The Will and the Wilds(25)

Without even glancing at me, he says, “Nothing leaves the library.”

“I . . . That’s fine. But I’m hoping to read on the supernatural.”

Now he lifts his gaze, peering over the small spectacles resting on his nose. I’m used to this kind of look, ill-concealed scorn mingled with feigned disinterest. “They teaching women that nonsense now?”

“If you could point me in the right direction.”

The man sighs. “His Highness the duke had a fondness for the occult. His collection is recorded in a book in that corner.” He points. “You’ll have to thumb through it.” His attention falls back to his sorting, so I thank him quietly and head in the indicated direction.

Sure enough, several indexes sit on a high table in the corner. I brush dust off one, only to discover its focus is farming. Frowning, I check the next index, and the next, until I find one the thickness of my thumb that reads Mystics and the Bizarre. My broken soul leaps at the find, and I open it at once. There is no guide in the front, so I pore over each page individually. My eyes widen at the sight of so many volumes that could further my own research, none of which can come home with me.

Focus, Enna.

I do. Using paper and charcoal from the sack I brought with me, I write down a few promising titles.

Though the massive library has the semblance of order, it is poorly organized. The books on the supernatural appear to be in three different locations, one of which is up a flight of stone stairs. I try to breathe lightly when I ascend them. I’ve yet to accustom myself to this lack of energy, but determination fuels my quest. The sooner I free Maekallus, the sooner I’ll be back to normal.

I consider this as I run my fingers over aged book spines. The bits of soul living inside him—are they forever gone? Will they return to me once the binding is broken, or will he simply . . . eat them?

Will one of these tomes tell me the secret to getting them back?

What use is a soul when you’re dead? I remind myself.

Quiet voices nearby draw my attention, and I find myself pulled toward them, my eyes still on the shelves as I search for what I need. There’s a short, round table tucked into a stone nook nearby, and two men sit at it, across from each other. One is remarkably old, his hair and beard stark white, his glasses thick, his back hunched. The other appears to be a few years older than my father. His hair is fashionably coifed, though I’ve never before seen someone sport the style of facial hair he has. It rings around his mouth, yet his cheeks are clean. He’s well fed and wears glasses nearly identical to his companion’s.

“It can’t be. This finding was in three, remember?” The older man sounds gruff and tired. He pulls out a paper from a scattered stack and shoves it at the younger man. “Wyttens walk on two legs.”

Wyttens. I’ve never heard the term before, but the style of the word instantly screams mysting. I write in the back of my mind that, whatever they are, they walk upright, and pray that my hole-filled memory will be able to recall the information later.

The younger man shrugs. “I walk on two legs and could have made that pattern. This is cast from a bog, Runden. Perhaps the other half of his stride fell into a puddle.”

“A puddle!” the man named Runden exclaims, then winces at his volume. He mutters to himself and sorts through his papers.

Scholars. My lips form the word, and my pulse picks up.

“I don’t think it’s the footprints that will help us,” the younger man insists, quieter, and I slide around a shelf to hear him better. “It’s the meal.” He pulls out a bone—No, it’s made of plaster. A replica?—and gestures to a long row of teeth marks across it. “Nothing has a maw so wide. The largest wolf can’t do this.”

“I refuse Addon’s theory that it’s a reptile.”

The younger man snorts. “No gators or the like in the whole area. Of course it’s not. This”—he punches a finger down on the paper handed to him earlier—“is supernatural. But it’s certainly not a wytten. Just because they have three toes . . .”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, and my mind spins with the information. Three toes. In my mind’s eye, I open up my book of notes. I see every letter, every stroke of pen and charcoal, even the smudge of earth I earned trekking out into the wildwood.

“Vuldor.” I’m sure of it. And when both men turn toward me, I realize I’d said the word out loud.

Runden’s thick white brows furrow. “Excuse me?”

An apology sits on my tongue, and I back up a step to escape, but stop myself. I know this, don’t I? It certainly matches Maekallus’s description! “That is, it might belong to a vuldor. They’re . . . as far as I know . . . never seen outside the monster realm, but it does match. They have wide jaws and three toes on each foot. They walk on all fours, like a dog.”

Runden only looks angry at being interrupted. But his friend is astonished. That I, a woman, dared to interject, or that I have such knowledge?

“Nonsense.” Runden returns to shuffling his papers.

But his companion asks, “Where did you hear of such a creature?”

My throat tightens. “I . . . cannot reveal my source.”

Runden snorts. Even I know research is useless without a valid source.

I bow my head in apology and turn to leave, but the younger scholar says, “Could you draw one?”