~ Sylas ~

Edwards drives recklessly, ignoring stop signs and speed limits, and taking wrong-way shortcuts up one-way streets.

If I cared about things like not dying at the moment, it would probably give me anxiety; then again, if I cared, I wouldn't have accepted a ride from a guy who might be a serial killer.

As it is, I'm just grateful his convertible makes conversation difficult over the noise of the wind and road. It leaves me to huddle in the passenger seat undisturbed, hugging my backpack, free to focus on the numbing pain spreading through my heart.

The cause of my distress is two-fold. First, Aurelio's incompatible magic may have restored my energy, but otherwise it's doing me no favors. I feel ill and a little weak, like I've ingested some mild poison. Second, the expression on Jaxon's face when I'd left him is burned in my memory like a brand.

It had looked an awful lot like relief; like getting rid of me – one way or another – is exactly what he'd been aiming for when he threw his knife.

As for Edwards, I'm grateful he offered me a means of escape and a place to sleep, but beyond that, I intend to make it clear that our 'arrangement' is finished. There's no point, anymore; Jaxon doesn't need or want my protection, and I finally believe what everyone's been telling me all along: my sister isn't Spelled, and she's doing just fine.

All that remains is to find the Devil's Song, use it to sever my link to Jaxon, if possible, and then destroy it. Maybe once Marcus realizes it's beyond his reach, his interest in Lyssa will wane.

Then she'll come of age, and have the world at her feet; and if rich, handsome men are what she's after, there are likely a dozen lined up already, waiting to take Marcus's place.

And as for me...

Well, like I said: at the moment, I don't really care.

I don't even pay attention to where Edwards is taking me until he slows and pulls off the road and into a small, private lot, entering a code to raise a gate before driving through. He parks in a reserved space, presses a button to automatically raise the roof of his car, and grins at me.

"Home, sweet home."

I look around, confused. We're facing the bay above a small marina full of moored boats, and the nearest residential area is at least a half-mile away.

"You... live here?"

He winks at me. "Come and see."

Stepping from the car, he stretches and yawns, cracking his back as he leans from side to side. Then he sets off towards the grid-like array of docks. Still confused, I shoulder my pack and follow him.

The vessels seem to get bigger the farther they are from shore. I don't know the proper names for the different kinds, but some are small enough for one person to handle, while the largest look like they'd need a whole crew. Edwards stops before a sailing yacht the length of two city buses, and pats the side.

"Here we are: the Oreithyia, Queen of the Winds!"

Finally, things fall into place. I don't know why it took me so long, except that I'm still a bit dazed and in shock.

"You live on a boat?"

"Most of the time," he says, climbing the short ladder on the vessel's side. "I like the freedom, and the knowledge I can 'weigh anchor' and disappear any time I choose."

Great. Not something a serial killer would say at all.

"All aboard!" Edwards leans over and extends his hand to help me up, but I hesitate.

Being alone with him on a boat isn't the only thing that gives me pause.

Water is a funny element; it holds magic well, and can channel it easily, but it also insulates against it, in a way. If you want to stay hidden – or to hide something – from magical detection, there's no better place to be than a vessel on water. Following Edwards onto his boat is the Crafter equivalent of following a stranger into a soundproof basement.

Potentially a very stupid thing to do, in other words.

Then again, it's a bit late to start doing smart things now; that ship has sailed.

I climb the ladder and let him help me on deck.

✧ ✧ ✧

The Oreithyia is nowhere near the size of The Spire, but it still must be worth well over seven figures; more than a philosophy professor's salary pays, anyway. It's like a good-sized apartment with a long, narrow layout: widest in the middle and tapering at either end.

After giving me a quick tour, Edwards invites me to sit in the lounge. Two long sofas face one another, hugging opposite sides of the ship and separated by a large, low table topped with thick glass. The upholstery is white leather, and like the rest of the ship, appears clean and expensive. Meanwhile, he fetches glasses and a bottle of something from his kitchen – or 'the galley,' as he calls it.

