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Lachlan doesn't answer immediately.

He stares at his crystal tumbler, turning it slowly in his scarred fingers, his face carved into grim, brooding lines. When he finally speaks, his voice is heavy with an ancient unease that makes the hair on my arms stand up.

"I don't know, Vivienne," he says quietly. "I've served House Midnight for five centuries. I fought beside Lord Alistair. I watched Lady Rowan strip the magic from an entire cabal of Fae enforcers in the streets of Edinburgh. Nullification is silent. It's clean. It breaks the spell and leaves the mortal vessel behind."

He looks up, locking eyes with me, his gaze dead serious.

"What you did yesterday wasn't nullification. It wasn't the void."

"Then what was it?"

"It was predatory," Lachlan says, the word heavy and dark. "It had the smell of marrow. It moved like bloodcraft."

A cold shudder runs down my spine. "Bloodcraft? Like... House Sanguine?"

"Aye," Lachlan whispers, blowing out a troubled breath. "Like the very monsters who want your head."

“In their defense, it’s a good-looking head,” I croak, trying for a joke and missing.

Down on the floor by my stool, Kirk lets out a low, hollow wooden growl, his carved ears pinned flat against his skull as if he can sense the dark question hanging between us.

"It’s impossible," I say, shaking my head. "I'm the heir of Midnight. The astrolabe chose me. The house gave me the key.” My fingers thump against my chest. “My bloodline is Midnight."

"Your blood claimed the door, aye," Lachlan agrees, raising a thick eyebrow at me. "The unmaking lives in your marrow, and that's why your body is burning up under the magic. But whatever woke up inside you in that bookstore... it didn't come from the Midnight. The grimoire, maybe, yeah? I don’t know."

He leans forward, resting his forearms on the slate, his hazel eyes boring into mine.

"Tomorrow, we go down to the courtyard," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. "No more running from it. We test the magic. We figure out what is living inside your veins before Julian St. George hands you a chalice of poison and finds out for himself."

I look at the dark enameled pot, at the dregs of red wine in my glass, and then down at the living braid pulsing against my wrist.

The warmth of the kitchen suddenly feels very thin against the encroaching dark outside the stained-glass windows.

"Tomorrow," I whisper.

“That’s right.” Lachlan stands suddenly, and I’m once again reminded of the sheer physical size of him, his impossible presence. “Now get some sleep, lass. You’ll need it.”

He nods once, then leaves me alone with my empty glass of wine, and Kirk, who’s making figure eights around my feet.

And with my thoughts, thoughts which should be about piecing together the puzzle of what the hell is going on with me and are instead firmly fixated on how good a certain Scotsmen looks when he’s also trying to figure me out, I stand.

I sigh and decide that temptation is the real problem, drain my glass, and decide to take his damned advice and get some sleep.

Twenty-Two

Vivienne

My battle armor for the morning consists of a black fleece-lined hoodie I had to beg the closet to will into existence, a pair of charcoal leggings, and shearling-lined slippers with thick rubber treads designed exclusively for shuffling between the couch and the mailbox.

My kinda high fashion shit.

A full mug of coffee steams in one hand, the scary-ass grimoire casually tucked under my arm, and a thick flannel blanket slung over my shoulder like a toga.

Kirk trots beside me, clicking loudly on the stone as I push through the iron-framed conservatory doors and step out into the overgrown courtyard.

The autumn morning is crisp, cold enough to turn my breath into pale white puffs. The garden is walled in by high, crumbling limestone masonry draped in dead ivy, with cracked flagstones fighting through thick moss and frost-bitten weeds. In the center sits a dry, dry fountain carved with leaping stags, their stone antlers broken off by time.

Standing in the clearing of flagstones, looking entirely too awake for eight in the morning, is Lachlan.