The point in his throat bobbed. “Let’s go inside. He wants to be alone when he eats anyway. Az, be good,” he called, and to my surprise, his dragon curled up in the corner of the courtyard, away from Myth as he ate.
When we slipped inside the house, Rush lit the kerosene lamp in the entryway, not wanting to use the electric lights for fear a neighbor might think the house was in use. From an inside pocket in his jacket, he withdrew the worn leather journal I’d seen that first night I’d found him in the lair. He hadn’t brought it back since that night.
Thumbing to a point near the middle, he read aloud, “‘The secrets are in the spines.’” His eyes flashed up to me. “Any idea what that means? It’s been plaguing me for months.”
I gave a noncommittal twist of my lips.
To my surprise, he turned the journal toward me. “The notes end there. I’ve been researching dragon bone structure for months, everything from draconarian surgical techniques to old-fashioned bone harvesting, from when people used to think dragon bones could heal any disease.”
I traced the notes with my finger. “But dragons aren’t the only things with spines,” I whispered.
“I thought about that. But what could human spines have to do with?—”
“Not bones.” I swatted him. “Books.”
His eyes widened. “Books. What sort of secrets could be hidden in—?” He stopped short and flipped the journal closed. “Come with me.”
He led me through the dark house, up one flight of steps, a second. The third floor contained a bedroom and a study. We entered the study. There were no ghostly sheets here. The room looked as if it were still in use. A large wooden desk occupied oneside of the room; bookshelves lined two walls. The smell of dust and pages greeted my nose as Rush strode toward the bookshelf and tipped one leatherbound book into his hand.
“How could I have been so stupid…” He opened the book, scanned a few pages. Then he turned the book over in his hands and squinted at the binding. His brow was pinched, his eyes roving, angry, as they studied the book.
“It’s just a thought,” I said with a shrug. “You’re the one with the journal.”
Rush snapped the book shut, staring down at the spine of the book from the top. He moved the book closer, then farther away. With a jerk, he stormed back toward the desk, ripped open a drawer. In his fist was a dagger-shaped letter opener.
He stood the book on the desk, pages falling open, and rammed the letter opener into the spine.
I cringed. “What if I was wrong?”
With a single motion, he ripped the pages off the binding.
“Oh, well, guess it doesn’t hurt to be thorough,” I mumbled, wide-eyed.
He glanced up at me, the edges of his mouth curling in a quiet victory.
“What is it?” I asked, hurrying around the desk.
“Look.” He held up the book cover, now deprived of its pages. Glued behind the leather cover was a small lump of brown fabric, barely discernible. The edge of the letter opener slit through the fabric, and a tiny item fell onto the rug.
I dropped to my knees a second before he did. My fingers roamed the carpet, but his found the small item first.
Rising at the same time, we peered down at a tiny emerald in his palm. He pinched the jewel between two fingers and brought it up to his eyes, twisting it in the light. Its facets sparkled like fireflies.
“The secrets are in the spines,” he muttered. “Ari, I feel like the biggest fool. You figured it out immediately.”
“You had dragons on your mind, not books.” Shrugging, I glanced down at the still-open journal. “So, what does it mean? It saidsecrets,notstones.”
He set the journal on the desk and pulled it toward him, then angled it so I could read the line where his finger rested.
“‘The secrets are in the spines. They will prove it all.’ All what?” I asked.
“Magic. Dragonfire. All of it. My mother left me this journal, in a lockbox at a bank never tied to her real name. She didn’t want Father knowing about it. What she wrote in here, it would change everything.”
Silence hung between us a moment as I pondered what it would be like to have something of my father’s that mattered, some leftover piece of his soul that proved he’d used his life for good, not evil. A piece of him that would improve the world.
Instead, I thought of the card under my pillow at Cardan Lott, and a sting of anger poked at my heart. I had vowed to never turn out like him. But Rush was right—I was a gambler. I only hoped I was gambling for things that mattered, things that would change the world for the better. Otherwise, I would die like him, chasing a pipe dream.
“Ari, look.” Rush was now pointing at the hollow book cover discarded on the desk.