"Picked this up last time I swung 'round Inverness," he says, returning to place the glasses on the table and showing me the bottle of brown liquor. "Thirty-year-old Laphroaig. Single malt scotch," he adds, correctly interpreting my expression as one of cluelessness. "Will you have some?"

I shouldn't. I already had two glasses of champagne, which is more than I usually drink in a week.

"Sure," I hear myself say. I got in his car, and let him bring me to his boat. Might as well finish off this round of 'stupidity bingo.' Play to win, right?

He grins and pours me a generous amount, handing it to me across the table.

"Down the hatch."

He lifts his own glass towards me in a toast, then takes a large swallow, leaning back against the sofa with a sigh.

"So, what were you doing out there, wandering the streets and looking like you fell from Heaven and landed a bit hard? Trouble in Paradise?"

"Something like that," I say noncommittally.

To avoid the need to say more, I take a sip and then struggle not to cough as the alcohol burns my throat. Once it's down, though, it's not so bad; the heat spreading through my chest warms the void that's opened there and dulls the pain in my heart.

"Well, all relationships hit rough waters, now and then," he says, "even the charmed ones. A bit of space to breathe is just the thing, sometimes."

His phone pings, and he pulls it out to check it.

"Ah! Food's here. I ordered on the way – I'm always famished after a long drive. Hope you're hungry!"

Rising, he climbs the steep steps to the hatch, disappearing up to the deck; I remain where I am, feeling like I'm lost in a strange dream.

The marina is protected by a long quay, which keeps the waters within still and calm. I might as well be in a strangely shaped apartment on land, somewhere. There are windows above the water line, and big skylights over the bow, where Edwards said the sleeping quarters are. There's evidence of his strange brand of Craft, too – small mechanical instruments arranged on shelves here and there, most of which look vaguely nautical. I'd expect everything on a ship to be bolted down or stowed away somewhere, but either Edwards's Craft ensures smooth sailing, or he hasn't left port in a long time.

He returns, bags of takeout in hand, and sets them on the table between us.

"I have a standing order with Shen's for Saturday nights," he says, "so I just texted and asked for a double after I picked you up. Hope you like burgers and fries."

He unpacks his meal, and I peek into the bag he'd pushed towards me, surprised that a guy who drinks 30-year-old scotch would have a weakness for fast food.

"You didn't have to buy me dinner," I say, though I can't deny it smells delicious, or that I'm starving.

"How could I resist? You look like you'd blow away in a stiff breeze."

"Do I?"

"Mmhm," he mumbles around a bite of cheeseburger. "It wasn't as noticeable before, but without your, er... 'disguises,' you look a bit unearthly, to be honest. Got to get something in you and hold you down."

I suppress a grimace. His creep-factor is already through the roof, and his choice of words isn't helping. Still, he's right: except for a spoonful of soup, I haven't eaten since breakfast, and getting some food in me isn't a bad idea. It will probably help clear my head.

I pick up the burger and take a bite, and barely contain a sound of surprise. It's delicious in a way fast food promises to be but rarely delivers on. From the crisp lettuce to the melted cheese and seasoned beef, it's burger perfection.

Edwards sees my expression and grins. "That's why Shen's will never expand," he says. "It's the recipe, but not just the recipe. He's Gifted, and not lying when he claims to make the 'best burgers in town.'" He laughs. "Gifted are odd like that, aren't they? They've got to make the best of what they're given, even if it's a 'Gift' for making fries."

His words jolt me back to earth far more effectively than the food, reminding me of our erstwhile housemates, Nic and Yumi.

They'd given up so much to help us – Nic his candy shop and Yumi her tattoo parlor – and then they'd disappeared without a trace, and I hadn't spared them much thought in weeks. Where were they? What were they doing? Were they even okay?

