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November 24 - November 30, 2025
It was intensely aggravating for quick-minded daemons to deal with creatures who didn’t consider any division of time smaller than a decade particularly important.
“It’s the lost book,” Matthew said grimly. “I know it.”
“Matthew,” the daemon said in the same voice he used to let his junior partners know when they were on thin ice, “leave the witch and the manuscript alone.” The vampire placed his wineglass carefully on the mantel and turned away. “I don’t think I can, Hamish. I’m . . . craving her.”
If only he could taste it—taste Diana—he would be satisfied and the painful longing would subside.
“A bewitched book.” Sarah’s voice was keen with interest. “Was it a grimoire?”
“Bridget Bishop was found guilty of witchcraft and executed. She didn’t instigate the witch-hunt—she was a victim of it, just like the others. You know that, as does every other witch in this library.”
“What is in the manuscript?” I said, temper flaring at last. “The first spells ever constructed. Descriptions of the enchantments that bind the world together.” Knox’s face grew dreamy. “The secret of immortality. How witches made the first daemon. How vampires can be destroyed, once and for all.” His eyes pierced mine. “It’s the source of all our power, past and present. It cannot be allowed to fall into the hands of daemons or vampires—or humans.”
Be careful with Matthew Clairmont. Knox’s voice rang in my head. He’s a killer.
“This is the genetic marker for precognition,” Matthew continued, pointing to the first circled smudge. His finger began slowly moving down the page. “This one is for flight. This helps witches find things that are lost.” Matthew kept reeling off powers and abilities one at a time until my head spun. “This one is for talking with the dead, this is transmogrification, this is telekinesis, this is spell casting, this one is charms, this one is curses. And you’ve got mind reading, telepathy, and empathy—they’re next to one another.”
it means you have not only powerful magical abilities but an innate talent for witchcraft.”
This vampire was used to giving orders that were obeyed instantly. He wasn’t accustomed to making requests and negotiating agreements.
“Matthew, please tell me ‘Biblia Sacra 1450’ is not what I think it is.” “Okay, it’s not what you think it is,” he said automatically,
It was Vesalius’s anatomy book from 1543, the first to depict dissected human bodies in exacting detail.
But the most battered book I’d seen yet was resting on the nineteenth-century shelves: a first edition of Darwin’s On the Origin of Species.
“Dear Sir,” it began. “Your letter of 15 October has reached me at last. I am mortified at my slow reply. I have for many years been collecting all the facts which I could in regard to the variation and origin of species, and your approval of my reasonings comes as welcome news as my book will soon pass into the publisher’s hands.” It was signed “C. Darwin,” and the date was 1859.
“The question of why you’re here—how we’re all here—really does consume you,” I said slowly. “I could see it on every page of Darwin’s book.” Matthew studied his wine. “It’s the only question worth asking.”
“She is full of power, Matthew. Her witch’s blood sings in her veins. She should be able to use it for big things, too.”
The enormity of what it meant to love a vampire struck home as I slid the account book back onto the shelf. It was not just his age that posed the difficulties, or his dining habits, or the fact that he had killed humans and would do so again. It was the secrets.
We were the stuff of fairy tales—vampires, witches, knights in shining armor.
“The oubliette.” He set off in the direction of the kitchens. Baldwin’s face froze. “Dieu,” he whispered, watching his brother’s receding back. What was it about this witch that had made her own people throw her down a sixty-foot hole?
