Nightshade (35 page)

“Like I said.” Shay came up beside me. “Opulent.” His voice bounced off the walls.

I nodded.

“The library is through those doors straight ahead on the second level,” he continued. “The stairs lead to the east and west wings of the house. Do you want to get started on the research right away? Or do you want a tour?”

“I want to make sure it’s actually okay for us to be here,” I muttered.

“The tour, then,” he said, heading for the stairs on the right. “I live in the east wing.”

I cast glances over my shoulder as I followed him. Eerie silence shrouded the house; the strikes of our footsteps on the stone floor echoed around us.

“How do you get used to this?” I realized I was whispering.

“I haven’t really.” He shrugged. “Being alone all the time is pretty weird.”

“I can’t believe how quiet it is.”

“Sometimes I blast music from my room and open the door so it fills up the halls,” he said. “It helps a little.”

We turned down a long corridor. Floor-to-ceiling portraits of life-sized figures hung from the walls at regularly spaced intervals. I glanced at one and froze. A man was suspended in a black void, face contorted by agony, his tormentors obscured by the dark hues of the canvas. I looked at the painting on the opposite wall. It was similar, but featured a woman.

“Can we walk faster?” I muttered.

“Sorry,” Shay said. “I should have warned you about the paintings. Bosque’s taste in art tends toward the morbid.”

“No kidding.” I kept my eyes on the floor as we walked forward. “What are they anyway?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I thought they might be portraits of the martyrs, but they don’t have labels, and the forms of torment don’t correspond with those of any of the Christian martyrs I know about.”

“So he just likes pictures of people suffering?”

“Maybe,” he replied. “Lots of art is about suffering and death, though. Bosque’s paintings aren’t any different than stuff you see in museums.”

“I guess.”

He turned sharply to the right and I hurried after him down a side hall. When I came around the next corner, I almost collided with a man. A beautiful man with broad, leathery wings. I shouted in surprise, dropping to the floor as I shifted forms, baring my fangs.

“What is it, Cal?” Shay frowned, seemingly oblivious to the menace a few feet from where he stood.

I stalked past him, eyeing the tall winged creature that held a spear aloft in one hand, its point aimed straight at us. The incubus stood immobile, paused mid-action, ready to release its weapon.

“It’s a statue.” Shay laughed. “You’re growling at a sculpture.”

I inched forward, sniffing the marble foot of the incubus. Shay was still laughing when I shifted forms and glared at him.

“You could have warned me that there were sculptures of incubi in the house.”

“There are tons of sculptures in this house. I don’t think you can go more than fifty feet without running into one. There are even more in the gardens.”

“Are they all like this one?” I eyed the statue.

“Lots of them,” he said. “Some of them are winged women, not men, but all of them have weapons like this one. Some of them are animals—well, mythological creatures, not real animals.”

I shuddered.

“Why did it scare you?” he said. “I thought you were worried about wraiths.”

“There are other things to worry about besides wraiths,” I murmured.

“Are you saying that this statue is modeled on something real?” He reached out, touching the tip of the incubus’s wing.

“Yes.”

He jerked his hand back. “Damn.”

“So where are we going on this tour anyway?” I asked, wanting to get away from the statue.

“I thought I’d show you my room.” He smiled shyly. “It’s at the end of this hallway.”

He led me down the hall, pausing in front of the last door on the right.

“Well?” I waited for him to open the door.

“I was just trying to remember the last time I cleaned my room,” he said.

“Bosque’s staff doesn’t do that for you?” I poked him in the side and grinned.

He shook his head. “They would, but I asked them not to. I’d rather not have strangers rummaging around my things.”

“Especially when you’re reading a forbidden book as a bedtime story?”

“Well, that too.” He smiled, opening the door.

Shay’s room was halfway between messy and clean. The bed was piled with books, and a couple of discarded sweaters hung from a wooden chair. The Keeper’s text lay open on an antique writing desk. Haldis rested beside the book, giving off a muted glow in the afternoon light. But you could see the floor, and there weren’t any precariously tipping mountains of dirty clothes, which was more than I could say for my own room.

