A Frequency of Truth, page 11
Her fingers traced the intricate lines connecting the three circles. The magic within the diagram pulsed faintly, echoing the remnants of Selene’s failed attempt.
“She was desperate,” Vesper murmured, remembering the echo of Selene’s final ritual. “She knew she needed these specific components, but she tried anyway.”
“These aren’t just rare components. They sound practically mythical. A first garden? And the Original Source? What does that even mean?”
“Rafe might know. I’ll ask him when he gets back.”
“I know people,” Blair said. “Collectors, traders, those who deal in rare magical items. Other informants who listen for rumours and gossip. I’ll head out and see what I can find.”
The offer hung in the air between them. Vesper’s fingers traced the ritual diagram again, following the precise lines of Selene’s drawings. Each component seemed impossible—relics lost to time and myth.
“These aren’t exactly the sort of things you’d find in a shop window.” Vesper’s attempt at humour fell flat, her voice catching.
“No, but that’s what makes my contacts valuable. They specialise in finding the unfindable.”
“This feels like the Concordat’s trials all over again,” she murmured. “This city is constantly demanding I prove myself to it. Impossible…”
“Hey, it’ll work out,” Blair told her. “The Echo is still hidden. Whatever Selene was trying to prevent hasn’t come to pass. We have time to figure it out.”
Vesper drew in a shaky breath, letting Blair’s words settle. She was right. The situation wasn’t hopeless—just difficult. And difficulty was something she’d learned to handle.
The soft scuff of footsteps pulled Vesper’s attention from Selene’s diagrams. Her pulse quickened as the sound drew closer, but the familiar pattern of movement calmed her racing heart before Rafe stepped through the doorway.
His dark coat carried a shimmer of magical residue, barely visible in the archive’s dim light. Though his expression remained composed, tension lined the set of his shoulders.
“Streets are clear,” he said, brushing frost from his sleeves. “For now.”
Blair straightened from where she’d been examining the shelves. “For now?”
“Someone’s been through here recently.” Rafe’s fingers traced patterns in the air, drawing out faint threads of lingering magic. “Within the last hour. The signatures are still fresh.”
Vesper’s skin prickled as she met Blair’s gaze. The detective’s hand had drifted to her coat pocket, where Vesper knew she kept another magical trinket.
“Could be ordinary foot traffic,” Blair said, but her tone suggested she didn’t believe it. “This is still technically part of Nightreach.”
“No.” Rafe shook his head. “This magic has purpose behind it. Someone was searching.”
The archive suddenly felt less like a sanctuary and more like a trap. Vesper’s fingers curled around the edge of Selene’s journal, protective. They’d only just discovered this place, this connection to her friend. The thought of others finding it, disturbing it…
Blair moved closer to the doorway, her movements measured and silent. “We should establish some proper wards. Make this place properly hidden.”
“Agreed.” Rafe’s eyes met Vesper’s across the room. “But first, we need to know who’s looking.”
“I wouldn’t go jumping to conclusions, though,” Blair went on. “There could be any number of explanations. People get up to some real dodgy stuff out in the Forgotten Quarters, you know. Shady deals, drug drops…”
Vesper watched Blair adjust the silver watch on her wrist, its face catching the dim light. The detective’s posture had shifted, that careful ease replaced by coiled readiness. Even her voice carried a different edge now—clipped, professional.
“Right, now you’re here, I’ll head out and do some sniffing for those ingredients.” Blair fastened her coat. “The Wayward’s regulars tend to notice when rare items surface in the market. Someone might have heard whispers. Then I’ll head to the Bizarre.”
“You found something?” Rafe asked.
“Three impossible items to find, each one more mythical than the last,” Blair said. “Finding them will be a piece of cake.”
“Be careful,” Vesper said, the words slipping out before she could stop them. She’d grown used to having the detective around already.
Blair paused at the door, her hand resting on the worn handle. For a moment, her professional mask softened. “Always am.” She glanced at Rafe. “Watch her back.”