Like Aurelio said: self-absorbed. I'd been so caught up in my own troubles and fears, I'd failed to consider anyone else's.

Now I have a chance to change that, though; I've got nothing left to fear. I can set Jaxon free, protect my sister, and ensure I'm the last Lovecraft to fall to the curse of our line. I might need some help to do it, though, and at the moment, Edwards is the closest thing.

So, over a strange meal on a strange ship, while I try to ignore the emptiness eating me from within, I tell him what Aurelio and I had discovered.

✧ ✧ ✧

"Beauty, truth, knowledge, and wisdom, eh?" he repeats after I describe the words we'd found on the pillars. "Any idea what it means?"

I shake my head. "It rings a bell, but I can't place it. I'm sure I've seen it somewhere, though."

"Well, it sounds to me like you've had quite an eventful day. Perhaps after a good night's rest, it will come to you."

That gives rise to an uncomfortable thought, and I glance up and down the length of the ship. "Actually, Professor – Linden, I mean – I thought you said you had an extra room? I don't want to impose."

Or share a bed with him.

"I said I had 'plenty of room,' he corrects, "and I do. The sofa folds out, and there's an extra set of bunks in the cabin. Wherever you're most comfortable. It's no imposition at all."

Relieved, I relax again. "The sofa's fine."

He smiles. "Why don't you freshen up, and I'll lay it out for you."

He gives me an unopened toothbrush, shows me where everything is in his bathroom, and invites me to use what I like.

When I rejoin him, the sofa has transformed into a bed, with a pillow and blanket at the ready.

"I'll be in my cabin," Edwards says. "I usually stay up quite late, so don't hesitate to ask if you need anything."

I agree that I will, and after wishing me a good night, he retreats to his room in the bow.

I try to sleep, but despite my exhaustion, it eludes me. I find myself wishing I was home, and then wonder when exactly the little house in Covey Bend became 'home' to me.

It is, though; that, and the comfort of Jaxon's arms, holding me in his loose embrace.

But when I close my eyes, all I see is that look of tortured relief on his face.

It made no sense. He'd been distant and cold lately, struggling with the burden of feelings he couldn't control. I knew he wasn't good at expressing himself, or at sharing his inner thoughts, but I also knew his actions spoke for themselves. And night after night, and every day, he'd shown me I could trust him; that yes – he wanted me, but he wanted to be with me more.

So why, with one toss of his knife, had he thrown that all away?

Maybe he still believed that shit about Spellwrights killing what they loved. I didn't. He'd told me himself that Agatha Bodewell and his great aunt Berenice had lived extremely long, happy—

Suddenly, it comes to me, and I'm wide awake. Sitting up, I grab my pack from the floor and rip it open, pulling out Agatha's book, not even bothering to be careful of the brittle pages as I flip through them.

At the very beginning – before the beginning – I find what I'm looking for: something I'd only read once. Because who pays that much attention to the dedication? In the glow of the city filtering down through the skylights, I can just make it out:

To my dearest Berenice:
may truth come always before beauty,
and wisdom before truth.

There was no mention of 'knowledge,' but it was too close to be coincidence. Grabbing Volodchenko's notebook, too, I scour the pages, and find what I'm looking for near the back. Silently, I bless the man for his obsessive thoroughness: he'd copied out the dedications of Agatha's other books, as well.

One reads:

To my beloved –
As the ink flows from my quill, so flows my love for you;
like blood, in each drop spilled at your desire,
all my secrets are revealed.

A third goes:

To Berenice –
Love cannot be silent;
it is a song demanding to be sung,
and though it were poison to speak it,
I would die with your name upon my lips,
that all may know this truth.

Bolting up, I go to Edwards's cabin and knock on the door.

"Linden?"

"Come in."

I enter and find him sitting at a desk against the wall, working on a laptop.

