Page 2 of A Lady’s Guide to Fae Kings

She had helped him find a collection of poems for his class on Medieval Folklore months ago, and that was the last time he had spoken to her—and barely then. The book had once been a part of the Library’s collections, but some books did not stay put, no matter the chains involved or the spells invoked. Especially with Fae provenance, ownership was sometimes contentious. She had had to walk across three different buildings and answer the daily riddle of the sphinx statue on the fourth floor.

Which still did not explain his current state.

There was a dark, unyielding beauty to his face, something stark like a tree in January. Or a poisoned berry. Full Fae blood—there was surely nothing so mundane as a witch ancestor to be found on his family tree.

She was being fanciful. And there was no time for fancies when blood threatened her beloved books.

Her witch familiar, a glowing moth the size of her palm, hovered over him. The moth was a part of her and yet also separate. It was her magic, her cunning, made visible. That and the witch knot that appeared on the left palm of all witches and grew darker the more magic they used. It was a simple circle with four interlocked petals, a mark of friendship between them. Sometimes it was all that bound them, even though the island of Lyonesse was one of the few places where witches and shifters, vampires and selkies, could go about relatively unbothered.

Her moth was the reason she realized the professor was holding something. It was partially twisted under his hip but she would not be approaching that part of him, thank you very much.

Except it very much looked like a book.

Small, bound in red leather, with pewter hinges and attached to a chain. How had he detached the iron chain that secured it to the shelf? And if she was not mistaken, he had damaged the book in the process. There was a small rip in one of the pages, sticking out at an angle. A scuff on the leather in one corner.

Unconscionable.

No matter how devastatingly handsome he might be, or how fearsome, a professor ought to know better. She clicked her tongue disapprovingly as she gently pried the book from his grip. He stirred for the first time, with something very like a growl coming from his chest. Her brow furrowed. “I am not going to allow you to damage this book any further. I don’t care who you are.” She made another little sound of outrage. “You bled on it!”

Worse and worse. She was truly horrified. She would need salt and a spell for smoke cleansing, in case it continued to attract such ill luck.

“This book is eight hundred years old!” She frowned. “And I still don’t understand why you’re naked.”

Books could do a great many things, but not, generally, that.

And then the blood and the torn paper and the mystery of it all was the least of her worries. Much more concerning was the flash of light, quickly followed by crystal balls rolling across the floor toward them.

And when they cracked, it was so much worse.

Mists billowed out of the shards, slithering like snakes.

That did not bode well.

“Blast.” It wasn’t fear that immediately kindled in her belly but a deep well of irritation.

This promised to be messy, and just as bad for the books as murdered Fae professors who were also kings with no consideration for the state of rare books. Also, random spells were strictly forbidden in the Library. For obvious reasons.

Much good that did her now as the crystals shattered, releasing more of the mysterious mist. The professor did not stir, but hoarfrost and ice gathered underneath him. As the ice melted, it would damage the scrolls and leather bindings and brittle parchment. Ink would smear and bleed. Words would turn to smudges, bruises, then nothing. “Blast, blast, blast,” Pippa said again.

There were countless wards already in place against dust and mice and mold. Against fire and water and theft; against visitors with sticky hands, or sweets in their bags, or both (honestly, who traveled with a sticky toffee pudding?). Spells to track visitors who had not signed in.

Pippa was quite certain the mist had not signed in at the front desk.

Had the professor summoned them? If so, that seemed an unwise decision. Perhaps he was hunting them? Or were they hunting him? Was that why his blood was still dripping onto the ice?

She was searching for a handkerchief in the pouch at her belt to press on his shoulder wound when the mists touched her.

The shock of pain stole her breath. Her vision blurred. She yelped and jerked back. The mists parted, more interested in the professor. But she knew from that brief jolt that any extended contact could easily drain the magic from them. And possibly their lifeblood. Not necessarily in that order.

She eased in front of the professor and knocked on the floor three times.

The mists paused, shaking off the frost that was thinning them out, sweeping toward her, newly focused. Hungry. She had successfully pulled their attention away from damaging the books and Professor Thorn.

Which had seemed like a good idea at the time.

Now she was not entirely certain.

Her skin burned under the silver-and-iron bracelet she wore on her left wrist. It was painful, familiar. Necessary.