Page 60 of A Sip of Sin
Adair jerked to his feet, panic cross his features. “Will he be okay?”
George nodded, his movements stuttered. “I promise.”
He moved to stand, but Adair reached out to grasp his shoulder. “I can’t let you do this alone. I’m coming with you.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Munro
The lock on the door was turned, the thick wood shut tight on a dark evening for the first time since Munro had first bought the place and renovated it out. Not a single shadow had passed by the door, the display as empty as the gaping wound in his chest.
Sean had resisted at first, claiming he would look after the place while Munro did whatever it was he had to do, but Munro had sent him away with the promise of pay and a well-deserved vacation.
Only Erie remained in the quiet building, the turning of each page cutting through the steady sound of Munro’s pacing footprints. Every page was a disappointment and a step closer to failure, with yellowed words in a language that only few could understand. It left no clues.
The long saga of his life was coming back to bite him in the worst way. There had been a time when he’d destroyed anything with a hint of magic. Everyone had, from the faeries to the obscure families who rarely wore a human face. Magic was chaos and a threat wrapped in a volatile package—unpredictable, dangerous, and deadly.
When he’d bound Gorgo, he’d murdered the last person on earth who contained an ounce of magic, draining him dry and pilfering everything he’d owned. The writings and journals were added to the other tomes he’d collected to gather dust without the hope of retaining another master.
The words were gibberish to him, but he’d held on to them.
Erie seemed to grasp them, humming under his breath at some inscriptions and pausing sometimes for a full minute on one sentence. Inevitably he turned the page, eventually moving onto the next book and the next until the pile diminished.
“Anything?” Munro snapped, running his nails along the closest table.
Erie raised one brow without looking up. His eyes were carved with red lines, the bags underneath the darkest black. He hadn’t stopped in over twenty-four hours, even when his head had surely started aching.
Grasping the edge of the table, Munro ground his nails into the wood, easily cutting through the fragments. He was useless here—unable to do more than throw a tantrum while his love was dying only blocks away. But if he approached unprepared, Gorgo would take them all to their graves.
“Are you done?” snapped Erie, quickly glancing up before he strayed back to the book. “Trying to translate this chicken scratch is worse than watching you lose your temper.”
His breath left Munro in a rush as he stalked closer, leaning over to see the pages. He could catch a few words here and there, but nothing that would be of much use. There was one line about the sun and lunar cycles, but the rest was gibberish.
“What is this?” asked Munro, pointing to the worn page. It was dry and fragile, so weathered it was nearly illegible, but it looked like a list of items scrolled down the page.
“A poultice or a potion, I’m not sure.” Erie flicked his tongue over the edge of his teeth, the quick scent of blood sparking. “Ormaybe it’s a recipe for fucking soup, I don’t know.” He pushed the book away, letting out a sigh as he leaned back in his chair. “None of these are remotely useful. The last one was more diary than anything else. This one is nothing but lists of random things. Six hours ago, I was trying to decipher some kind of religious propaganda. We’re wasting our time with these.”
A low growl echoed from Munro’s throat. “If I tell you to read this, you’ll do it. I won’t risk missing a single word that could help Hollen.”
Erie stood, pushing his chair back until the seat toppled over, sprawling against the ground. “You know what? Fuck you. I should have never come back. I know you’re a self-centered, arrogant asshole, but I guess I was just wishing you’d changed.”
Munro hooked his fingers into the edge of the table, tossing it to the side in a fluttering of books and pages. One particularly heavy one cracked open on its spine, the yellowed parchment seeping over the floor. “Test me. Idareyou.”
A second growl joined the first as Erie stalked up to him, his eyes narrowed and his gaze level. “Do you know why the weres can’t stand us and the faeries break every standing alliance? Their hatred runs deeper than you could ever imagine, and it’s all because of you. You sent me into that chaos to be killed, but luckily, I could show them we aren’t all like you. Some of us have a beating heart in our bodies, and some of us give a shit about others, even if they don’t have fangs.”
Munro flinched, turning his cheek as if he’d been slapped. His face burned, his ears ringing. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
His stubbornness drained from his limbs in an instant, and he grabbed the nearest chair, leaning heavily. The sharpness of his fangs prickled against his lips as he sagged his head. The youth and vitality that Hollen had given him in the few swallows of blood was a parched desert in his mouth now.
Munro shook his head. He was long past grief or longing about what could have been if he hadn’t made such a grave mistake on the night he’d murdered the last magician.
“There is a very good reason they hate me so much. I doubt any of them alive today could tell you the exact moment that I ruined so many lives. You were there, too, but I pulled the veil over your eyes so you wouldn’t see.”
That night had been the first and last time Munro had hypnotized one of his own kind. Erie had been nearly broken, bleeding from the blackened wounds on his chest that Gorgo had inflicted. There had barely been a spark left in his eyes as the city had burned around them, screams fading to sorrow. That was probably why it had been so easy to slip inside Erie’s mind and snatch away the knowledge that had plagued Munro since.
“What?” Erie crossed his arms over his chest, his body stiff.
“Magic.” Munro shook his head. “Magic made us—weres, faeries, vampires—all of us. There is no one else who knows that fact, save the two of us and Rhys. There are legends, of course, that weres pass around their packs and faeries teach their children, but they are more folklore than truth. Magic was the only way into this life and the only way out.”
