Patricia Briggs - Masques

“Can you see him?” she asked Wolf.

When he shook his head, she directed her questioning to the man who wasn’t there. “Who are you?”

“That’s better,” said the voice, and there was a distinct pop of air that accompanies teleportation.

That pop made Wolf confident enough to say, “He’s gone.”

“What do you think?” asked Aralorn, settling back onto Wolf, her voice husky from crying. “Was that our friend who gives us a hand with the books and healed me?”

“I can’t imagine that there is an endless supply of invisible people here.”

Wolf knew he should be more concerned, but he’d suddenly become aware that Aralorn was naked under the quilt. It hadn’t bothered him before, when she’d been upset.

He started to shift her off him, with the end goal of getting as much distance on his side as possible. But as soon as his hands touched her hip—on top of the blanket—they wanted to pull her toward him, not push her away.

Self-absorbed, he only caught the tail end of Aralorn’s question. “Say that again?” he asked.

“I asked how long you left me alone in the library.”

“Not more than fifteen minutes. Less probably.”

She made a sound of amazement. “I’ve never heard of anyone who could heal that fast. No wonder I feel like a month-old babe; by all rights I should be comatose now.”

“Powerful,” Wolf agreed.

Aralorn nodded. “It was odd in a voice that young, but he sounded a bit querulous, maybe even senile.” She closed her eyes, and he couldn’t make himself shove her away. More asleep than awake, she murmured with a touch of her unquenchable curiosity, “I wonder who Lys is.”

When Wolf made no attempt to add to or answer her question, she drifted off to sleep.

Wolf cradled her protectively against him. He thought about shapeshifters, children, and refugees who unerringly found their way to Myr’s camp. And he remembered the ae’Magi’s half-mad son who wandered into these caves to find solace one night, led by a small gray fox with ageless sea-green eyes.

From her station on the couch, Aralorn watched Wolf deposit another armload of books on the floor beside the worktable. The table, her chair, and most of the floor space were similarly adorned. He’d been silently moving books since she woke up, even less communicative than usual. He wasn’t wearing his mask, but he might as well have been for all she could read on his face.

“Have you given any more thought to our invisible friend?” she asked, just to goad him. They’d worried and speculated for hours last night. During which time, Wolf had spent ten minutes lecturing her about how real invisibility was a myth, impossible to achieve with magic for a variety of reasons laid out in theories proposed over centuries.

She wasn’t fishing for answers from him now; she was fishing for a response. Some acknowledgment that he was aware she was in the room.

He grunted without looking her way and went back into the stacks.

She might have been more concerned with their invisible—to all intents and purposes, no matter what Wolf maintained—visitor. But whoever it was had made no move against them; quite the contrary, in her opinion. If their visitor had meant mischief, he’d had plenty of opportunity. This was the Northlands, after all, full of all sorts of odd things.

It was Wolf she worried about.

He’d never allowed her to get as close as they had been last night. But always, whenever he’d opened up to her, let down the barrier that separated him from her, from everyone, he’d abruptly leave for weeks or months at a time. She thought this morning’s distance might be the start of his withdrawal.

Having experienced the ae’Magi’s touch firsthand, if only for a brief time compared to whatever he’d gone through, she finally understood some of what caused Wolf to be the way he was. It increased her patience with him—but it didn’t mean she was going to let him pull away again without a fight.

“Did our apprentice write all of these?” Aralorn made a vague gesture toward the stacks before continuing to put a better edge on her knife.

Wolf turned to survey the piles. He let the silence build, then growled a brief affirmative before stalking back into the forest of bookcases. It was the first word he’d said to her since she’d woken up.

Aralorn grinned, sheathed her knife, and levered herself to her feet, still annoyingly weak. Scanning the nearby shelves, she found a book on shapeshifters and wobbled with it to the table, careful not to fall. Wolf had made it clear that he would rather that she stay put on the couch for a couple of days. She had no intention of giving in; but if she fell, there would be no living with him. So she’d save it for desperate measures if he didn’t start talking to her. If she fell deliberately, it wouldn’t be as humiliating.

She cleared off her chair and space enough to read. Now that the search had been narrowed to books that were likely to be trapped, Wolf had forbidden her to help. Aralorn decided if she couldn’t be useful, at least she could enjoy herself.

Wolf balanced the books he carried on another stack and eyed her narrowly without meeting her eyes. He took her book and looked at it before handing it back.

“I thought human mages were supposed to keep their secrets close—not write down every stray thought that comes into their heads.” With a tilt of her head, Aralorn indicated the neat piles of books he’d brought out.

He followed her gesture and sighed. “Most mages restrict their writings to the intricacies of magic. Iveress fancied himself an expert on everything. There are treatises here on everything from butter-making to glassblowing to governmental philosophy. From the four books of his I’ve already looked through, he is long-winded and brilliant, with the annoying habit of sliding in obscure magic spells in the middle of whatever he was writing when the spell occurred to him.”

“Better you than me,” said Aralorn, hiding her satisfaction in having gotten him to respond at last.

She must not have hidden it quite well enough. He stared at her from under his lowered brows. “Only because his books were considered subversive a few centuries back, and mages spelled them to keep them safe. Otherwise, I’d make you help me with this mess.” He took a stride toward the shelves again, then stopped. “I might as well start with what I have.”

“No use discouraging yourself with an endless task,” she agreed.

He growled at her without heat.

She grinned at his familiar grumpiness—much better than silence—and settled in to read. It was fascinating, but not, Aralorn fancied, in the fashion the author meant it to be. In the foreword, the author admitted she had never met a shapeshifter. Regardless, she considered herself an expert. The stories she liked best were the ones that represented shapeshifters as a “powerful, possibly mythic race” whose main hobby seemed to be eating innocent young children who lost themselves in the woods.

“If I were one of a powerful, possibly mythic race,” muttered Aralorn, “I wouldn’t be bothering with eating children. I’d go after pompous asses who sit around passing judgment on things they know nothing about.”

“Me, too,” agreed Wolf mildly without looking up. Evidently the reading he was doing was more interesting than hers, because even his grumpiness had faded. “Do you have someone in mind?”

“She’s been dead for years . . . centuries, I think.”

“Ah,” he said, turning a page. “I don’t eat things that have been dead too long. Bad for even the wolf’s digestion.”

She snorted and kept reading. Aralorn learned that shapeshifters could only be killed by silver, garlic, or wolfsbane. “And all this time I’ve been worried about things like arrows, swords, and knives,” she told Wolf. “Silly me. I’d better get rid of my silver-handled dagger—it would kill me to touch the grip.”