Page 27 of Nightshade

“No.” Swallowing a gulp, I scanned over the ground one more time. “You’re him, aren’t you? You’re Xhiphias.”

Though he didn’t bother to answer the question, the corner of his lips curved up to a half smile.

“You knew my father,” I added.

“I know lots of fathers.”

“Augustus Ravenshaw.”

Again, he chuckled. “Well, who could forget a name like that.”

“You remember him, then?”

“Of course. Augustus Ravenshaw. Expert in Ancient Christian Studies and aficionado of the otherworldly.”

“Good. Yes. That’s him.” Nodding, I stared him dead in the eyes, working up the courage to say what would surely sound crazy. “Then, you know I don’t entirely believe that man fell to his death just moments ago.”

Dubious eyes, the color of flames, stared back at me, challenging me to elaborate. “What do you think happened to him?”

“I’m not sure. That’s why I’m here. I want to know … what you know.”

Dimples appeared his cheeks when he smiled again, looking around as though words danced aimlessly through the air. “Know what I know,” he whispered. “What do I know?”

“Nightshade. You know about Nightshade.”

“Do you?”

“I know what my father taught me.”

“Then, you know enough.” Stepping back inside, he attempted to swing the door closed once more, and snapping out of my apprehensions from before, I pushed against it, wedging myself in the narrowing crack.

“No. It’s not enough. I need to know more.”

Sighing, he widened the crack in the door. “Take my advice, girl. You don’t. I can’t help you.”

“No. I need to know.”

He waved me on in a way that seemed almost patronizing. “Go home.”

“Please.”

Brows furrowed, he pursed his mouth shut and studied me, before shaking his head. “You’re like a child, asking for things you don’t understand.”

“It’s a place. And you know how to get there. You told my father about it.”

Eyes narrowed, he stared quietly for a moment. “There’s a part of you that doesn’t quite believe in that.”

He was right. A part of me had never believed my father entirely, as much as I’d wanted to. Given his knowledge and education, his background on ancient things, and the way he went about his obsessions so methodically, calculating and documenting, it could’ve been so easy to accept his theories. But there’d always been a niggling resentment, a barrier that left me feeling like I was on the inside, staring out at a madman.

“The man who fell off the building. I need to know if he’s dead.”

“You tell me.”

“How would I know?”

“You’re standing in a puddle of his remains right now, are you not?”

I didn’t even have to look through the lingering fog to answer. “There’s nothing.”