit the rest. “Through you.”
“Through the book, he means.” Proctor slid his gaze down my body slowly. “A piece of me is inside you.”
Ick.
How had Dad put up with this sleazeball long enough to extract his chapter of information?
The bunny, who Proctor seemed to have forgotten about, leapt from my arms onto his face. He raked the slender black claws on his hind legs across Proctor’s cheek, tearing furrows in his grayed flesh, then sank his fangs into the side of his knobby throat. The whole attack lasted seconds, but when Blay kicked off of his chest and sprung into my arms, he was smeared with a different sort of crimson.
“Why you little—” Proctor, who had begun to lunge at me, pulled up short. “What’s that I smell?”
“The end of the world as you know it,” Marita said from behind me, “if you don’t back the fuck off Rue.”
The wolf who padded beside her, teeth flashing and eyes golden, spooked Proctor into stepping back.
As much as I appreciated the quick save, we had to be careful how I presented myself around him. If my friends kept fighting my battles for me, he would start to wonder why I wasn’t defending myself. I wasn’t sure how much Dad had told him about my condition, but I wasn’t going to volunteer anything he didn’t already know.
“Wargs.” Proctor licked his lips. “They’re quite good with proper seasoning.”
A low rumble poured out of Derry, and Proctor blanched as the wolf stepped in front of his mate.
“Make you a deal.” Marita rubbed Derry’s ears. “Help my friend, and we’ll hunt for you when you’re done. We can guarantee you a deer apiece. Maybe one black bear. Possibly a cougar. Your choice.”
“Delightful.” Proctor eyed the bunny warily. “Setthataside, and we’ll begin.”
After the looks Derry and Marita had shot the bunny, I elected to entrust Blay into Dad’s care.
“May I see the artifact?” Proctor crowded my personal space. “A pendant, if I recall correctly?”
With no magic to feed on, the Hunk was pliant when I tugged on the chain, fishing out the gaudy ruby.
“Hello, there.” Avarice brightened his eyes. “Do you mind…?”
“Be careful.” I held it out so he wouldn’t touch my skin. “It’s protective of me.”
“It’s dormant.” He flexed his fingers as if debating with himself. “I ought to be fine.”
“Suit yourself.”
A vestigial twinge prickled through me as the Hunk protested his touch. Or, since he was another author, maybe the reaction was worse. Say, rousing his embedded powers, calling them to the surface.
