~ Sylas ~

The front door falls shut with a bang, and I stand in the silence that follows, fighting the urge to cry. I lose, and wipe the tears from my face while sniffing back a self-deprecating laugh. At least no one's here to see me be pathetic.

A creeping numbness steals over my heart, like some cold poison in my veins. If Jaxon could sense my distress earlier in the day, I wonder if he can feel this now: the way it kills me to know I've let him down.

I knew he'd be upset about Edwards, but I'd hoped that, in light of everything, he'd understand I never wanted to keep secrets; I hoped he'd understand how scared I've been, and that he'd forgive me for trying to keep him safe—even if I'd gone about it wrong.

Instead, he'd made it quite clear that my 'lies' are unforgiven, that my efforts have been worthless, and that he believes my sister is a lost cause.

Maybe he's right—right to be angry and to call me a fool—but I just can't give up on Lyssa so easily.

Maybe he's right about that, too, and I'll only see the truth when it destroys me. I can't help it, though—not with the way she'd looked at me. I'd seen real fear in her eyes, real concern, and I'm convinced she genuinely believes that I'm the one in danger. From Jaxon.

Given the way he'd looked at me just now, I wonder if she's not wrong.

I shove the thought aside as ungenerous and unfair. Jaxon would never hurt me, even if he'd looked like he wanted to.

Sighing, I wipe my eyes again and finish washing the abandoned dishes in the sink. When I'm done, I return to the table and retake my seat, pulling the book towards me once more.

I glare at it impotently. If it wasn't a valuable item borrowed from the college archives on Edwards's good name, I'd have ripped it up, or burned it, maybe; instead, I decide to take Aurelio's advice, and do my best to tell fiction from fact. If I find anything promising, I'll just have to verify it elsewhere.

Opening to the first chapter, I begin to read, and quickly discover that Aurelio was right: Agatha was a master of her craft—or Craft, perhaps, considering. She weaves a tale that reads more like an action-adventure plot than a history, detailing her brother's exploits as he traveled the world in search of valuable books, Relics, spells, and artifacts: anything that might enrich his wealth of knowledge.

Agatha could provide a first-hand account of it all because she had accompanied him, often in the guise of a man—Solemnity's younger 'brother,' Atticus.

Not everything she wrote about her brother was flattering, either. He seemed to have an obsession with power, with which he felt he'd been born with less than his fair share. In this he reminded me of Edwards, except that while Edwards sought to remedy this 'imbalance' through his strange inventions, Solemnity had pursued power through knowledge.

Whenever he caught wind of something worth having, he'd set out to possess it by whatever means necessary. This often meant traveling to 'distant, foreign, lands,' including many places in the Mediterranean, North Africa and the Middle East. As this was the region where Jaxon's ancestor lived at the time he loved (and murdered) mine, and if the Devil's Song is truly the spell he used to bind his lover's soul to his Sign, it seems the likeliest place for Solemnity to have come across it.

Nothing like it is mentioned specifically in the book; but then, if Agatha seemed cautious about anything, it was being specific about what, exactly, her brother had 'collected' over the years. In almost all other details, however, she held nothing back—including his many 'amorous exploits,' some of which would certainly be frowned upon today.

It makes me wonder if he'd been alive to read his sister's 'history,' and I set the book aside and go to get Jaxon's laptop from our bedroom, intending to look up Solemnity's year of death. As I sit down again and lift the lid, however, what I see on the screen scatters my thoughts like a bag of dropped rice.

A naked woman.

Well, okay—it's a painting of a naked woman, but still.

She's a very shapely naked woman, too, and she's in a highly erotic pose. She cups her own breast, the nipple showing between her fingers, while the other hand rests lightly on her thigh, as if she were trailing it upwards between her legs.

After about thirty seconds, my brain starts working again, and I scan the page for more information. It's not some random porno site, at least. It's an artist's portfolio, and the painting is titled Self Portrait in Blue.

