Page 20

I leave the book, not without checking back over my shoulder four or five times as I make my way to where I dumped my pack unceremoniously behind the bar earlier.

A few moments later, I've pulled out my favorite Moleskine and the ballpoint pen that's the last of a pack and probably close to dying. And for a second, that familiar oh shit, I need to have money to buy pens washes over me before I realize that I have money. For once, I don't need to worry about where my next pen or meal fund is coming from.

It's a fucking relief, and I'm nearly giddy with it as I make my way back to my chair and settle back in in front of this strange book.

The pictures are, in fact, still moving, and I make note of each image, knowing full well the imagery in books like these serves to tell the story just as much as the words on the paper do. Marginalia—this holds just as much information for historians as does the text itself. The people who wrote the stories of the times they were living in often imparted their current wisdom and personality in that way. And in this case...

What appears to be some serious magic.

I tilt my head, scribbling furiously.

When I hit the fifth paragraph of my notes, I realize I’m stalling.

Fuck it.

My heart races, and I squeeze my eyes shut for a minute, that tension headache that started at the university starting up again.

“Better to just do it, like ripping off a band-aid,” I mutter.

I blow out another breath and brace myself to translate the words in front of me. I'm not bad at Latin. Not really. But one poor mistranslation can make the difference between getting something right and getting something completely wrong, and this is going to take some focus.

I peer down at the page, staring at the Latin letters, then let out a swear, nearly jumping out of my seat as the ink begins to realign itself into much more familiar shapes.

English.

Thank fuck for this magic.

The text on the vellum settles into sharp, elegant typography, surrounded by scribbled, frantic notes in a darker, messier ink that looks as if it was added in a hurry. Someone else's notes. Added directly to the book. Hurts my historian heart.

I start to read it out loud, then remember all the strange things that have happened when I do that, and decide that perhaps out loud is not the best method to be reading in this place. Or maybe ever again. My kindergarten teacher would be disgusted.

The Charter of Midnight and the Heir's Mandate:

"The Heir of Midnight wears the cloak of the unmaking. Know that the Eternal Society rests upon six pillars, but only one holds the chisel. House Midnight is not born to conquer. House Midnight is not born to legislate. House Midnight is not born to rule. House Midnight is judge, jury, and law itself.

By the Treaty of Shadows, made in the Council of the Eternal Society, House Midnight magic unmakes. Midnight blood carries nullification, capable of unraveling dark blood spells, stripping glamour from the Fae, and of breaking the chains of immortality. Should a new heir claim the House, the Council shall issue the three Summons of Ascension. To refuse a summons to the Eternal Society is to forfeit the Veil ward and invite lawful execution by the Seven Houses. To accept is to enter the courts of the Eternal Society, where assassination under the guise of ancient ritual is recognized in tradition."

I pull back from the book and swear under my breath. Again, none of this sounds good.

I reread what seems to be the most relevant information: "Blood carries nullification." I mutter it twice, then read the description in the text again: "Capable of unraveling dark blood spells, stripping glamour, breaking the chains of immortality."

"Well, that doesn't sound fucking good," I say, rubbing my eyes again.

I probably look like a raccoon considering how late it is, and the fact that I did have makeup on for my meeting before I crawled around in some nasty-ass tunnels and made my way here. But I think the way I look probably matters less now than it ever has before. Breaking the chains of immortality and nullification sound a hell of a lot like whatever magic is racing through my veins right now is capable of turning off everybody else's. No wonder they don't want to hunt me down.

"Judge, jury, and law. Why don't you just straight up say fucking executioner?" I tell the book. I know it is shit that this is what I've landed myself in. "I'm a fucking threat. 'Course they want to assassinate me—some absolute unknown popping out of nowhere with the ability to take away their immortality. That's just fucking great, yeah, that's just fucking great," I rant.

I sigh deeply, pinching the bridge of my nose, and lean forward again, trying to make out the chicken-scratch marginalia left by whatever poor soul was unlucky enough to have this house before I. An arrow is drawn to the underlined word nullification. The marginalia says:

"Your magic feels like cold iron in your bones. There's no fireballs, there's no shields, there's nothing of creation at all. In Midnight House, when they throw their magic at you, don't try to block it. Take the thread of their spell and pull it until it unravels into nothingness."

"Right, 'cause that's helpful," I say. "Pull at their spell. Pull at their spell, right? Uh-huh. Pull at their spell. That's what I'll do. Thank you so much for that advice, book, I really appreciate it."

I skip over to the next page, thoroughly disgusted with whoever was here who left this incredibly unhelpful note about pulling at the thread of fucking spellwork, as if it's an actual literal thing I could pull at, and look into the next list on the opposite page.

The Midnight House and Six Pillars of the Eternal Society, it reads:

House Nocturne