Rafe inclined his head, his expression grave. “You can count on it.”
The door closed behind Blair with a soft click that seemed to echo in the cramped space.
“Care to fill me in on these mythical ingredients?” Rafe asked as he shucked off his coat.
“Yeah. Where’s that paper…”
The task before them seemed to grow with each passing hour. Find three mythical items. Perform Selene’s ritual. Find the Echo. Stop Lucian D’Arco from taking over the world.
And somewhere in all of that, the answer to a new question: if her parents had truly hidden her away all those years ago…and if they were still alive.
Chapter 8
Vesper traced her fingers over the grimoire’s weathered pages, the familiar tingle of magic dancing across her skin. The symbols blurred before her eyes as her mind wandered to the impossible task ahead. Three mythical items. A ritual that had failed once before. And somewhere in all of this, answers about her past.
The archive’s magical hum wrapped around her like a warm hug, oddly soothing despite the weight of their situation. Dust motes danced in the pale light filtering through the basement’s narrow windows, catching on the edges of cluttered bookshelves and scattered papers.
Rafe sat across from her. He’d shed his coat, the sleeves of his dark shirt rolled to his elbows as he sorted through a stack of Selene’s notes. His scars had faded even more since yesterday, the remnants of the magical burns he’d received at the third trial almost gone.
The words on the page before her refused to come into focus. Instead, her mind kept circling back to Marina’s warning, to Blair’s concerned expression, and to the fresh magical signatures Rafe had found outside. Everything felt connected, yet the pattern remained just out of reach.
A memory surfaced—Selene’s voice, gentle but firm, telling her that sometimes the hardest part wasn’t finding the answer, but knowing which question to ask first.
The grimoire’s magic pulsed beneath her fingertips, as if responding to her thoughts. Or perhaps responding to something else entirely. Since discovering her Resonant abilities, she’d started noticing these subtle shifts in magical energies, these whispers of power that seemed to speak directly to something deep within her, more than just surface noise.
“You’re thinking too hard,” Rafe said, his voice cutting through her reverie. He hadn’t looked up from his work, but somehow he always seemed to know when she started spiralling.
Vesper lifted her gaze from the grimoire. “These components—they’re not just rare, they’re impossible. A thorn from a first garden? It sounds like a myth. First garden of what?”
“Everything’s a myth until you find it.” Rafe pushed aside a stack of papers, revealing a leather-bound journal beneath. “Selene wouldn’t have documented this ritual if the ingredients were impossible to obtain.”
“Or at least thought she had.” Vesper ran her hand over the grimoire’s pages, feeling the familiar thrum of magic beneath her fingers. The symbols shifted and swirled, responding to her touch in a way that still unsettled her.
“Don’t overthink it,” Rafe said. “Answers won’t just manifest out of thin air. Magic is cool and all, but you can’t conjure something from nothing.”
He stood and paced between the bookshelves, his footsteps echoing off the archive’s stone walls. Every few moments, he paused to adjust a book here, check a ward there, his movements sharp and precise. The protective magic they’d woven earlier shimmered at his touch, but even that familiar warmth couldn’t mask the rigid set of his shoulders or the way his jaw clenched.
She knew that look. She’d seen it before when she’d made stupid decisions that ended up dragging them into the Fold, or when the weight of his missing memories pressed down particularly hard. The way his fingers drummed against his thigh, how he couldn’t quite keep still—all tells she’d learned to read over their time together.
Her chest tightened. Whatever bothered him, he was trying to work it out alone. Again.
The grimoire’s magic hummed beneath her palms as she closed it, the leather warm against her skin. “Rafe?”
He straightened another book, his back to her.
“Are you alright?” Her voice came out softer than intended.
Rafe’s movements stilled. He turned, and their eyes met across the cramped archive. Something flickered in his gaze—vulnerability, perhaps, or a flash of that raw honesty he so rarely showed. The moment stretched, neither of them looking away, and Vesper felt her breath catch in her throat.
