Page 55 of Harnessed in Gold

“Well, it’s recorded in the archives that it was given to Henry Browne to quote-unquote ‘bury beneath the highest peaks,’ so that was a pretty big clue there. But also because it needs to be buried deep enough to absorb its energy. Only the earth can ground fae magic; water is a conductor.” He twists his ring, thinking as he speaks. “See, when we die, our rings are buried with us, at least eightfeet underground. And seeing as this weapon is dozens of times more powerful than a weaving ring, the shallow marshes of the coast wouldn’t suffice.”

Okay, true, because apparently even Browne’s big-ass hill isn’t deep enough to absorb the toxic energy. What else would explain the hauntings?

Leo turns one of the copper disks over and over, perhaps comparing the amount of verdigris on its sides. “When Robin and I got here, we started on Roanoke Island, interviewing everyone who might be able to help us—professors, archeologists, the Indigenous peoples in the area. We learned the colonists most likely survived and assimilated with the tribes close to the coast, but we needed to figure out how an Englishman could find his way out here.”

In the short time I’ve known Leo, he’s more than once awed me with the way his mind works. With how articulate he is. And much to my mortification, this is one of those times. I’m mesmerized by the intellectual curiosity shining in his eyes.

Oblivious, he adds, “So when we found out about the Spanish forts, we followed the trail here, tracing them all the way to Tennessee, then doubling back when we found out Alderford might’ve been a sixteenth-century settlement.”

The settlement along this stretch of the French Broad River, where Henry Browne’s half-Cherokee son was born and raised. “How on earth did Brier’s cronies figure all this out in half the time you did?”

“They didn’t. They’ve only been one step behind us the whole time. In fact, Robin saw two Nàdarian historians at the Bodelian when we were at Oxford.” Leo exhales and rolls his neck, his dark curls sweeping along his stiff white collar. “Unfortunately, Brier’s team of scholars is probably three times the size of ours. Way too many people believe in him and will do anything he asks. And he’s not above strong-arm tactics if they won’t.”

I restrain a shudder. As cozy and safe as it seems here on this bed—in this apartment, in this quaint small town—we’re in the middle of an urgent race.

Shaking off the sudden dread settling on my shoulders, I reach behind Leo for the shoebox. He twists to see what I’m doing, his face suddenly so close to mine, our cheeks nearly brush. I jerk back and thrust the box into his hands.

“Uh, so,” I stammer, “that’s what you and Robin were doing all those months? Following Browne’s trail?”

He nods, his breath noticeably shallow. “Since the autumnal equinox.”

“When you just suddenly appeared here, in the Great Dismal Swamp?”

“No.” He snorts a laugh, rising to put the necklace back in his dresser drawer. “I flew from Heathrow to Dulles.”

Already half undone, I burst into a hysterical fit of giggles, and for a moment, Leo looks alarmed. I wave as I convulse, signaling that I’m fine. Slowly an awkward smile spreads across his face and a few chuckles rumble out of his chest.

“I think you need some lunch,” he says, and gestures to the door.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Leoand I stand side-by-side at the kitchen counter, California sandwich ingredients laid out before us.

“So why don’t you go on stakeout with Rime and Topaz?” I ask, reaching around him for the bread.

“I do sometimes.” He licks hummus off the tip of his finger. “But mostly I stay here, going over all this sh—” He waves irritably at the laptop, papers, and stacks of books covering every inch of the table behind us.

I fight a smile. “You were gonna say ‘all this shit,’ weren’t you?” Unless he’s slipped something past me in some other language, I can honestly say I’ve never heard him cuss.

His laugh is so self-conscious, I can’t help but tease him. “Ha! You were! Go ahead, say it.”

He shakes his head, chuckling down at his sandwich.

I snatch the package of Swiss cheese from his hand. “You can have this back when you say it.”

He blinks at me with those beautiful big brown eyes. “Fine. Shit.”

“With feeling.”

Looking past me at the cluttered table, he says, only slightly louder, “All that shit.”

“Very good. Here you go.” I slap the package onto his chest. “Cathartic, isn’t it?”

“A little,” he begrudgingly admits.

“And since when do you not like doing research?”

“Since I’ve been chasing dead ends for months.” He snarls at an uncooperative cheese slice that won’t separate from the rest.