A further investigation reveals the artist is Ava Blackwell — Professor of Art and Art History at Harbor City College.

Jaxon must've met this woman, I realize, swallowing a sick feeling at the back of my throat, and he's been staring at this image...

Then I remember what he told me, about 'doing some work' for a professor, and how that professor was a Crafter, and a 'she.'

A mix of anxiety, anger, and jealous vindication burns my chest, and the sick feeling slithers down to take up residence in my stomach, seemingly there to stay. I'm not the only one keeping secrets, I guess.

Opening another tab, I quickly search Solemnity Bodewell's name. It's unique, and there's not much, but I manage to find a reliable date of death. He'd died relatively young, I see, doing the math—he was only thirty-nine. More importantly, he'd died the same year the book was published.

Either it was coincidence, or Agatha had the book written and ready to go, but had the decency to wait until her brother departed the mortal plane before airing his dirty laundry for the world to see.

I close the tab and am once again confronted by Succubus in Blue, or whatever it's called, and feel the heat of anger rise to my face.

Wonder what he was doing, looking at this, I think.

Then I push my uncharitable thoughts aside, close the laptop and put it back where I'd found it.

Jaxon had told me to use it any time I liked, and he'd clearly made no effort to hide his 'activity.' Maybe it was just 'research,' and he just happened to have been staring at a naked painting of a woman he knew when he got interrupted. Maybe he just forgot to close the tab.

Or maybe, that uncharitable voice says, popping up again, you've only known the man for three months; and maybe you're not enough for him.

Once more, I force the thought aside. Jaxon had never asked for more than I was willing to give, and he'd never indicated he might be interested in something more... feminine. He'd told me was into men, and only men, and specifically, that he was into me.

Although, now that I think about it...

My face heats again, though not with anger, this time.

He'd never asked. He'd never even suggested we 'go all the way,' and I knew some couples never, or rarely, did. But maybe if I gave him that, he'd understand how much I love and trust him.

Even as I think it, I see the flaw: letting Jaxon fuck me is not going to fix our relationship. Still, I hold onto it; something to cling to in my increasingly untethered world.

✧✧✧

By the time Jaxon returns, I've finished reading the book, and I've found at least one thing of particular interest. But a glance is all it takes to see that Jaxon is in neither the mood, nor the condition, to sit down and hear about it. When he runs, he cruises at a pace of about six miles an hour, and he's been gone for three; which means he's run more than half a marathon.

He comes in dripping sweat and heads straight for the shower, and stays there for twenty minutes longer than his usual five.

I wait for him, my stomach in knots, listening to the water run and re-reading the passages that caught my eye.

At last he emerges, rubbing a towel over his short hair and dressed in nothing but a pair of thin pajama bottoms. I avert my eyes, but not before I notice the swollen strength of his shoulders and pecs; the way his colorful tattoos swirl across his light brown skin; the long muscles in his sides and the firm definition of his abs; the V of his hips; the hint of dark hair above the low waist of his trousers, and the bulge in the fabric, a little lower down.

A lot to notice, as one averts one's eyes.

He comes to stand behind me, tosses his towel aside, and leans over to loop his arms around me and lean his head against mine.

"Sylas." He takes a breath. "You okay?"

I sniff and swallow, and feel altogether very unappealing, with confusion still buzzing in my chest like a disturbed hornet's nest, ready to sting.

"I'm okay," I say. "Are... Are you?"

"Yeah." He straightens and releases me, and I regret the loss of his warmth. "I'm okay, now. And I'm sorry. I know you've done your best, and it's more than good enough. I love you, and I'm just sorry we're in this mess. I've said it before, but I just wish... Well, I wish we could just leave all this behind. Be ourselves. Love each other, like real people do."

I look at the ceiling to block my stupid tear ducts, which insist on producing more tears.

"Yeah," I whisper, because my throat is too tight to produce anything like a real sound. "Me, too."