The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words. Vesper watched as Rafe’s shoulders dropped, his usual confident stance faltering. He leant against the nearest bookshelf, wood creaking beneath his weight.
“D’Arco.” The name fell from his lips like poison. “Every thread we pull, every lead we follow—it all comes back to him. The attack in the Bizarre…” His hand drifted to the now healed break in his right arm. “That wasn’t just about power or territory. He wanted to make a point.”
Vesper shifted forward in her chair, the grimoire forgotten on the desk behind her. Her chest ached at the raw edge in his voice, at the way his fingers traced the phantom wounds.
“He’s been ten steps ahead this whole time.” Rafe’s gaze fixed on some distant point. “Playing the entire city like pieces on a board. And I—” He broke off, jaw working.
“Rafe…” Vesper leant closer, drawn by the pain in his words. The archive’s magical hum faded to background noise, her focus narrowing to the man before her, to the crack in his carefully maintained facade.
His eyes snapped to hers, widening slightly at her intensity. The usual walls he kept up trembled, surprise flickering across his features at her unwavering attention. For a heartbeat, he looked almost vulnerable, caught between his instinct to deflect and the weight of everything he’d been carrying alone.
Vesper’s fingers traced the edge of her moonstone pendant, the one she’d chosen, but he’d bought for her. The archive’s magical hum pressed against her skin, a constant reminder of everything she still didn’t understand about her abilities.
“You’re the last person who should have doubts. Sometimes I wonder if Selene made a mistake.” The words slipped out before she could stop them. “What if I’m not what she thought? Every time I try to use these powers, it feels like I’m just making it up as I go along.”
Rafe crossed the archive in three quick strides, closing the distance between them. “What brought this on?”
“The ritual failed for her, Rafe. Selene was brilliant, trained, powerful. And I’m supposed to somehow succeed where she couldn’t?” Vesper’s hand dropped from the pendant. “I can barely control these abilities. Half the time they just…happen.”
“That’s exactly why they’re powerful.” Rafe crouched beside her chair, bringing himself to her eye level. “Your magic isn’t learned or forced. It’s natural. Raw.”
“It’s terrifying.” She met his gaze, letting him see the fear she usually kept hidden. “What if I mess up? What if I’m not enough?”
“You’re stronger than you think.” His voice softened, gentle but firm. The intensity in his eyes made her breath catch. There was something else there too—admiration mixed with a vulnerability she rarely glimpsed from him. “I’ve seen what you can do, even untrained. You don’t need to be Selene. You just need to be you.”
The warmth in his voice wrapped around her like a blanket, steadying her racing thoughts. His nearness made her heart flutter, and she found herself leaning slightly towards him, drawn by the quiet conviction in his words.
“And now take all that,” she whispered, “and make it about yourself.”
He sighed and his gaze lowered. “You got me there.”
Vesper couldn’t help but smile as Rafe’s expression shifted, that familiar mischievous glint returning to his eyes.
“You know what we haven’t found yet in all our adventures?” He straightened up, but didn’t move away. “Those magical slugs you were so convinced existed.”
Heat crept up her neck. “I’d just discovered magic was real! It was a miracle I didn’t have a breakdown.” Vesper crossed her arms, fighting back a grin. “Besides, you’re the one who spent the next week checking under your bed for slugs.”
“Purely precautionary.” Rafe settled beside her, his shoulder brushing against hers as he leaned back. “Can’t be too careful with those deadly gastropods lurking about.”
“Gastropods?” A laugh bubbled up from her chest, genuine and warm. Rafe joined in, his quiet chuckle mixing with hers in the archive’s intimate space. The sound felt right somehow, like it belonged among the ancient books and magical artefacts.
His hand slid to her knee, the touch sending warmth right through her. She didn’t pull away. Neither did he. The contact was a reminder that despite everything—the impossible tasks ahead, the dangers they faced—she wasn’t facing it alone. His vow—their bond—would always hold true.
