I wasn’t paying attention as I turned to head up the steps into my building. I almost ran straight into an unsuspecting parcel deliveryman who dodged me at the last minute.
“So sorry,” I apologized and moved aside to allow him to have the steps to himself. When the path was clear, I made my way to the lift and pressed the button for my flat on the top floor.
“Aish!” the familiar voice echoed down the corridor as I exited the lift only a few feet from my destination.
Moments later, my bubbly neighbor was all up in my personal space chattering on, about what I wasn’t sure. Don’t get me wrong, I liked her . . . as much as you can like anyone who talks incessantly about absolutely anything. She literally described the paint on her walls for seventeen minutes once. Not an exaggeration.
Her dirty blonde ponytail swung back and forth as she gabbed on without taking a breath. Even after two years of her constant rambling, I was still surprised she hadn’t passed out mid-sentence from lack of oxygen. I was about to dismiss her as kindly as I could with an excuse about needing a shower or a hot tea when she said something that piqued my interest.
“Libby,” I tried to get her attention.
“He was super attractive, and I told him ya would prob’ly be home lat’r tonight—” she rattled.
“Libby . . . Libby!” I repeated more loudly the second time to stop her rapid flow of words.
Her eyes widened and she stared at me for a moment. It made me realize I’d probably never raised my voice or interrupted her in the two years we’ve been neighbors.
“Who are ya talkin’ about?” I asked her pointedly.
“Oh . . . right. The super attractive guy?”
“Aye, Libby. Super Attractive Guy. Did he leave a name?”
She shook her head.
“Did he say anything? Ask you to give me a message? Anything at all?” I questioned her.
“Nay, not really,” she offered. “He stopped me as I was walking by from the lift. I didn’t offer him any information, just like you’ve told me,” she assured me.
She was referring to my instructions to not give anyone information about me after she’d spouted the life stories of everyone on our floor to me shortly after I moved in. I told her I had a crazy ex-boyfriend, and if he came looking, I didn’t want him to know I was there. It was more or less true. Fine, it was less true, but the last thing I needed was a chatty neighbor willing to tell anyone anything about me. There’s more than one reason I haven’t stayed in one place for extended periods. But Libby was better off not knowing that.
“Thank you, Libby. I genuinely appreciate that. So, why’d he stop ya if you didn’t say anything?”
“He stopped me t’ ask if I knew you. He called ya by name. Said he was a family friend who happened to be in town and that yer father had given him yer address.”
I narrowed my eyes and tilted my head instinctively. Libby quickly caught on to my confusion.
“Aish, what’s wrong?”
I had managed to tell Libby extraordinarily little about my life in the time we’d been neighbors. So, she had no idea that my father died before I was born, which meant there was no way he’d given anyone my address.
“And what did ya tell him?” I asked, avoiding her question.
“I simply said it’s usually late when ya get home.” She stared at me a moment, clearly concerned she’d told him too much. “Was that alright? I hope it was alright.”
“Ya didn’t say anything wrong. Why’d ya tell him I get home late, though? You know I’m usually home before dark.”
She smiled. “Well, I figured that would give ya plenty of time to be prepared if he came back or t’ not even be here if’n ya didn’t wanna be.”
I chuckled. “I do appreciate that. Ya did well,” I praised her. “So, can you describe him? Aside from him being super attractive and all.” I gave her a grin. I knew she could. She had a memory like a steel trap. She didn’t forget anything. How do you think she spent seventeen minutes talking about the paint on a wall?
“He was taller. I’d say o’er six feet by a good bit. That’s just under two meters. I been studying for me trip to the States.” She smiled but didn’t miss a beat. “He had dark hair that was just long enough it swept carelessly across his forehead and did a lit’l flip thing just behind his ear, and those eyes. Aye. Ocean blue with eyelashes that any woman would kill t’ have. No man should have lashes like that. Tain’t fair, I tell ya. Then he had a small, jagged scar just t’ the side of his right eye. I almost didn’t notice it with his hair sweepin’ o’er it and all, but it kinda added t’ the mysterious vibe he had going.”
She was about to continue, but I caught her just as she took a breath.
“A scar?” I arched an eyebrow.
She nodded. “He was built too,” she added. “Like, Hemsworth in a Marvel movie built. Oh . . . and I don’t know what nationality he was, but he was definitely not Irish.”
“Thanks, Libby. Your keen eye, and ear, has been immensely helpful.”
“It’s not yer ex, is it?” she asked with concern in her tone.
I smiled softly and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “No. Definitely not my ex. Thanks fer being concerned.”
“Oh, good. Well, if ya want t’ not be home later in case he comes back, me door is always open.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, thanks. I best be gettin’ some supper ready. I’ll chat with ya later, Libby. And thanks again,” I repeated as I readied my keys.
“Bye, Aish,” she said as she headed back down the corridor to her flat. “Door’s open if ya need me,” she called over her shoulder.
