Compelling infinity arch.., p.8
Compelling Infinity (Archivist 2), page 8
James waved a piece of partially rolled parchment, still sneering. “He was waiting at the door with a list of over twenty titles.”
Crystal snatched the list from him. “I already said I’d take care of it, even though community relations is usually your job.” Stepping toward me, the blond-haired witch lowered her voice. “It’s not an unprecedented request, Dusk. I made a judgement call.”
I nodded, trying to be gracious even though I wasn’t at all feeling like it. I was the head curator. I couldn’t just hole up petting and cooing over new acquisitions every day, no matter how much I wanted to.
Crystal smiled, relieved. “If you give me a few minutes to get the first few items, I’ll stack them on Ayre’s … on the free desk.” She gestured to the empty desk to the right of the entrance.
I hadn’t filled Ayre’s position yet. And I wasn’t in any rush to do so.
“Keeping him working away from your office will ensure that you don’t have to talk with Prince for too long,” Crystal added.
“Fine.”
She started to turn away, then hesitated. Her gaze flicked over my shoulder, and she opened her mouth to speak. Then she didn’t.
I followed that gaze. Brady had taken up sentry position in the open door to my office, leaning against the doorjamb. He was partially over the threshold and right in the middle of the wards, which couldn’t be all that comfortable. “Something wrong?” I asked the librarian.
She pursed her lips for a moment, already shaking her head. “Just a sense … that you … made an impression on Brendan Prince.”
I raised an eyebrow, not fully understanding the nuance underlying Crystal’s observation. I thought I’d been rather cool, even offish, when I’d met Prince at the gala. Though apparently not enough to dissuade the sorcerer from inviting himself into my office. “An impression?” I asked.
Crystal sighed, laughing. “You did look amazing. That gold mask of Ravine’s … and your golden eyes …” She trailed off uncomfortably. “I mean … Prince works out of the archive housed in the National Museum Cardiff, in Wales. I haven’t dug into his list of requests yet.” She lightly tapped the rolled parchment she was holding in the open palm of her other hand. “But even at first glance, he could have had the head curator at Cardiff request most of these items. Even the crown piece. Because even though you and Brady just found it, it’s not significant.” She shrugged one shoulder.
“He’s in town,” I said. “Maybe he wants to look over the items before making a formal request. Archive to archive.”
Crystal hummed noncommittally. Then she hustled off toward the back hall that led to the stairs down to the archives in the basement.
I tugged off my backpack, then my coat, folding it over my arm and putting my backpack on again.
“I don’t like it,” James muttered quietly. “Showing up here with a cheque, writing his list on old parchment.” He sniffed dismissively. “He’s a poseur. An obnoxious, arrogant poseur. Always has been.”
I eyed the historian, who I still didn’t know well. He was older than me by a decade and mostly kept to himself. “Will giving him access to the items he requested cause any harm?”
James huffed, unbuttoning his suit jacket and throwing himself into his desk chair. “Only to anyone who reads his work and is somehow suckered into even considering that his theories might hold any value or validity.”
I stifled a smile. “I understand.”
He grimaced. “I’m not jealous. I’m appalled at his popularity.”
Over three-quarters of the books housed in the archive’s library had been compiled by or written by historians. The texts might not hold magic themselves, or even teach the reader how to manifest and channel their specific powers. But taken as a whole, they were invaluable.
James had three books partially written himself and grants from two other archives supporting his research. He spent a chunk of time every few months in the London and Berlin archives. Before working in Dublin, I’d had no idea that historians competed for resources or maintained rivalries among themselves.
James shook his head, presumably at my lack of response. Then he started sorting through the few books, the single notebook, and the loose papers strewn across his desk. “It’s fine. Crystal and Brady can handle him. And I’ll happily take a chunk of his money.”
I smirked at him. When I’d said I understood him, I definitely did. Before being appointed as the head curator for the magical archives of Ireland, I’d been continually frustrated that every archivist I knew held far more exciting positions than I did. More exciting than what I’d assumed was a nothing title — Archivist of the Modern World.
Okay, fine. Not frustrated. Unlike James, I had been jealous.
Except as it turned out, Archivist of the Modern World hadn’t been just a title meant to keep me distracted and placated. But it had taken me almost two years to figure that out.
“Get me that proposal,” I said over my shoulder as I crossed toward my office.
“It’s not a dig,” James muttered under his breath. Then presumably thinking I couldn’t hear him, he raised his voice. “It isn’t ready yet.”
I nodded, but was already focused on the deeply glowering werewolf standing sentry at my door. Brady appeared to be trying to decide what level of punishment to mete out on Brendan Prince, but he stepped away as I drew near, leaning back against the wall by the door with his arms folded instead. I had no idea if he was more pissed at the interloping sorcerer, or at Crystal for agreeing to the unscheduled trespass of the archive offices.
Werewolves liked everything to be orderly.
I did as well, always. I was just slightly more flexible than Brady. But then, unlike the werewolf, I hadn’t almost died the last time one of the archive’s employees — namely, Ayre Byrne — allowed an unknown entity access to the offices and the staff. Six years ago, Celeste Cameron, the previous head curator, had died after being attacked by a soul sucker posing as a mummified pharaoh.