“We’ve come a long way from that first night in the Fold,” she said softly.
“Though arguably, tracking down mythical thorns isn’t that different from searching for magical slugs. We might actually find some in this first garden.” His voice carried a warmth she rarely heard.
The weight of their mission felt distant for a moment, overshadowed by the comfort she felt in Rafe’s presence. A comfort she’d never felt in her entire life but had always craved. Vesper let herself sink into it, grateful for this brief spark amongst the chaos their lives had become.
“I, uh…” She blinked and leaned away, her shoulder blades hitting the back of the chair. “I’m trying to decode more of the grimoire while we wait for Blair.”
“Sounds like a good plan,” Rafe murmured, his hand slipping away. “I want to check out some of these artefacts. I found a creepy looking totem back there that might have a spirit of a slug attached to it.”
Vesper laughed, the tension between them gone in an instant. “Very funny.”
She turned back to the grimoire, her fingers trailing over its worn leather binding. The weight of their task still pressed against her shoulders, but it felt manageable now, shared between them.
The symbols no longer blurred before her eyes. Instead, they seemed to dance across the page, each one distinct and clear. Her Resonant abilities stirred beneath her skin, responding to the ancient magic woven through the text.
She sensed rather than saw Rafe’s lingering presence behind her. The air shifted with his magic, a steady warmth at her back that made her want to lean into it. But she kept her focus on the grimoire, letting the familiar rhythm of research ground her.
His footsteps were nearly silent as he rose, yet she felt the moment he stepped away. Through her peripheral vision, she caught his expression—something soft and unguarded in his features before his usual mask slipped back into place. He moved between the bookshelves, checking wards and reorganising texts, but the slight curve of his mouth remained.
Blair moved through the shadowy streets of Nightreach, her coat pulled tight against the chill. She navigated the twisting alleys with ease, her sharp eyes scanning for any signs of trouble. The magical hum of the city was louder here, making it harder for her watch and ring to detect subtle disturbances.
Frost crackled beneath her boots as she passed beneath the crooked spires of the old quarter. The enchanted streetlamps cast pools of silvery light that stretched shadows into impossible shapes. Her watch vibrated constantly against her wrist, overwhelmed by the ambient magic that saturated these streets.
A group of merchants hurried past, their cloaks rippling with concealment spells. Blair pressed herself against a wall, letting them pass. Their whispered conversations faded into the background hum of the city.
Her ring grew warm as she approached the intersection of Wraith’s Way and Thornweaver Street. Dark magic lingered here, its residue clinging to the cobblestones like oil. She crouched to examine the ground, finding traces of burnt wards etched into the stone.
“Quite the mess they’ve left.” The words escaped in a cloud of frost.
Blair traced the edge of a broken ward with her fingertip. Fresh damage, no more than a few hours old. The pattern matched the deteriorating Threads they’d found in the Fold—deliberate sabotage rather than natural decay.
Cassandra and her mages were working fast…perhaps they were under pressure from D’Arco. He had the kind of reputation that most crime bosses would kill for, and he was the kind of man she’d never thought she’d have to go up against in Nightreach.
Her compass spun wildly in her pocket, the needle unable to fix on a single source among the chaos of magical signatures. The old quarter’s ambient magic had always been strong, but tonight it felt different. Unstable. Like a pot about to boil over.
She straightened up, brushing frost from her knees. The Threads were the least of her worries tonight. Continuing on, she turned the corner and hurried toward the haunt she knew her informant frequented.
Blair pushed open the heavy oak door of The Black Kettle, a pub that most people’s eyes slid right past. The glamour that kept it hidden from mundane view tickled her skin as she crossed the threshold.
Smoke hung in ribbons beneath the low-beamed ceiling, carrying the sweet-sharp scent of tobacco. The usual crowd of hedge witches and minor mages huddled over their drinks, careful to avoid eye contact. A pair of mages argued over a game of cards in the corner, coins spread across the table.
