“Already? It’s only September.”
“I prefer to be thorough. And my topic requires extensive research into some rather esoteric sources.”
“What’s it on?” I ask, partly from curiosity, and partly to keep him from asking me more questions.
“My working title isHecate at the Crossroads of Flame and Time: Intersections of Liminal Deities in Witchcraft.”He says it like he’s practiced, which he probably has.
“That sounds...” I search for a polite word that doesn’t make me sound like an idiot for not understanding what the hell he’s talking about. “Complicated.”
“Exceedingly.” He pulls out his notebook. “The intersection of temporal magic and divine intervention raises questions about causality, prophecy, and the nature of free will itself.”
“Wow.” If my brain couldn’t keep up before, it certainly can’t now. Half those words sound like they’re a completely different language. “Good luck with that.”
“Thank you.” He opens the notebook to a page covered in diagrams. “I’ll leave you to your studies. The basic mythology texts are on the third shelf. Much more accessible than what you’re currently reading.”
The dismissal stings a little, even though it’s likely good advice. “Thanks for the tip.”
“Happy to help.” He gathers his books and moves to a table across the library, his walk precise, not looking back at me once.
I return to my research, but my concentration is shot. The books blur together, all saying the same nothing. Hecate loves witches. Lampades protect witches.
So, why did they try to kill us? Does my electricity magic make it so I’m not a witch at all? Do the Lampades think I’mdangerous to witches? Do they think Logan’s dangerous, too, because of his ability to compel witches?
I have no idea.
But that’s why I’m here. To find out.
So, I head to the third shelf, pull out the first book, and get back to work.
Two hours later, I’m no closer to understanding why Hecate’s servants wanted me and Logan dead.
Throwing in the towel for the night, I gather my things and make my way to the library’s center, where ornate bronze tables sit beneath a high ceiling painted with constellations. Alessandra Sterling occupies one of these prime study spots, surrounded by perfectly organized books, looking like she belongs in a Southern Living photoshoot.
My stomach knots as I remember the hate in her eyes when she accused me of using devil’s magic, the fear when Logan pressed her own blade to her throat, and the sudden compliance after he compelled her to forget it all.
I should ignore her. Walk by as if we’re strangers. Logan’s compulsion magic worked on Evie—she didn’t remember finding me and Logan on the second floor—and I trust it worked on Alessandra, too.
But as I move past her, Alessandra looks up and locks her gaze with mine, studying me for an uncomfortably long moment.
Shit. I was staring at her, and she knows it. Way for me to be awkward. Especially since even though Alessandra’s forgotten about my electricity magic, Logan didn’t compel her to stop hating me because of whatever “threat” I pose to Callie. That sortof attitude is part of who she is, and there’s no reason to think it’s changed in the two days since the party.
I’m turning around to leave—pretending like the wholeawkwardly meeting eyes across the roomthing was an accident—when she speaks.
“Care to join me?”
She motions to the empty chair across from her, as if we were meeting for a planned study session and she’s been waiting for me.
I freeze, feeling trapped. I need to get out of here. I don’t want to talk to her. But now she’s giving me that conniving southern smile of hers, as if her invitation is some sort of challenge. As if she’s testing me to see if I’m scared of her or not.
No way in hell am I letting Alessandra Sterling intimidate me.
So, I take a deep breath and walk over, trying not to shake so much that I drop the books I’m holding and give myself away.
As I set them down and take a seat, Alessandra watches me in what might almost be approval. Then, in the most jolting move ever, she returns to her studies as if I’m not here at all.
Fine. If she wants me to start, then I’ll start.
“Productive Sunday?” I try, arranging my books into something less chaotic.
