Keeper(58)

His words from earlier floated back to me. Lainey, she was killed because she was the Keeper, the Keeper of the Grimoire.

I shook my head. “Wait, you told me that my mom was killed because she was the Keeper, right? If the Master is so powerful, why would he need the Grimoire?”

“Magic always leaves a mark,” Gareth said. “And the Master never anticipated the price the black magic he used would exact from him. Over time, his powers began to weaken, only allowing him to sustain small bits of power at a time.”

He flipped back to the page of the original faction representatives and pointed out one of the members—a strapping young man with dark hair that was pulled back in a low ponytail. He looked familiar, but I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen him before.

“That,” Gareth said, “is Lane DuCarmont. He was the representative for the witch and warlock faction. He was also Josephine DuCarmont’s father and the man you were named after.”

I remembered the picture Serena had shown me of the DuCarmont family. In that picture, a much older Lane was calm and relaxed, his arm wrapped around Josephine’s shoulders. In this picture, there was no kindness on his face.

“It’s said that Lane DuCarmont killed a dark sorcerer who was carrying a spell that would allow the Master to bleed magic from other Supernaturals. If he collected magic from every faction, he could use the spell to fuse it all together and be all-powerful—immortal even. No one would be able to stop him.”

“But Lane stole the spell.”

“Yes,” Gareth said, “and contained it in the one place where he knew it would be safe.”

“The DuCarmont Grimoire,” I finished for him.

I thought back to my visions of Josephine. “But Lane knew the Master would kill him for what he’d done, so he made someone else the Keeper, didn’t he? Someone he trusted above all others.”

My mind was busy replaying the scenes of my visions over and over in my mind as the pieces of the puzzle were starting to come together.

Lainey.

The whisper in my ear was hardly a surprise, and I looked over at Josephine’s face for confirmation. “He made Josephine the Keeper, and when the Guard came for Lane and his family, Josephine escaped with the Grimoire.” I looked back over at Gareth and smiled. “She kept it safe.”

“Yes,” Gareth confirmed. “But she sacrificed her own life to do so.”

“What?” I tore my eyes away from Gareth. In the last vision I’d had, Josephine was alive. I looked over at Josephine, whose sad eyes confirmed the truth.

“What happened to you?” I said, standing up and moving toward Josephine. I balled my hands into fists, stirred by conviction. “You have to tell me the rest. I have to see it.”

Josephine nodded and held out her hand.

I was vaguely aware of Gareth’s voice calling my name, but as I reached out to take Josephine’s hand, everything else faded away.





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO


At first, there was nothing but darkness.

But then my insides began to twist, and it was as if I was being pulled in two. I yelped, but then the sensation suddenly gave way, and a bright light sliced through the darkness, nearly blinding me. Instinctively, I squeezed my eyes shut and raised a hand in front of my face. When I opened my eyes again, the light was gone and I was no longer standing in my bedroom.

A dense thicket of pine trees loomed over my head, and a symphony of crickets chirped around me.

“Whoa,” I muttered under my breath. “We’re definitely not in Kansas anymore, Toto.”

Rubbing my abdomen with the palm of my hand, I glanced around to get my bearings. I was in an unfamiliar wooded area with the sun dipping slowly toward the horizon. I turned to find Josephine standing a few feet away. Her lovely face was cloaked in sadness, and her eyes were full of tears.

My stomach did a somersault. “What is it?” I asked. “Show me.”

Josephine said nothing, but slowly reached out her hand and pointed away from us, to where the sound of laughter wafted through the air.

With dread settling in the pit of my stomach like a heavy stone, I nodded and made my way through the trees toward the noise. Josephine followed beside me, silent tears dripping down her cheeks.

I picked my way carefully over the uneven ground until I stepped through a break in the trees and out into a wide meadow that appeared to be a campsite of sorts. There were forty or so large canvas tents arranged in rows with several campfires blazing between them.

People were milling about, moving between the tents, and two young girls nearby hung wet linens on a thick piece of rope that had been strung between two trees, their soft chatter muffled by the sound of the sheets whipping in the breeze. Both of the girls wore long skirts that were patched in several places, the fabric thin and faded. Their shirts looked homemade and were equally worn.

“Hello?” I called out, but there was no response. Neither of the girls acknowledged me. They kept casually chatting, hanging more of the bedclothes on the line.

They can’t see me.

I looked over at Josephine, who pointed again, this time toward the first row of tents. We kept walking.

At first glance, the camp had seemed unimpressive, but as I moved among the tents, two boys ran past me with a third trailing behind. The two boys in front were taunting the straggler and calling him slow.