Page 128 of Veil of Blood and Bone

A bonafide dumpster diving feat.

Audra rests on the couch within hearing distance while Forest strangles the wine bottle in his massive hands, his legs wide and his presence a bonfire.

“You seriously saved all these? This one is dated 1645, dude! How can it look like it’s brand new?” She buries her nose in a book. "Holy fuckballs, this one is from 1210!"

I focus on java instead of her next gravelly gasp of surprise.

“Magic, warrior girl," Forest says.

“Even the flowers. This peony is still red. Wow. Helene, did you know my name was Dynah?”

“I’m not sure how I’d know, kid,” I mutter. My head spins.

“Because you were my aunt then! This is so fucking cool. They all link together. These symbols...I want to know everything.”

Audra flips pages while Nicholas and Forest wait for me to answer in something other than the monosyllables in my head.

No. What. How? Why?

She laughs. This is the best Christmas present of her life. “How far back do these go, Forest?”

“To the beginning,” he grinds out after a long slug of wine.

The coffeemaker chugs to life with the harsh, bitter scent of burned coffee. I hadn’t washed out the pot earlier but it’s too late now. Fresh brew splashes on top of it and I shake my head.

“Ah. The party’s started without me? I’m heartbroken.”

Shadows at the corners of the room thicken, and Wren steps out of them. One lean leg, then the other, his skin pale beneath the black T-shirt. His Perthro tattoo. His piercings.

I keep my gaze on the floor when my own skin warms.

Forest leans his elbows on his knees. “Took you enough time to arrive.”

"A man's business is his own, bird brain. You weren’t concerned when you fainted and then took off on us, were you?” Wren chuckles. “No coffee for me, pretty monster. I’m on a diet.”

Another round of silence falls.

Clearly they’re waiting for me to die of embarrassment.

The three men take up every free brain cell I’ve got and ask for more, while Audra’s got Forest’s books piled around her like a mini cave.

Correction, her books.

The coffeemaker chugs.

“Ah, awkward. What a delight.” Wren angles against the fridge, inches separating us.

I steal a few more inches on the excuse of getting clean mugs from the top shelf.

“I thought it would be good to share the girl’s journals,” Forest says. “They may prove insightful.”

I turn in time to watch his hand curl into a fist at the center of the table, as big as a hammer.

Wren scoffs. “You brought a bookworm more books. What did you do, swoop down on the estate sales the second the girl died?

Forest shrugs, unbothered by the accusation. “Someone has to do something. This kind of history can’t afford to be lost.”

“I’m not sure how you remembered enough to get them in the first place.” Wren taps his chin. “You barely remember your own name once Helene dies. The memories of her fade within days.”