"Sylas? Is something—"

"I think I found it," I say, going to him and laying the book and notebook out on the desk. "It's the dedications – Agatha hid the key to her brother's secrets in her messages to her girlfriend."

"Are you certain?" Edwards asks, sounding cautious and skeptical as he looks over the pages.

"Yes! Well, fairly. It's got to mean something. Look—" I point to the first dedication. "The words on the pillars except for knowledge, and here's 'ink' and 'quill' in the second, and 'song' in the third. I think that together, they must tell how to unlock Solemnity's tomb."

"Well, well, well," he murmurs, reading over the three inscriptions more carefully. "Fuck me with my own Sign, but I think you're right."

"I've got to call Jaxon," I say, gathering up the books again and turning to leave. "In the morning, we can—"

"Sylas, it's two a.m.," Edwards breaks in, "and you're 'three sheets to the wind,' as the sailors say. If you ramble at him over the phone in the middle of the night, how seriously do you think he'll take what you have to say? Without the proof in front of me, I'd have dismissed it myself. Wait until morning. With clear heads in the cool dawn, we'll bring this to him together."

I pause and hold on to the side of the door as the deck seems to pitch and roll beneath my feet. I'd only had one drink, and several hours had passed since, but alcohol isn't what has me reeling.

I'm exhausted – running on fumes – and if I call Jaxon now, I don't know what I'd say to him. Or if he'd even listen to me.

I need to rest; and in the morning, I'll call Aurelio.

"You're right," I say, and turn back to towards Edwards. "Thank you, Professor. I don't know what I'd have done without your help."

"Don't worry about it," he says. "Get some sleep."

I wasn't lying; I still didn't like Edwards, and I hadn't changed my mind about Crafting for him again, but he'd shown me kindness when I needed it, and I was grateful for that. He didn't seem like the sort to do something for nothing, though, but maybe I was wrong.

Returning to the couch, I lie down. Despite the excitement of my discovery, and my new conviction that Jaxon had some deeper reason for what he'd done, sleep finally claims me, and I drift off between one thought and the next.

✧ ✧ ✧

I awaken to bright sunlight streaming through glass, and for a moment I don't know where I am or how I got here. Then it comes back, like the hazy memory of a fading dream, and I sit up with a groan. My head hurts and my mouth tastes like trash.

Wondering what time it is, I reach for my pack and dig around inside it, searching for my phone. After a minute of rummaging, I come to the conclusion it's not there.

I must have dropped it somewhere. One more thing for Jaxon to be mad about, if he still cares.

There's no sign of Edwards; the door to his cabin is open, and the room beyond empty. Then the sound of his voice drifts down to me from the deck above, and I can just make out what he's saying.

"...not entirely certain, but it seems so... No; once you've got it, bring him and meet me at my place. You remember it, I'm sure."

He pauses, and since I don't hear another voice, I conclude he's on his phone. I'll have to borrow it and hope Jaxon or Aurelio answers his number.

As I climb the steps to the hatch, his next words give me pause, as I realize he's talking about me.

"No, no – he's fine, though still out cold. Took a while to take effect; I expected your work to be more efficient."

With a new, uneasy feeling in my stomach, I push the hatch open and climb out, blinking against the blaze of a midday sun. Edwards stands on the bridge, at the helm, and dark blue water stretches all around. Land is a hazy shape to the east.

I make some sound, and Edwards turns, dark glasses shielding his eyes and his blond hair buffeted by wind.

"Ah – sleeping beauty awakens. Call you back." He pockets his phone and grins at me.

"Professor... where are we?"

"Change of plans," he says, leaving the helm and hopping down to the main deck. "Ava bungled things, and 'Rel certainly hasn't lived up to his end, but thanks to you and that oaf, Jaxon, things turned out all right, after all. And now that I have you and the key, I'm not about to let you go."

I stare him, my mind trying and failing to find some alternate interpretation for his words, but there's only one:

I played stupidity bingo, alright, and got the grand prize.