Page 123 of Nightshade

“Perhaps you suffer internal conflict?”

The oddly uncharacteristic question brought a smile to my face. “You interpret dreams as well, Mister Van Croix?”

“It seemed a fairly obvious analysis.”

“I suppose we all suffer internal conflict. Mine has always been purpose. I often question why I’m here. What I was put in the world to accomplish.” Resting my chin on my palm, I sighed, and when I glanced up, I met his focused gaze. “Do you suffer strange dreams?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. Mine are less … violent.”

“What do you dream of?”

At the flash of his subtle smile, my interest piqued. He turned back toward the window, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “A woman. An impossibly beautiful woman, but I can’t see her face. It’s distorted in my dreams.” In the window’s reflection, I could see the longing in his expression, made bright by the flickering lantern I’d brought. “Her eyes, though. I see her eyes. And her long, raven black hair. And I feel things I’ve not felt in a very long time.”

“Love?”

Another glance over his shoulder, and he shrugged. “It’s hard to say.”

“Do you dream of her frequently?”

“I did, yes.” The reflection showed his gaze on mine, the intensity of it sending warmth through me, and I shifted in my seat. “The dreams stopped when you arrived.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. It sounds like you very much enjoyed them.”

The way he watched me sent a chill down my spine, until he finally turned around. “I did. It seems I’ve found a new distraction. The grimoire.”

“Of course. And how is your reading coming along? Have you learned anything more?”

“From what I’ve gathered, it seems to be an ancient infection you can summon to the blade. A concoction used to paint sigils across the steel. Once dried, the blade becomes cursed.”

“An ancient infection?”

“Yes, it was called the Scourge back in the Middle Ages. It wiped out a number of the Fallen.” Hands still tucked in his pockets, he strolled to the opposite side of the room, where a painting hung on the wall--one I hadn’t noticed before, of a sliced apple with its insides rotted down to the core. “The holy ones say it is the divine weapon.”

“How is it holy? If it doesn’t kill them, but turns them into beasts?”

“Those beasts can be set to do the bidding of whoever curses them. They will even kill their own kind. In the book, they’re referred to as the Alatum. Essentially wingless creatures.”

“Alatum? What language is that?”

“Pri’scucian. The ancient language of the angels. One that predates Enochian. Some say the only true language of the angels.”

I knew of it from my father’s journals.

When his pacing changed direction, and he casually strolled toward me, the butterflies in my stomach morphed into an exquisite thrill. The heat inside of me stirred as he neared, as if something within me sensed him closing in. I breathed in his intoxicating citrus scent, wondering if it tasted as good as it smelled.

Setting his hand down beside me, he opened the cover of the book I’d been reading. “What makes you long for worlds which don’t exist?” he asked, thumbing through a few of its pages.

“Escape. Sometimes, life can be overwhelming. How about you?”

“I read to gain knowledge, not distraction.”

“I’ve found well-placed distraction can be cathartic. It allows me to focus when I need to. The mind yearns for magic over practicality, sometimes.”

“You’re strangely fanciful, Miss Ravenshaw.”

“If by strange and fanciful, you mean not boring, then yes. I suppose I am.”

“Symbology seems a rather practical pursuit.”