Shay glanced around. “Not too bad.”

“For me this would qualify as a major improvement,” I said.

“Well, it’s good to know I’m not offending any obsessive cleaning standards you keep hidden.”

When I laughed, he stepped closer, running a hand through his hair.

“So . . .” he murmured.

The air in the room suddenly felt electric. I was all too aware that Shay and I were alone in his bedroom.
Get a grip, Cal. Can you control your hormones for five minutes?

I cast my eyes around the room, unnerved and desperate to break the tension. As much as I wanted Shay to touch me, my fight with Ren had made me less willing to take risks. My gaze fell on a large steamer trunk half hidden by a pair of jeans.

“What’s this?” I walked over to it.

“Nothing, really,” he said, following me. “Just stuff I’ve collected and carted around with me over the years.”

I threw him a mischievous smile. “I don’t believe you.”

“Hey!” He didn’t grab my arm quickly enough to stop me when I knelt beside the trunk and flipped open the latch, lifting the heavy lid.

I began to laugh immediately. “It’s all comics.”

“Well, yeah.” He bent down, straightening the stacks. “But they’re really good comics, and some are very rare.”

I browsed through a few. As I lifted one stack, my fingers brushed against something soft. I frowned, pushed aside the comics, and buried my fingers in the plush material. I drew my hand from the trunk and saw that my fist clasped a fine wool blanket.

Shay cleared his throat. “My mother made that for me.”

“I remember.” I trailed my fingers along the soft cable weave. “It’s the only thing you have of hers.”

He pulled the blanket from my hands.

“Is something wrong?” I asked, worried I’d offended him by picking it up.

“I don’t know,” he murmured. “That’s weird.”

“What?”

“The blanket,” he said. “It’s like . . . I think it smells different. But I don’t even have it close to my nose.”

“Oh.” I began to nod. “It doesn’t smell different. You’re different. And your sense of smell is much more keen. That will heighten your sense perceptions.”

His brow furrowed; he lifted the blanket to his nose, taking a deep breath. I jumped to my feet when his eyes suddenly shut and he stumbled backward with a gasp.

“Shay?” I took his arm. “What is it?”

“I . . .” His voice was thick. “I remember . . . I can see her face. I remember her laughing.”

“Oh, Shay,” I murmured, drawing him toward me.

His eyes opened, full of memories. “It can’t be real.”

“Yes, it can,” I said. “Scent and memory are completely tied up in each other. Your Guardian senses unlocked the memories for you.”

He was frowning. “Maybe.”

“Did it feel real?” I pressed. “Familiar?”

“More than anything,” he said.

“Then it’s your mother.”

He twisted the blanket in his hands. “Wait a sec . . . no, no way.”

“Shay?”

He grabbed my hand, pulling me back down the hall.

“What?” I asked as he dragged me at a run back to the broad landing in the main hall.

He didn’t answer, stopping in front of the tall wooden door that led to the library. He drew something that looked like a Swiss army knife from his jeans pocket and fiddled with the lock. I heard a click and the door swung open.

He didn’t say anything as he strode into the room. I followed hesitantly while my eyes took in the library. It was easily the largest room I’d ever seen outside of our school’s gymnasium. The library rose through the second and third stories of the mansion. Three of the walls featured built-in shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling. A spiraling wrought-iron staircase on each wall led to balconies that ringed the upper tier of bookshelves. I’d never seen so many books. No wonder Shay had been dying to get in here. Beautiful and terrifying, the library seemed too perfect to be safe, like a carnivorous plant that used vivid blossoms to snare insects.

“This is amazing,” I breathed.

Shay was staring at the outside wall. It was the only part of the library not filled with books. Tall, stained glass windows framed an immense fireplace that was large enough for two men to stand inside it. I followed Shay’s gaze to a portrait that hung above the mantel.

