“This is… unfortunate,” Drae says.
“Please tell me you’ve got some idea what we’re looking for, Drae. Please tell me we didn’t put West at risk just to get a peek at the guy’s library.”
“I was hoping…Fuck.” He paces from one end of the massive space to the other, shoving a hand through his hair in frustration. “I don’t bloody know! I thought we would just… sense it. Or perhaps he’d have it on a special shelf or altar we could easily identify.”
“He’s the Archmage of Manhattan and the leader of the shadow magic society.” I pluck a fist-sized crystal ball from the shelf—polished obsidian. “Allhis shelves and altars are special.”
Drae curses under his breath.
“Think, Draegan,” I say. “In all your conversations with Forsythe about this book, did he ever mention any physical characteristics? Do we even know whether it’s a literal book or something more like a scroll?”
“When he first told me about it, he mentioned water damage on the top right corner, so I’m assuming it’s a book.”
“Okay, that helps. Do we know what color the jacket is? Or what material? Leather? Some other kind of animal hide? Was it re-bound at any point?”
Drae shakes his head. “That’s all I’ve got, Rook. That and a blind hope.”
I set the obsidian ball back in its holder. “This is going to take a while.”
An hour later, we’ve ransacked several shelves, two desks, and a stack of crates full of other books, yet we’re no closer to finding the elusive Codex.
“It might not even be here, Drae,” I remind him. “Maybe you read his signals wrong that night. Maybe—”
“It’s here, damn it. I can feel it.” He shakes out his hands. “There’s a… a current or something. A connection. Not unlike what I first felt with Westlyn. The longer we’re up here, the stronger it’s getting. Can’t you sense it?”
“I can, but that’s not an unusual reaction for me with dark fae objects. There are alotof old things here.”
“I know.” He blows out a breath and takes one more look around, and I know what he’s going to say next before he even utters the words. “We’re just going to have to take them all. Empty out the crates and pack up whatever dark fae works we can find. If you’re not sure, go by your gut. Any tingling, any odd sensations, anything at all—we take it.”
“Forsythe might’ve been able to overlook one missing book for a little while, but he’s going to notice if all his favorite dark fae artifacts suddenly vanish from his library tonight.”
“I’m no longer concerned about that. He would’ve connected the dots, anyway. Forsythe’s well aware of my interest in the text—he’s been dangling it in front of my nose like a carrot from the moment he acquired it. And as soon as he realizes it’s gone, he’ll very likely make the connection between the mysterious theft and his clandestine meeting with Westlyn, and then he’ll knowexactlywhere to find her, which puts us all at a severe disadvantage.”
“Yeah.” I grab a couple of dark fae lore books from the shelf and set them into the crate at my feet. “I was worried about that.”
“I think our best course of action at this point is to take whatever we think may be of use, then trash the place. Make it look like a smash-and-grab. I’m sure he’s got a lot of important books here—the missing Codex might turn out to be the least of his concerns.”
“That’s your plan? Smash and grab?”
“Not ideal, granted, but given the options? I think it can buy us a few extra days before he realizes who fucked him in the arse and launches a counter-attack.”
The thought of damaging books—even books that belong to an enemy—horrifies me to the core, but… yeah. Drae’s right. A few extra days can mean the different between keeping West safe and…
No. I won’t consider the alternative.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s get moving, then.”
We work quickly after that, trying to parse through an impressive collection of esoteric magical items, grimoires, and historical texts I’d love to have for our private collection, but there’s no way we can bring everything with us. So, ignoring the pangs in my heart, I pack up the dark fae works and trash the rest, tearing out pages, smashing crystals and devotional statues, knocking over shelving.
I’m just about to bring down another bookshelf when a sharp, pained gasp from the other side of the room stops me cold.
“Drae?” I run to the spot where he’s been on his knees for the past twenty minutes, flipping through books in search of that water-damaged corner. “You okay?”
He gets to his feet and turns to face me. In his hands, a large tome bound in cracked leather emanates a faint purple glow, tiny black sparks crackling around it.
“I think,” he grunts out, struggling to hold it, “we’ve found our Codex.”
“Are you—”