I gave my security specialist a quelling look before I crossed through the wards that invisibly sealed the doorway. I didn’t need backup in my own office. Brady’s glower only deepened. I would have sworn that his magic rooted him even more firmly in position. Werewolf magic didn’t work that way as far as I knew — at least not when a werewolf wasn’t on their claimed territory. So I wrote it off as an impression of Brady’s ridiculously stubborn nature rather than an actual manifestation of power.
The dark-haired man in the guest chair set before my large oak desk at the far side of the office swiveled at my entrance. He was dressed in a blue suit that was obviously bespoke, as was the navy-blue shirt underneath and the even darker-blue tie. His legs were crossed, displaying argyle-printed socks and shiny black-leather shoes.
Even with my limited understanding of fashion, it was obvious that Brendan Prince didn’t finance his wardrobe with grant money. Or at least he didn’t have any need to do so.
I hung my coat and scarf on the rack I’d set just inside the door, then crossed toward my desk. The oak bookshelves lining the two side walls were still mostly bare. Even with Crystal organizing the gala, I hadn’t acquired many personal work artifacts since I’d rehoused most of Celeste Cameron’s collection in the main archive.
Brendan Prince’s jaw-length hair fell forward from his sharp-featured face as he rose. As he had the night before, he swept it back from his high brow, then offered me his hand, grinning widely.
Even surrounded by wards of my own construction, I couldn’t get a solid read on the sorcerer’s magic. Again. He was either highly skilled at masking his power, or it wasn’t at all potent. It was likely the former. My sense for magic was acute.
I took his hand, and he leaned in, forcing eye contact. “I’m pleased to see you again, Dusk Godfrey,” he said, something teasing in his tone.
“You went out of your way to make that possible, Mr. Prince,” I said, trying to sound professional, but possibly erring on the side of icily cool.
Maybe I wasn’t as flexible as I’d proclaimed myself to be, even if only in my own head. Especially not in sight of the pile of books on the corner of my desk, each waiting patiently for me to gobble up their pages. Like the dragon I was, guarding my ever-increasing hoard.
A smile ghosted over my face at the thought. I released Prince’s hand, crossing around the desk.
“The prospect of uncovering the treasures the archive holds was worth far more effort,” he said smoothly. “Writing a cheque seems inconsequential when faced with …” He gestured toward my desk as he took his seat again.
No, not my desk.
Me.
I chafed internally at the suggestion that my time could be bought, but kept the reaction to myself as I slid my backpack into a warded desk drawer. Infinity was still tucked within it. Prince followed my movements with a flick of his violet eyes. But the longer the silence stretched, the more forced his pleasant expression became.
I sat, folding my hands on the desk.
He brightened his smile, tilting his head toward the pile of books perched a little precariously on the corner of my desk. “Some intriguing titles,” he murmured. “I’ve only read two. Am I right to assume that a few of these were also recently uncovered along with the fae crown piece?”
“The connection is circumstantial,” I said, chafing even more at him continuing to blithely name the relic as a so-called fae piece despite the lack of evidence. “These books simply held enough residual magic to draw my attention.” And yes, I knew that Crystal had intimated that fanciful connection in the gala display write-up, but it would have been nice if the historian sitting across from me could prove he was more than just a peddler of fae tales for profit.
When Brady and I had first collected the piece in Galway, the werewolf had called me a snob — and he was totally correct. Not that I was fussed enough about the title to do anything about it.
The research I was rather desperate to dive back into, on death goddesses and death magic, was tidily shelved to my left. I had five new books waiting for me — two unearthed from the archive, two on loan from the Dunkirk witches in London, and one from Zeke. If not for Brendan Prince, I would have already been working on the first, absorbing the text into Infinity and making notes as I read.
Prince’s grin sharpened. “Well, hopefully I have something to offer that might be just as intriguing as your recent finds.” He pulled a book bound in red fabric with a thick black spine from the leather satchel he’d slung over the back of the chair, offering it to me. Unlike the sorcerer’s other clothing, the satchel was well worn. Not shabby, but not as glossy as everything else he wore.
The title was embossed in dark-red foil on the cover, as were the edges of the pages. A Book of the Fae. His own book.
“Limited edition,” Prince all but purred. “And autographed, of course.” He set the book down, flipping it open to the inscription in question.
I dropped my gaze, my eyesight sharp enough that I could read it even across the desk.
He had signed the inset title page, dominated by an etching that was rather heavy on the flourishes. It was a door surrounded by runes or symbols I didn’t recognize.
* * *
Dusk. May you discover many unexplored doorways and find many new worlds at your feet. — Prince
* * *
The inscription was oddly intimate for two people who’d barely met. And the sense that I’d missed something important or had forgotten something itched again at the back of my mind. Was it the symbols? They looked familiar …
Prince was staring at me expectantly.
“Thank you for the donation,” I said smoothly. “We have copies of your work in the archive. Crystal referenced them a few times while setting up the gala.” His magic was still dim, with no hint of anything even remotely nefarious about it. His grin was still fixed. Maybe it was his unusual violet eyes.
