Torrent of Tears (Scourge Survivor Series Book 3)(76)

I followed Rowan down yet other boring white hallway and prayed for once that the Fates stopped screwing with me.

Rowan chuckled and nodded that the coast was clear. “That which doesn’t kill us. . . .”

“. . . better run like hell, because it’s not getting another shot at us.”

Rowan kissed my hand and pulled me along, his shoulders bouncing as he laughed. “And that’s why I love you, Lady Rowan.”

Lady Rowan. Man, I loved the sound of that. With my one dagger sheathed behind my leg, I was hoping not to run into anyone other than staff. From my experience with chance encounters in the staff areas of the palace, they were like timid little mice. A living example of ‘they’re more afraid of you then you are of them’ and that totally worked for me.

“Do you even know where you’re going?” I asked.

Rowan’s head tilted from side to side as we descended a set of stairs. “Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

I was just about to start our first fight as a married couple when we rounded a corner and collided smack into a staff kid rolling a liquor trolley. Bottles clanged and toppled and the three of us scrambled to save as many of the glass soldiers from death-by-marble as we could. The crash-and-smash of three unlucky fellows echoed in the halls like cannon shots.

The poor boy looked horrified, but Rowan was on it. He adjusted the bottles to fill the space and told the boy that if anyone noticed bottles were missing to say that two Strati took them and headed toward the orchard. No one would go looking for them. The boy seemed hesitant at first, but shoved the broken glass to the side with his boot and nodded.

With our trolley friend off on his way, we resumed the search for the Fae Trinity Chapel and hopefully the palace records room.

“Here.” Rowan took the key his godfather had given us and opened the door. As we stepped inside, the lanterns flared to life and he locked us in. Four, long chapel pews carved with tomes—scenes from ancient battles, men fighting, women swooning, children clutching to the gowns of their mothers—segmented the rectangular space.

On the wall behind the raised altar was the same depiction of the Fae Royals that we had over the main entrance of the castle back at Haven. Castian, of course, was front and center, his brother Dane to his right, Alyssa, Shalana, Zophia and her three bitch-sisters all looking sultry and resplendent and—oh, they still had Rheagan in this family sculpture.

Rheagan had been removed from all Pantheon depictions of the Royals in the Realm of the Fair right after Castian exiled her. I guess Attalos didn’t get the memo. I wondered if the fallen Fae goddess knew Abaddon and the Scourge were fighting to set her free. After ten thousand years of being banished as a sea beast, would she even care?

“Lexi? You with me?”

Right. Following the priest’s instructions, we made our way to the dais and found the crescent moon brooch on Castian’s cape. Rowan grabbed the marble dial and fought to turn it once all the way around. When it settled back into its original position, the wall let out a click and a seam appeared where a moment ago there was none.

Bingo.

“Hurry,” I said. “Zale and his band of bastards will know I’m missing by now and be searching. If they think to check the Queen’s playroom for you, we’re busted.”

With both of us pulling at the exposed lip of the door we managed to pull it far enough for me to squeeze through. There was no way my brawny husband was fitting. “You keep watch, I’ll check it out.”

Rowan frowned. “I don’t like the idea of you—”

“What’s the worst that can happen, Doc? I get stuffed-up from mildew and dust.” I rolled my eyes and grabbed a lantern from the wall. “You know what they say, Don’t sweat the petty things and don’t pet the sweaty things.”

“Who says that?” Rowan snorted.

“They. People. You know. Them.”

Rowan shook his head. “No one says that. Now get your perfect little ass in there so we can get done and out of here.”

“Roger that.” I slid inside and lifted the lantern. My heart sank. Books and parchments and scrolls and tomes in every direction. From what I could see, no alphabetization, no order, in fact, I was pretty sure Mr. Dewey Decimal was rolling over in his grave. “Don’t priests take a vow of neatness or something, cause uh . . . wow.”

Rowan peered through the crack at the door. “I think they’re more concerned with poverty, murder, adultery . . . that sort of thing.”

“Well, that’s not going to help me in here.” Leaning over the one long table in the room, I hooked the lantern on the pendant hanging from the ceiling above and started flipping through some of the piles. It was still amazing to me that I could even read this.

Blah. Blah. Blah. Land registry. Blah. Blah. Old marriage records. Some architectural drawings for the addition of the amphitheatre. Blah. Blah. Law books. Nothing.

I straightened and caught sight of—”Oh, these look promising.”

Skipping past an avalanched pile of leather-bound books, I fingered the spines of a set of journals bearing the royal seal and the same serpent-entwined rod that was embroidered on the side of Rowan’s medical bag. Skimming through the pages I read the documentation of an appendectomy preformed two years ago on Princess Forbearance. I snorted. “Maybe Grace isn’t so bad as designations go.”