Page 40

"Wait," I say, my voice rising into a manic pitch. "No. I need... I need more books."

Lachlan stares at me like I've lost my mind. "Vivienne, we need to leave. Now."

"No!" I yell, the panic finally breaking through the dam in my chest. If I stop moving, if I stop talking, if I have to sit in the quiet with what I just did to that man's face, I am going to scream until my lungs bleed. "I need books on the Society! Everything you have—histories, etiquette, diaries, travel journals, biographies! I want all of it!"

"Right away, right away!" the rat chirps, his whiskers twitching as he scuttles down an aisle. "Follow me, mind the ash!"

I march after him, my boots clicking against the floorboards, carefully stepping over the gray pile near the shelf. "I also need books on... shifter culture," I add, deliberately keeping my eyes locked on the rat's vest so I don't have to look at Lachlan.

"Which species?" the rat asks, pulling heavy hardcovers off the shelves and stacking them into my arms. "Wolves, lions, avian, ursine?"

"Bear shifters," I say bluntly.

Lachlan lets out a harsh, guttural sound of pure annoyance behind me. "You've got a bear standing right next to you, lass. You could just ask."

"Can she?" the rat asks, pausing to look over his shoulder at Lachlan. "Can she ask you about your territorial habits? Your dietary needs during a full moon?"

A low growl starts in Lachlan’s chest.

"I didn't think so," the rat mutters, pulling a thick volume bound in brown leather from a top shelf. "Here. The Ursine Question: Customs and Rites of the High Clans."

I grab the book and immediately shove it down the back of my pants, pulling my heavy sweater over the top to hide the spine. I don't care that I look ridiculous. I don't care that it's uncomfortable. I need something petty to fight with Lachlan about so I don't have to think about the burning skin under my fingernails.

"Do you have fiction?" I ask the rat, my voice rising again, manic and breathless. "Do you have Kresley Cole?"

The rat stops, handing me three more volumes on Society law. "We do. And while her works are classed as romance fiction in the mortal realm, she is one of ours. You might find more truth in her pages than in the history archives."

"Great," I say, my chest heaving as I stack the books into a towering pile on the front counter. "I'll take the whole series."

"A wise choice," the rat says, clicking away at a brass cash register. "That will be forty-two gold sovereigns, charged directly to the House Midnight account."

"Can you deliver them?" I ask, my hands shaking so badly I have to lock my fingers together. "I can't carry all of this."

"Already taken care of," the rat beams, pulling his pocket watch out again. "My tunnel diggers have already moved them to your foyer. We don't rely on magic for transport—just simple labor beneath the dirt."

"Right. Great. Tunnels," I whisper, staring at my bare right hand again. The skin looks so clean. Why does it feel so filthy?

Lachlan steps up beside me, his large hand coming down on my shoulder. His grip is firm, heavy, grounded. He doesn't touch my hands, but he stays close enough that I can feel the furnace heat radiating from his chest.

"We're going home," he says quietly.

"We need to open the envelope," I say, my voice flat, empty, the adrenaline finally crashing out of my blood, leaving me hollowed out.

"Not here," he says, his eyes darting toward the shadowy corners of the shop. "There are always eyes in the Wishing Wood. Hold onto me."

He doesn't wait for permission. He steps close, wrapping his thick arms around my waist, pulling my hips flush against his. I clamp the black grimoire under my arm, burying my face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of cedar, heather, and rain.

The world twists.

A stomach-churning drop takes my feet out from under me, the air rushing cold and sharp against my skin before snapping back into place.

We are standing in the grand foyer of Midnight House. The black-and-white checked marble tile stretches out around us, bright and pristine under the chandelier. On the inlaid mahogany table in the center of the room, a neat stack of twenty leather-bound books sits waiting for us—delivered through the rat's underground tunnels before we even arrived.

Lachlan lets go of me immediately, stepping back until there are at least five feet of open tile between us.

The silence of the house settles over us like a burial shroud. No rustling pages. No rat watch-chains. Just the sound of our ragged breathing echoing off the high ceilings.

Lachlan stands near the staircase, his dark eyes locked onto the black book clutched against my ribs. The color has completely drained from his face, leaving his Scottish tan sickly and gray. His upper lip twitches, a faint flash of fang showing against his mouth as he fights his own instinct to snarl.