Paris went to help Brock put away the dishes, and Lia put away the candelabra. Raiden wasn’t in the kitchen, so she went to her bedroom, to find it empty. She followed the hallway down to the rear of the house and found him leaving the solarium.
“Ah,” he said, guiltily. “Just giving the fairy some leftover salad. He needs a more greens-based diet.”
“You were feeding my fairy,” she smiled, melting at the gesture.
He shrugged a shoulder, his cheeks coloring. “My mother has always fed the garden fairies.”
“Yes, there were so many in her garden I was amazed. My fairy was on a bus,” she said as they entered her bedroom. “I guess he blew in the door or something and got crushed. I brought him back here, but I don’t really know what I am doing.”
“You saved him,” he smiled, his eyes warm. “He is doing fine. The solarium is a good spot for him.”
“My grandmother’s ghost said to let him heal and then release him, but he seems happy in there.”
“You talk to your grandmother’s ghost?” He went into the bathroom and put toothpaste on his brush. He was neat and efficient with his brushing and she watched him, enjoying the domesticity of having him brushing his teeth in her bathroom after sharing a meal together.
She shrugged. “Sometimes she is more coherent than others, but, yes, sometimes we talk, usually only a sentence or two.”
He rinsed off his toothbrush, and stepped out to let her in. “So,” he said, leaning against the door frame as she brushed her teeth. “What happened with Cael?”
She spat and rinsed off her toothbrush. “I don’t know,” she sighed. If she told him everything about Cael, he would not let the man back into the house, and the two would probably get into a fight. Whilst she did not doubt that Raiden would win, being a werewolf and stronger, Cael was a warlock, and she didn’t want him throwing out any curses either. “It’s complicated. I want to show you something, first.”
“Alright,” Raiden moved out of her way. She took his hand and pulled him into the walk-in-robe. “Been in here before,” he commented, amused. “It’s full of clothes. Not sure how you get around to wearing everything in here, but you are female, so it is pretty standard equipment.”
“Haha,” she giggled. “Yes, but you haven’t been in here,” she released the secret door, and pulled it open revealing the exposed brickwork and wooden stair well leading up to the turret room, the dust holding the imprint of her shoes from previous visits.
“Okay,” he looked up the turret. “Claustrophobic, but I am game. I wondered if the turret was just decorative. The house I am doing at the moment doesn’t have one. It is a nice addition.”
She led him up the stairs, giggling when he had to angle because of the width of his shoulders and height. “A stepladder would have been more user friendly,” he observed. “But not so atmospheric.”
They reached the turret room and he looked around, at the lead light window, the bookshelves that curved around the wall and their arcane objects, and the desk on which the grimoire rested.
“This is… really something,” he said. “It’s actually a great sized room. Kids would love it. A secret hidey hole to play in.”
“It’s not really a room for children,” she laughed. “There are things in here that are a bit ick.”
“You are telling me.” He took a jar from the shelf. “What is this?”
“Some type of fetus unfortunately. An Other. Hobgoblin maybe. Disgusting, I know, but what can I do with it other than just leave it on the shelf?” She grimaced. “Every time I see it, I wondered just exactly how it came to be in the jar. There is just no happy way a baby, any baby, ends up preserved in a jar.”
“Hmm,” he set it back onto the shelf with care. “Yeah, that is quite sad. This room is odd. These shelves and that table are much older than this house, and have been built in. It is like the turret existed before the house.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if that was true,” she admitted. “The turret houses the grimoire, you see.” She walked over to the table.
“Werewolves,” she said to the book, and heard Raiden exclaim as the cover fell open heavily, and the pages lifted and shifted.
He leaned over her with his hands braced on the table. “I’ve never seen a grimoire before. I have heard of them, but witches and warlocks don’t tend to be open with werewolves. I can’t read it,” he said. “The language is foreign…”
“Is that right?” She looked up him in surprise. “It looks normal to me.”
“What does it say about werewolves?” He wondered.
“It’s a bit bland,” she read it out to him.
“Mostly accurate,” he said thoughtfully. “Though I find the term contaminating humans a bit offensive. We consider it a gift.
“And we are more matriarchal than it implies with all its talk of alpha males. My mother is the leader of the pack, not my father, though they are the primary alpha pair and will be until I…” he trailed off, flicking her a look under his eyelashes. “Anyway, it stems from history, when the pack would hunt, and the matriarch would remain at home guarding the next generation. You don’t risk the pack leader on the hunt.”
“That’s interesting,” she considered the family barbecue with that in light. It explained why Diedre had spent more time with her than Wade. It was Diedre who would give approval for the addition to the pack.
“So, you have a magic hidden room with a magic book in it. Can I touch it?”
“I don’t know,” she was curious. “I have never shown anyone else this room, and never saw grandmother show anyone it either.”
“Hopefully I don’t get zapped,” he grinned at her, and touched the page. “Nope, no zapping. Can I turn the page?”
“I guess,” she watched him do so. “What do you see?”
“Bunch of writing in a different language. Very old paper, and very old ink.”
She took the book and turned to the front page. “What about this?”
“Angel cutting off another angel’s wings. Seems a bit un-angelic, really, don’t you think?” He observed. “Does cutting off an angel’s wings mean that they become human?”
“The book called them the Wingless. Apparently, not many survive. It’s, like, a punishment for the worst type of crimes.”
“Nasty,” he grimaced. “This looks like a family tree,” he touched the other page. “We should probably be wearing cotton gloves or something, actually,” he added, taking his hand off the page. “Like they do in museums, to protect old books. I bet a museum would love to get their hands on this.”
“I wonder what they would make of it,” she said. “I wouldn’t worry about handling it though. I am pretty sure it has some type of protection on it. My grandmother was always trying to get me to read it as a kid and kid’s hands are always grubby. I regret that now,” she sighed. “Not spending more time learning. I might know more. But I just wanted to dance, not read a stodgy old book with scary pictures.”
“Hard reading for a kid,” he said with empathy.
“Talking about protection,” she added. “My grandmother’s ghost said something about a protection spell wearing off. Maybe I should ask Cael about that, see if he knows anything, but he’s…”
“He is what exactly?”
She grimaced. “Friday night, he said that I was on heat and tried to coerce me with magic,” she admitted reluctantly, already knowing what his response would be. She heard the growl, low and quiet and saw the Other reflect in his eyes. “He also said that I was his. He has said it several times, actually. That he saved my life, and that I have been his since I was…” She froze.
For a moment, she saw Cael’s face, surrounded by fire.
“Since you were?” Raiden prompted, unhappily.
“Since I was six,” she whispered. “My parents had a car accident when I was six. A hit and run. It killed them, but I was somehow thrown clear of the burning car. I didn’t have more than a couple of scratches. I remember him,” she breathed it. “His face surrounded in flames. But that’s not possible. He hasn’t aged.”
“Some sort of spell?” Raiden wondered. “Though, if it were, surely every witch and warlock would be using it…. They have longer lives and slower ageing, like werewolves, I know from a friend of mine, but not twenty years without ageing. We are not frozen in time like vampires. Was he the hit and run driver?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Perhaps it wasn’t him,” he suggested. “Memories are tricky things, Lia. Sometimes we can influence our memories.”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. But it felt right, and she was somehow certain that Cael had been there, the day of the car crash, reaching through the flames to her.