"Hey, you find anything?"

I nod, blinking and quashing my emotions as I refocus on the book.

"Yeah. Um... So, Solemnity was a bit obsessed with knowledge. He bought the land that would become the college grounds because a bunch of 'ley lines' — lines of magical power that crisscross the earth — intersect over it in this unique geometric pattern. He figured it'd be the perfect place for a 'center of knowledge.' A university — or a college, at least."

I take a breath and chew my lip, reminding myself that I need to be calm and rational to earn Jaxon's respect.

"So, when the other founders of Harbor City College were looking for a place to build, he donated the land. But before he did... he built his own 'college.' Underground."

I twist my hands, wondering if Jaxon will believe any of this, or dismiss it as the outlandish claims of a minor celebrity's weirdo sister.

"Anyway, he collected a shit-ton of dangerous and powerful stuff over the years. And the more he collected—the more he developed his theory of unified magic—the more he feared it all falling into the wrong hands. So he built 'The Catacombs.' It's a whole series of rooms and tunnels under the college, built like a kind of Cretan labyrinth, at the center of which is Solemnity's tomb—and his collection of most precious artifacts, Relics, and spells."

Raising my head, I meet Jaxon's forest-shadow eyes, feeling a shiver run down my spine.

"If the Devil's Song is at the college, and if it's anywhere..."

"And if this 'labyrinth' exists..." he adds.

I nod. "Yeah. Then that's where it is."

"So... How do we get to it?"

I bite my lip as my breath snags in my chest, and clear my throat.

"There are hints—a few clues here and there. Given his obsession with books and knowledge, I think... I think the entrance is in the library, somewhere. I just don't know exactly where. But I... I'll ask Professor Edwards if he knows—and, and Professor Volodchenko, too," I add. "Aurelio said he's the history expert, after all."

Jaxon remains silent and unmoving as stone, and I hold my breath as ten seconds tick by.

Then he relaxes, and the corners of his lips raise in a smile.

"Good work," he says, squeezing my shoulders. "That's good work you've done, Sylas. And hey—if you can find the entrance to these 'catacombs,' I can get us in. There's an art exhibit in two weeks. That Professor I told you about? She's displaying her newest series in the library's gallery room. Could be the perfect opportunity to snoop."

"Get us in how?" I ask, thankful there's no sharp edge to my tone.

"Well, you as a guest. And I... I guess I'll be there as the 'janitor guy,' right?"

"Right."

I grimace, but fortunately I'm facing away from him, so he doesn't see my expression. Truth is, I've little desire to see 'Ava's' latest works, if they're anything like her 'self-portrait' — much less watch Jaxon admire them.

Still, if he can forgive me, and if we can work together, maybe this is the perfect chance to prove myself.

"Okay," I agree, twisting to look up at him, thankful for my momentary emotional control. "I'll do my best."

"I know you will," he says softly, and leans to kiss me, then pauses with his lips a fraction from mine. "Sorry."

He draws away, but I reach up and catch the back of his neck, pulling him down and meeting his lips in a rough kiss, with everything I feel expressed in it—my desperate fear; my self-hatred and timid jealousy; my indescribable love and painful need for him.

After a moment of mingled breath and awkward passion, he pulls back and looks at me, and I see the heat of fire in his eyes.

"Hey," I smile, frightened but sincere, "It's getting late. Let's forget all this until tomorrow, hmm? For now... Well, what if we just go to bed and... love each other. Like real people do?"

His eyes light again, but he doesn't smile.

"Sylas..."

"I mean it," I say in a whisper, still holding him. "No Craft. No magic. Just... you and me."

He swallows and his expression softens; and yet I'd almost have preferred it if he'd remained hard and unfeeling.

Because with some strange stroke of insight—some oracle's vision—I see it clearly: if this is what we both want, and if it's what we both need, and if we both say yes...

Our fates are sealed, and there's no going back.