Unlike the grotesque paintings that lined Rowan Estate’s hallways, this portrait appeared more traditional, though its occupants’ expressions were sober to the point of severity. A woman in a simple white dress sat in a chair. Her hair, the color of dark chocolate, spilled over one shoulder; her pale green eyes seemed to brim with tears. A man stood behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders. His face was stern but also terribly sad and was framed by softly waving golden brown hair that brushed his jawline.

Even though I stared at strangers, the portrait brought a lump to my throat. I’d never seen faces so filled with grief. I came to stand beside Shay.

“Why wouldn’t he tell me?” he murmured.

“Why wouldn’t who tell you what?”

“My uncle.” He tore his eyes from the portrait. “That’s my mother . . . and I think my father too.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Are you sure?”

“If you’re sure that my sense of smell triggered a real memory,” he said. “That is the woman I saw when I smelled the blanket.”

“But Bosque didn’t let you keep any pictures of them,” I said.

“Exactly. So why would he be keeping a portrait of them in his library?” he said. “And why wouldn’t he want me to see it?”

“Maybe he was afraid you’d remember something if you saw pictures of your parents. Do you? Now that you’ve seen this painting?”

Shay looked at the portrait again. “No.”

I reached for his hand. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know.” He stroked his thumb over my palm. “It would help if something in my life made sense.”

I squeezed his fingers. “I get that.” We’d both turned over too many stones, revealing ugly secrets squirming beneath. “So now what?”

“Now we do what we came here for in the first place,” he said.

“Research?”

“Research.”

I glanced at the multi-storied bookshelves. “Any ideas about where to begin? Or if your uncle has a card catalog?”

“Well, that wouldn’t offer much of a challenge, would it?” he quipped.

“I guess I’ll just start browsing,” I said, ignoring his taunting eyes.

He smiled wickedly. “There is one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“A locked bookcase.”

“Sounds promising. Have you checked it out before?”

He blushed, rubbing the back of his neck. “As much as I hate to admit it, I felt a little guilty about breaking into Bosque’s library. I thought leaving that bookcase alone made up for it . . . kind of. Karmic compromise.”

“You are a strange boy,” I muttered.

“That’s why you like me.” He flashed a grin and walked across the room.

The carved mahogany bookcase stood in the corner next to the outside wall alongside a tall, quietly ticking grandfather clock. Shay picked the lock and opened the case. It was filled with six shelves of black leather-bound volumes. He pulled a book from the top shelf.

“It’s all handwritten. Like a journal.”

“Does it have a title?”

He flipped to the front page.
“Haldis Annals.”

The title was familiar, and I had the feeling that these books weren’t what we needed.

“And there are dates,” he continued. “1900 to 1905.”

I drew a volume from a lower shelf. “This book is dated 1945 to 1950.”

I began to read, confirming my suspicions. It was a genealogy. The complete history of Guardian packs.

“I don’t get it.” Shay was frowning. “It’s a list of names, almost like a family tree. And there are notes about the family members.”

“This isn’t going to help us.” I shut the book, putting it back on the shelf. “We should focus on the other books in the library.”

He looked at me, startled. “What are you talking about?”

“These books aren’t about the Haldis we’re looking for,” I said.

“What are they about?”

“These are the Keepers’ records of the Guardian packs.”

“Really?” His eyebrows shot up.

I nodded, taking the book from his hands and reshelving it.

“Close this up and lock it again.”

“Don’t you want to read these?” he asked. “This is your history.”

“I know this history,” I said. “And it will only make us argue.”

“Why?”

“Because the entries aren’t just about what’s happened to the packs,” I said. “They’re mostly about how the packs have been formed, who their masters will be, and the decisions the Keepers have made in the past about mates.”

“About mates?” His eyes flitted to the lowest shelf. “You mean one of those books details the way you and Ren were matched up.”

“Yes,” I said. “And all the other pairings that were made in the pack’s history. It is a family tree, among other things.”