As I placed my key into the physical lock protecting my door, I mentally rolled through the possibilities of who might have been at my flat while I was gone. Then I glanced both ways down the corridor before moving my hand inconspicuously in the unique pattern that released the lock invisible to the naked eye. A little Fae protection magic was better than any lock and key. No one was getting in unless they were more powerful than me. And while I knew there were Fae stronger than me, I hadn’t met one in person since Grams.
I did the usual when I entered my sanctuary—removed my shoes at the door, hung up my coat and scarf, then grabbed the mail from the basket beneath the slot to my right. I was shuffling through it when a strange envelope caught my attention. I’m a curious sort, so I placed the rest of the mail on the table to be ignored until later and plopped down in my favorite chair.
I studied the envelope. Felt the traces of energy pulsing within—benevolent magic. I ran a finger over my name embossed in fancy gold letters and then opened it carefully. I didn’t want to tear such a work of art. I slipped the contents out and unfolded the cream-colored parchment, recognizing the power that protected it. It had been imbued with magic to ensure that only I could read the message within. My touch acted as a signature. Had anyone else tried to open it, they would have failed.
Dear Keeper Initiate,
As you may already have learned, there has been a slight change to our Keeper of Knowledge hierarchy. It has been declared that there shall be two members of each supernatural race in place to not only ensure the fair keeping of every race’s histories but also more hands on deck to test, authenticate, catalog and record. This means that one more being from every race must step up into this role.
After careful consideration, you have been selected by The High Council of the Supernatural to train to become a Keeper of Knowledge. Training will take place in Pyreshore. You are to leave in a week. Details are as follows:
You will live in Pyreshore, New Hampshire, United States of America. You will be assigned a home there and provided all things necessary that you do not have for your home or cannot bring. You will be generously compensated for your time and work with us, even while in training. You are welcome to bring any spouse and children you may have.
As you know, the Keeper position is passed down through the
bloodlines. If your bloodline is not an option, for any reason, a successor must be formally inducted by an agreed upon time. Heirs and successors will train as well as it will be their duties to take over the position in due time.
You will have one month from the time of arrival in Pyreshore to begin your training. In that time, you will have various tasks to perform and lessons to study. After one month, two things will be expected of you in order for you to continue as a Keeper of Knowledge in an official capacity.
1. You must be excelling in your studies and training.
2. You must bring in a record or artifact for the Knowledge Base from your race that has not been previously recorded.
A member of the High Council, Nira Garrison, will be in Pyreshore to greet you and help you get settled in. We look forward to your advancements within the Keepers.
Sincerely,
High Council of the Supernatural
“Well, well, well, Grams. When I said I sure could use a little guidance, I didn’t expect you to answer so quickly,” I chuckled. “I also didn’t think all those bedtime stories you told me were true. Well played, Grams. Well played. Looks like I’ll be leaving for Pyreshore, New Hampshire.”
I read over the letter once more, making sure I didn’t miss any of the details. I was especially interested in two parts—the first being that Keepers are chosen from bloodlines, and the second being that we would be expected to bring or acquire an artifact or historical record that wasn’t already present in the archives.
I knew Gram’s brother, my great-uncle Lachlan, was the current Keeper. Actually, I didn’t know him all that well. I’d seen him once a year or so around holidays when Gram’s had been alive and maybe twice since she died. He still continued to send me a birthday card and a Christmas card every year and always made a note to call if I needed anything, but that had been the extent of our communication over the past eight years.
Grams had never really talked much about what he did as a Keeper. She basically made him out to be a glorified historian; she never said anything about artifacts. She also never told me the job was passed down through a bloodline. But considering it is, and Uncle Lachlan didn’t have any children, I wasn’t shocked to learn I was next in line to take on the position as a Keeper.
Truth of the matter be known, I’d been training for the role my entire existence, even though I never realized it. After all, I had spent the better part of my life protecting secrets and all of my adulthood chasing artifacts. The question now was, just how much did Uncle Lachlan know about me and the secrets I protected?
.
Two
I hated dreaming.
Why? Because I didn’t dream often, but when I did, somehow those dreams found their way into my reality. Seer Sight, Grams had called it. Only, it wasn’t a consistent gift for me. Apparently, my sight was dormant unless the message it conveyed was significant. I was thankful for that, because I couldn’t imagine the weight one would have to carry knowing every time you closed your eyes, you would wake up with someone’s fate in your hands.
There had been some dreams with positive messages over the years; yet there had been more than a few with haunting implications. The latter were the reason I hated dreaming. They started out innocent enough, but by the end, I would wake up in a sweat knowing someone needed saving. Only, I couldn’t always save them.
Tonight, I dreamed.
This dream was different though.
My dream-self materialized standing on a broken granite walkway in front of an old stone church. In front of me, a set of wooden planked doors, held together with large strips of ornamental iron, stood partially open. I stepped through and immediately felt the pull of magic leading me down a long corridor. I followed it one slow step at a time, making my way toward a dim light at the end. Strange symbols were carved into the stone walls along the corridor. They drew my attention, and I was unable to resist reaching out and tracing my fingers over them as I walked. A peculiar sensation pulsed through my flesh as the tips of my fingers glided over the carvings. It wasn’t the Fae magic I knew, but it held the same distinctions, only exponentially more powerful.
