Page 69 of Our Covenant

“It makes sense. It finally makes sense,” Maddox declares with no other explanation.

I walked into this room days earlier to see him pouring over endless words and accounts of those long passed. The only answers that our ancestors can provide to us live between thousands of pages, but with one-sided voices, he could be locked up in the study for days without any resolution.

“How are you so sure she isn’t leading us on another wild-goose chase?”

“I’m not,” he admits, finally breaking the trance of ink and history. “But what choice do we have? You felt it. We all did. She . . . She . . .” He grabs at his still dirt- and blood-covered shirt.

“She doesn’t know what she is,” Asher finishes what Maddox couldn’t. “The magic she has been using has never been her own. She’s never had it straight from the source.”

“So, we’ve circled back to the real mystery.” Thorne leans over the desk, the heels of his palms bracing against the polished wood. “Who is waiting for her outside these walls?”

“And what are they waiting for?” I pan from one man to the next.

Silence falls as all wheels between us thrust into gear, only to come to a grinding halt when no new answers come.

“Whoever they are, they’re closer than we realize. And if it’s blood they want, then it’s blood they’ll get.” Asher turns and leaves us with, “Let us die standing.”

“I’m right here, baby.” My mother’s voice drifts from the hallway outside the study. “Mama’s right here, Fox.”

I fell asleep on top of a pile of books, surrounded by even more. Somewhere in the disarray, Maddox is curled up under an old knit blanket. Thorne gave up and went to bed shortly after midnight, but I couldn’t leave Maddox alone to go over every birth, death, and court record we could find. Somewhere between the second and third dead end, Maddox had finally drifted off.

“Fox, I’m here,” my mother repeats, but there’s another voice hovering just below her familiar resonance.

I’ve had this nightmare so many times, but I get to my feet and embrace the inevitable torment if it means there’s a possibility of seeing my mother for a brief moment. The hallway extends to three times its normal length to get to the stairs. On the other side, the path has become overgrown with blackberry brambles.

“Come find me.” It’s not my mother’s voice that has me climbing dozens of steps until my muscles ache.

I know where the stairs will take me. My anxiety-riddled mind has wandered up to her room thousands of times since I saw her last.

My bedroom door is ajar and a soft, warm glow spills out in a gilded path. I follow it for what feels like miles, until my hand flattens on the solid oak door. The chalk sigil I drew is broken, with a new one etched into the wood’s grain. I follow the jagged lines with my index finger in a large circle. The markings in the middle resemble a protection symbol that I’ve seen before but can’t place. Memories try to surface and remind me, but all I see is old, cracked leather.

“You’re so close,” Elsbeth’s voice calls from the other side of the door. “I’ve been waiting for you all night.”

It’s a dream.

Of course, it is.

And as long as I know that I’m dreaming, why not indulge in the fantasy?

I step inside and find her lying in my sheets, her pale skin a stark contrast to the dark olive fabric. Untamed red waves flow down her shoulders and over her chest.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” I tell her from the edge of the bed. I lean over, but she slips away.

“Hold me.” She reaches out, her fingers raking through my shaggy hair, and pulls me into her.

It feels like we’re tumbling through a cloud for a long moment, and when we settle, her head is nestled into my bare chest. Her warm skin presses to the length of my naked body under the sheet. She’s never been this close. I shouldn’t be able to feel her like this. Maybe the connection we shared earlier today has tricked me into thinking I know this woman’s body this intimately.

That lie convinces me to slip my hand beneath the light linen and follow the curves of her side from her shoulder down to her ass. I cup the supple glute, guiding her on top of me. She plants her chin on the back of her stacked hands and looks up at me.

“It’s so comfortable here.” She hums a sigh. “Why do you ever leave?”

“Who else is going to make you breakfast to refuse?” I run the pad of my finger, featherlight, down the bridge of her nose. “You do that to drive me crazy, don’t you?” The apple of her right cheek tightens and the smallest amusement tips her lips. “I knew it!”

She squeals with laughter as I scoop her body under mine and jab into her sides. “That’s not fair!” Her laugher is muffled by the mountain of pillows and blankets taking us in deeper. “I hate being tickled.”

Her legs wrap around my waist as I hover over her. Light from the lamp filters through the linen enough that I can see the moment she realizes how close our bodies really are.

“Let me make it up to you.” I lean down, kissing her lips, soft, slow, and deep.