The Keep (The Secret of Spellshadow Manor #4)(30)

“His brother?”

Vincent nodded. “The king, Julius. If I had not experienced his cruelty for myself, I would think his vile reputation was nothing but exaggerated hearsay. He makes Caius’s box of tricks look like a parcel of kittens.”

The more Alex learned about the royals, the more he grew to detest them. Although, it seemed that those in charge of the havens had split off into their own factions. Alypia and the Head were one team, albeit a dysfunctional one, while Kingstone and, presumably, the haven he had not yet had the pleasure of visiting, Falleaf House, were laws unto themselves, quite separate from the closer sibling bond, however tense, of Alypia and her brother.

Glancing uncertainly at Vincent, Alex couldn’t help but again wonder why Vincent wanted to show him these skills or help him by imparting all this knowledge. What did Vincent get out of it? It was all of very real interest to Alex, but he wasn’t sure how Vincent could know so much, unless he was guilty of snooping in royal spirit lines. It seemed like a crime that could definitely get a person locked up.

No matter how much Alex wanted to believe Vincent’s motives were purely altruistic, the whole thing reeked somehow of Elias. He supposed Elias must have run out of books, and was now bringing people.

The only thing Alex knew for certain was that, as traumatic as the experience he’d just had was, it had left him with an unshakeable urge to know more about his own spirit line. It overpowered all other concerns—even the initial reason he had agreed to this lesson, which was to calm himself. He couldn’t stop now. Finally, he was embracing power. He smiled wryly, knowing with a bitter twinge that Natalie would be proud of this step in his personal growth. When he got back, he knew there would be apologies to make and forgiveness to seek, but now was not the time to dwell on that; he had visions to see, answers to find.

“I’d like to try just once more before we finish,” he said to Vincent. He wanted to master this skill as well as he could, while he had the chance.

Vincent seemed dubious, but replied, “What is it you need my help with?”

“Is it possible to focus the lines of my own spirit to get a better image of the memories and lives around me?”

Vincent thought for a moment, taking his time, tapping a long, pale finger against the edge of his sharp chin.

“There is a chance,” he said, finally, “though the way you manipulate and travel through spirit lines is different from the way the rest of us do it. It is not something I am entirely familiar with, though I may be able to instruct you. I hope I can, but I can give you no assurances of its success.”

“I’ll take those odds,” Alex replied.

“I must warn you—there is one caveat to spiritual travel.”

“What’s that?”

“You can only move within the timeline of those who share your magical credentials,” the necromancer explained.

Alex frowned. “What do you mean?”

“If you have a non-magical parent, for example, you won’t be able to follow their history or move along their spirit line. You will only be able to see them if they appear in the timeline of your magical side, viewed in a memory, only as your ancestor saw them,” he elaborated.

The understanding of it saddened Alex; he would have liked to explore his mother’s side a little, but he knew that wasn’t going to be possible now, unless there was a magical side to her she hadn’t told him about. Somehow, he doubted it. If she were magical, surely there would have been a way her magic could have cured her sickness, and as far as he knew she was still sick.

“Shall we begin?” asked Vincent.

Alex nodded, closing his eyes.

Seeking out the glowing heart of his spirit once more, Alex began the increasingly familiar journey down his spirit line, watching the memories of his life whizz past in a blur, taking him backward through his childhood—vacations, school plays, finger-painted porcupines, picnics in the park, hugs from his grandparents, his mother running after him, smiling with the naivety of her remaining youth. He could see they were rapidly approaching the place his memories ended.

“Now, focus on the bridge between your life and the life before,” Vincent instructed, his voice echoing in Alex’s ears.

Alex did as he was told, gathering his energy and pouring it into the place where his childhood met the adulthood of someone else, like gluing bits of film together to make a whole reel. Suddenly, his eyes were not his own. He had made the jump successfully, the image before him blazing back in crystal-clear Technicolor. It felt odd at first, slipping into the body of a person from his own history, but it became more comfortable as he moved through the man’s memories, getting a feel for them.

It took a while for him to realize he was witnessing the moment his father first laid eyes on his mother. He could feel his father’s anxiety feeding into his own emotions, followed by the instant flash of love his father had felt for the girl standing behind the café counter, pouring coffee from a jug. The sight of his mother, so much younger than he had ever known her, broke Alex’s heart. As he watched his father approach the counter, he saw his mother turn and flash her most dazzling smile at him. Yet Alex could feel no joy for the young soon-to-be couple, not when he was privy to the end of the story, flipping to the last page before he had read the whole book. She had been so happy once—he knew she had—so what had gone wrong?