Page 117 of Nightshade

Perhaps a number of people in attendance.

And Alicia.

If she had even the slightest inkling of who, or what, had attacked her, assuming the culprit might’ve had anything to do with Pentacrux, there could very well be a link to my father.

“Are you looking for a book?” the woman asked, her face still hidden.

“Um. Yes.”

“Any particular book?”

“Not really, no. I just planned to browse what you had.”

Finally lowering the book from her face, she stared up at me, eyes narrowed as if studying me. “I have just the story for you.”

“Oh, wow, just by looking at me?” At the serious expression on her face and lack of response, I cleared my throat. “Okay. I’m always open to recs.”

Confusion flickered over her face. “Come with me.”

“Do you mind if I keep the flyer?”

“Not at all. I’ve no intention of going. Lewd things happen at that ball. You’d be wise to stay away.”

“Noted.” Though, I had no intentions of staying away. Not when I had the rare opportunity to speak to a murder victim, which almost sounded like an oxymoron.

The woman led me up a spiral ladder to the second floor, then down through the aisles of books toward the back, where the wall marked the end our path. She then rested a hand against the wooden panel of the wall, and it shifted to the side, opening to a stairwell that went up one more floor.

With an uncertain glance over my shoulder, I hesitated to follow her.

“Well, are you coming, or not?” she asked, her voice tinged with impatience.

Cautious, I trailed after her up the stairwell, but when the wall slid shut behind me, the uneasy feeling bloomed into full-on anxiety. Lanterns flickered on by themselves, and the creepy stairwell opened to an even creepier room beyond, with an enormous iron vault door

“We’re still just grabbing a book, right?”

“Yes, of course.” The dial on the vault spun as she twisted it, then she yanked the heavy door open to a cold room beyond. “These are our most treasured books.”

Mouth hanging wide, I scanned over the handful of books inside. Ones whose tired and weathered spines told me they were centuries old. Perhaps even older than that. She tapped a finger along the shelf and, midway down the aisle, pulled out a book with a magnificent gold spine. Smiling to herself, she ran a hand over the cover in a reverent manner, before handing it off to me.

The Baron and Witch’s Daughter.

Marveling at the simple but gorgeous cover, I couldn’t bring myself to open it, for fear of destroying the book which had clearly been kept well-preserved.

“It’s beautiful.”

“It’s yours.”

“Oh, I can’t. This looks priceless, and I don’t have anything to pay for it.”

Impossibly cold hands gripped mine, sending a chill skittering beneath my skin, and she placed the book into my arms. “It’s yours.”

“That’s … very kind of you, but I couldn’t. I don’t intend to stay here--”

“Farryn, please, just take the book.”

The cold feeling from before iced over with a new rush of shock, the room suddenly too small. “Did …. I didn’t give you my name.”

“No, you didn’t.”