Lover Arisen (Black Dagger Brotherhood #20)(69)

It was a foolish belief.

But an undeniable one.



* * *



Standing over the Book, Devina read the spell that had been created for her and her alone for the third time. Which was what the spell informed her she was supposed to do. Three times with the reading, like it was worried that she’d be so excited, she couldn’t concentrate.

Which, of course, she couldn’t. But she got the gist of things just fine.

Turning to her collection, she had to smile.

It was so fucking remarkable, and yet completely apt, how perfect the spell was for her. Then again, over the course of eons, she had come to understand the way the Book worked. Between those covers, in all those infinite parchment pages, was a portal that opened in a different way for whoever it chose to serve, as if each soul who approached it had a separate key for a specific unlocking. And as for the written words themselves? They were infinitely transmutable, all the languages ever spoken or read within its grasp, an endless horizon of power available, expressible in an incalculable number of ways.

Always on its terms, however.

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” she murmured as her eyes caressed her clothes, her accessories, her shoes. “But you really do know me, don’t you.”

Her spell was the absolute tailored fit for who and what she was, and what she had to do to follow its recipe struck her as magnificent. The second and third readings had been unnecessary. She had known immediately what she was going to use for what had been prescribed.

And for once in her immortal life, she was going to follow instructions.

As desperate as she was for the outcome, she was unhurried as well, the sense of anticipation like a delayed orgasm, something that was a delightful, burning frustration. So she was slow and easy on her wander, zeroing in on her destination in a roundabout way that took her on a review of all that was precious to her, all that she had chosen and curated with care… all that she loved.

Walking by the racks, she put her fingertips out and encountered all manner of fabrics, from blue jean and cotton to satin and silk. Sequins, too. She even paused to pull out a set of Stella McCartney velvet hip-huggers. They were from the Fall/Winter collection a couple of years before.

Annnnnnnnnd now Devina was finally in front of her Birkins, the Lucite stands making her think of that book room back at the Commodore, where the Book had been and been determined to stay. But as she thought about its obstinance, she wasn’t going to get pissy with the thing. Hell, for what it was giving her tonight, she’d be kind and generous to it for the rest of eternity.

Maybe even get it a tufted pillow instead of that trash bin to rest on.

Her eyes lifted to the summit to her Mount Everest of Hermès. That pinnacle display position had remained barren, the stand empty as if a vital organ had been removed, but no transplant was available.

As she summoned back the little coffin, she thought it was so ironic. She’d been in this exact spot, laying to rest her most beloved, figuring it was gone forever and of no more use—and now she was back, finding a purpose for the thing even though it was ruined.

In fact, the ruination was key.

“Who’da thought,” the demon murmured as she opened the casket’s lid.

Reunions with the dead were always sloppy affairs, assuming they were your dead, and as her eyes teared up, she hated the weakness. The resurrection was stinky, too, the scent of the burned leather making her nose wrinkle. Yet she clasped the purse with gentle hands, as if it were pristine, as if it were alive.

Planting her stilettos, she held the Birkin out in front of her. The spell was so simple, so obvious, that she might have been able to guess it herself—or ignored it for being so uncomplicated. But she had seen firsthand the power of the Book’s commands.

And she was choosing this totem wisely.

According to the words meant for her, she was to take a precious object, something that was personal to her, something that had great meaning, and behold it as if she were the lover she sought and the object was her. As she trained all of her adoration and her attention on what she picked, all her wants and desires, her hopes and dreams, her love was the summoning agent, and she would, in the words of the spell, get as she regarded.

The more she projected love, the more love she would receive.

So she decided that, among all her beautiful things, she needed to choose the one that was most like her… and that was the burned shell of the most expensive handbag in the world. Beautiful and ugly by turns, functional and broken at the same time, engendering sorrow for what had been lost and joy for what had once been, it was a contradiction that challenged standards and tested love and loyalty.

Yes, it was hard to admit that she was ugly, but goddamn it, she had value—and parts of her were fucking pristine.

Bottom line, she was done with males flaking off because they saw something in her they didn’t like. Full disclosure was here in her palms, the stand-in for her exactly what she was—and yet she could, she would, love the ruined purse as she had never loved anything else.

And thereby be loved like she deserved.

See? She had made progress. That therapist had once told her she needed to be accurate in her “personal inventory.” Fucking fine. She was being super accurate now—and she could fit a cell phone and a wallet into her fucking effigy to boot.

Oh, and who the hell would have thought that that idiot female who had burned the Birkin had done her a roundabout favor. She’d have kissed that Mae if she could have.