Page 276
Because my hands are covered in ash.
The same sooty, black ash that covered the pillar in my dream.
Chapter 36
Daxen
”I’ll tell you what, the Irish are a bunch of drunk assholes, but their stories are on point,” Riven mutters, leaning back in his chair and stretching his arms out with an exaggerated groan.
”What now? I can’t handle any more drama today.”
I push a stack of books to the side and rub my eyes. Words are starting to blur.
After our little breakthrough with what Riven is now referring to as “The Prophecy,” I spent the last few hours rereading all the copies I could find of The Song of Light in case we missed anything.
Riven scoffs. “Do I need to remind you that no one was being dramatic today except you?”
”I was not being dramatic,” I grouse.
Just because the Omega couldn’t handle harsh words doesn’t make me a monster like Riven implied.
Fine. He didn’t imply it. He straight-up called us monsters. But he wasn’t there when we pulled Caelan’s silver-infected body out of Varenthrall’s. He didn’t have to hold his screaming packmate down in the back of a vehicle while he was burning alive from the inside out.
I’ll never forget those screams.
“I found a few stories written in an old journal by young Miss Sorcha Byrne.” Riven pauses. “I suppose she wouldn’t be young anymore. She’s actually probably dead. These entries are over a century old.”
”Get on with it, Riv.”
Every time he found something he thought was interesting, the lead-up to the reveal took forever.
He shrugs and sets the book down. “Not much to tell. Sorcha claims her grandmother said their family was something called Watchers. There are a couple of entries where she talks about ley lines in the area. I was cross-checking, and they seem to match up. Which gives credence to her grandmother’s tales.”
He stands, throwing another log into the fire. Sparks fly over the grate, and it pops and crackles before settling down.
Damnit. I hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but somehow I knew it would.
“Byrne?” I ask with a defeated sigh.
“Why? Do you know her?” Riven raises a brow. “I wasn’t aware any of your dalliances had been from Ireland around then, Daxen.”
He never turns it off. The desire to squeeze information out of every conversation.
Rather than responding, I make my way to the stack of journals I found yesterday.
I’ve been telling myself all day that they’ve always been here and I just never noticed, because the fact that random journals appeared the same day as Benedict’s set my teeth on edge.
I snatch one off the bottom of the small stack and set it in front of Riven before I pour myself a drink and fall back into the soft leather of the couch, watching the fire crackle in the hearth.
“What’s this?”
“Found it yesterday.” I eye him over my tumbler. “I’ve only flipped through to see if I recognized who they belonged to.”
I point at the book in his hands. “That is the journal of Bríd Byrne. Dated from the 1860’s. So, more than likely, she’s Sorcha’s grandmother.”
Riven drops down next to me and snatches the journal. “Why didn’t you think to bring this up this morning?”
I groan and throw my head back. “Because I was freaked the fuck out, alright? And yeah, before you say anything, I know how that sounds coming from me.” I drag a hand down my face. “I kept telling myself they weren’t relevant. Figured if we hit a wall and had nothing left, I’d bring them out and act as if I’d just found them. Or remembered them. Or… whatever.”