Was I that shallow? Or was it Crystal’s suggestion that I’d made an impression on Brendan Prince, when all I ever really wanted was to just do my job and go mostly unnoticed?
“Of course you do,” he said with a shrug. “But this is for your personal library, Dusk.” He leaned forward, smiling as if sharing an intimate secret with me. “And though you might not have had the time to fill your office shelves, I imagine your personal library is … large. And varied. Yes?”
Not entirely certain if he was trying to flirt and was just terrible at it — or if he somehow hadn’t yet noticed that I wasn’t receptive — I dropped my gaze to the etched titled page again.
Something about those runes around the doorway were definitely familiar …
I tugged the book closer, noting as Prince settled back in his chair with a smug grin and his legs crossed, flicking a nonexistent piece of lint from his knee.
I flipped to the first chapter, quickly scanning the text.
“Ah, yes. The tale we spoke of on Saturday night,” he said. “The fated mates torn asunder? A devoted lord of the fae willing to risk all to achieve the life his lady desired. They fled the constraints of their parentage and heritage, only to be cruelly separated. She murdered so he could survive …”
“And her crown was broken in pieces by the blow that took her life,” I said, interrupting him. I knew the tale he was peddling — the tale that he’d brushed off and added some flourishes to, including the lovers being fae, and was now selling. Passing off fanciful embellishment as fact. No verifiable sources or references of the sort James was spending years accumulating. All the research he’d done to write the three books he was currently working on.
To any real historian, the lovers of Prince’s tale were most likely a minor footnote in the history of the Adept, with some sort of Celtic roots. James agreed with me, as did Brady. Spending more time translating the runes on the crown piece would let me know for certain.
That said, James, Brady, and I had disagreed quietly in the lead-up to the gala, so as to not upset Crystal.
And it wasn’t that I didn’t believe in the fae as a concept. It was simply a term so broad as to be meaningless, covering too many beings, too many possible dimensions. And all those dimensions were effectively unknown to the Adepts of the world because the guardian dragons had long kept their unnamed denizens from expanding into our own dimension, sealing any and all doorways and portals to those realms as fast as they appeared.
The fae were similar in that way to elves or even demons. But elves and demons had actual lore. Real history within the world. All that was known of the fae was mostly guesswork, hinting that they had vastly disparate classifications among their own kind, from ruling classes whose positions were based on pure, inherent power, to lesser fae who were subservient to the fae in each rank above them.
I’d only ever read about three actual fae incursions. Three thwarted attempts to breach the boundary between dimensions and the guardian dragons’ defenses. But none of those attempts had occurred in the last thousand years or involved any of my relatives. At least none of the relatives whose journals resided in my mother’s library.
A glimmer of frustration, or maybe even anger, flitted over Prince’s face. He covered it with a thin-lipped smile and a dip of his chin. But having finished scanning the first couple of pages of his book, I was now looking for something else under the smooth exterior that Brendan Prince presented. Because even with just a quick glance, my practically eidetic memory had kicked in.
The first section of Prince’s book was an echo of the tome I’d discovered along with the piece of the crown, both claimed from the estate of a Byrne witch in Galway. Similar word for word in some places. To the point that Prince’s work might well have been paraphrased — if not outright copied — from the older text.
That text was currently tucked into the middle of the pile on the corner of my desk, its spine unmarked. Without having the time to verify its origins and authenticity, I had chosen to not display it alongside the crown-piece relic for the gala. I would have to double-check, of course. The volume the Byrne witch had collected was handwritten, but based on the date on the illustrated title page, it most definitely predated the book currently splayed open on my desk by at least two hundred years. Sorcerers could live well into their first century, but not beyond.
I would also need to compare the unusual runes twined throughout the illustrated title page to the sketches contained within the earlier work. But the question of whether Brendan Prince was a plagiarizer was suddenly intriguing. And definitely not in the way I was fairly certain the historian wanted to be intriguing, if I was reading his oddly uncomfortable attempts at flirting correctly.
Well, uncomfortable for me.
Tension ran through Prince’s jaw in response to my steady regard. But his tone was perfectly pleasant. “You were saying?”
“I’m just wondering how devoted this fae lord could have been to his so-called fated mate. If she was the one who died so he could flee.”
“That is certainly one perspective,” Prince said, smiling tightly.
Of course, the older handwritten account could simply be a copy of an even older work that Prince had used as a source. But that only exemplified my disdain for what passed for research among some historians. Copying old tales out again and again, freshening them up, then selling them to the modern Adept as if they were actual history.
Still, that line of thought made me wonder what Brendan Prince might do with any earlier accountings he copied. Did he collect them and hide them away? Or would he go so far as to destroy them?
And if that was the case, rather than the appearance of the magically insignificant crown piece, was it the idea of the journal accompanying the piece coming to light that had drawn him to the gala? Concern for his livelihood, perhaps?
I closed the book, trying to appear thoughtful. “And what do you think they were doing? The two fae? Having crossed into our dimension to build themselves a new life?”