When I arrived at the end of the corridor, I paused in front of a large, barely open doorway. I placed my hand on the iron push plate protecting the wood door but hesitated as a rush of energy vibrated through me. After a moment, I gently pushed the door and stepped over the threshold to find an empty cavern with only a single source of light—a table flanked with an array of candles positioned against the opposite, stone-chiseled wall. In the center of the table lay a large book, a book I was compelled toward.
Just as I moved closer to the book, a voice boomed from behind me.
I spun on my heels and found myself staring into the steely eyes of a man I could only describe as a warrior, an attractive warrior. Disheveled white hair—the color of mine—grazed the tops of his wide shoulders, a stark contrast to his dark complexion. He took a step in my direction and swiftly waved one hand across the front of his torso as though he were throwing something aside. The book behind me slammed closed, and I jumped.
That’s when I woke up.
There had been no one running for their life. No natural disaster looming. No evil to be thwarted. It was just me, mystically strange surroundings, and an oddly attractive man who looked like he should be in an Assassin’s Creed video game.
So, essentially, probably the best dream I’d ever had. Which is why I’d had no problem going back to sleep.
Being a bit of a gypsy had advantages. Packing, for example. The less you had to carry with you, the less time it would take you to throw it all together and get the heck out of town when all hell broke loose. And it had on more than one occasion.
Having an entire week to pack for Pyreshore felt like a luxury. It also afforded me the opportunity to tie up a few loose ends before I left. In my line of work, loose ends could mean the difference between life and death, so I preferred those ends nice and tied. Tightly tied . . . in knots, at that.
I poured a cup of coffee, my second of the afternoon, and leaned my phone against a stack of books on the desk in front of me. Time to break the news about my Keeper invitation to my boss.
The phone only rang once before the video opened and she was glaring at me with her characteristic eyebrow-raised smirk and her reddish-brown hair pulled on top of her head in a messy bun. “I was wondering how long it was going to be before you called,” Kara Weburon chided without so much as a hello first. Kara was American. More specifically, Southern American. She spoke a little faster than the stereotypical Southerner, and she was as well-spoken as anyone I knew, but her southern drawl was still prevalent. She used that stereotype to her advantage since people often underestimated her intelligence because of it.
“I haven’t had anything to report, Boss,” I ticked back and took a sip of coffee.
“I call BS. You have a lot to report and you know it. Start spilling.” She placed her phone on something in front of her to free her hands, grabbed a mug I was certain she had filled with an Irish coffee, and leaned back into her favorite over-sized chair. I knew exactly where in her New York City apartment she was chatting from.
Kara was more than just my boss; she was the closest friend I had. Only friend, if we’re getting technical. I have a number of acquaintances, most of them work related. And of course, Libby. But Kara . . . Kara and I bonded over a near death experience followed by a few bottles of wine on my first assignment with the Natra Agency. That was seven years ago; fast forward and she’s the head of our division—Acquisitions. To describe our employer, one might depict it more or less as the supernatural world’s version of a clandestine intelligence agency. In fact, if you have never been employed by the Natra Agency, you are oblivious to our existence.
“Hmm,” I started. “If’n I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were keeping tabs on me,” I said with a half-grin.
“I am. All day, every day. Have to
protect my assets, ya know. Now . . . get to talkin’. Those beans aren’t gonna spill themselves,” she insisted in her signature southern drawl.
“Maybe I should ask how much ya already know, first. No point in me repeating stuff.” I hid impishly behind my coffee mug and smiled.
“Ughh! Why ya always gotta be so secretive and difficult,” she said as she rolled her eyes. “Fine. It was brought to my attention yesterday morning that the High Council was looking into you, which meant I looked into why they were looking into you. Then I did a little leg work on the Keepers of Knowledge situation. Turns out, they are a little more than just a bunch of book-reading historian types. Who knew? We’ve never had any reasons to interact with them, so they haven’t been on our radar. I know they purchased an international flight for you from Dublin to Boston for a week from yesterday. I also know that I changed it because I have that kind of authority. You’ll be flying into New York in two days,” she seemed satisfied with herself.
“That’s not an abuse of power at all,” I joked.
“I have a legit reason,” she assured me with a tone that told me she had made up a reason and was calling it legit.
“Aye. Legit, ya say?”
“Yes. We need to discuss how you’re going to balance being a Keeper of Knowledge and still maintain your standing here at Natra for the month while you’re in Pyreshore,” she stated matter-of-factly.
“I see. So . . . we’re going t’ have these meetings o’er wine and sushi at my favorite place around the corner from your apartment, I take it?”
“Naturally,” she replied, taking another pull from her mug. “And the Italian place across town. The one with the hot waiter and to die for lasagna. I mean, we’ll go into the office once, too, for good measure.”
Silver at Midnight: A Paranormal Romance Urban Fantasy (The Keepers of Knowledge Series Book 5) Page 2
