A Strange Hymn
Page 11

I watch as the fairy walks away.
That was … nice. He called me lady and didn’t ogle at my wings the way I feared he might.
Tentatively, I pass the sculpture and move deeper into the library. Here there are rooms upon rooms and floors upon floors of books. Men and women sit at tables between them, flipping through volumes.
Like the library I was in earlier, this one smells like old parchment, leather, and cedar.
Choosing a room at random, I begin pacing the aisles. Out of sheer curiosity, I pull a book bound in light blue silk from the shelves, flipping it open.
I don’t know what I expected to find, but another language wasn’t it. I skim through several pages, but they’re all written in the same archaic script.
“It’s Old Fae.”
I let out a squeak, nearly dropping the book.
The fairy who greeted me earlier is back, lurking just over my shoulder.
“Are you spying on me?” I accuse, my voice a whisper.
He gives me a shrewd look, standing even taller. “The King of the Night has requested me to make myself indispensable to his mate.”
Uh-huh.
“He doesn’t even know I’m here.”
Way to go, Callie. Tell your would-be stalker that no one knows where you are.
He tilts his head. “But doesn’t he?”
Fairies have this weird doublespeak I’m starting to get the hang of. This one is pretty clear.
Translation: Better check your facts, bitch, because he totally does know where you are.
So Des is keeping tabs on me, and he sent Would-Be Stalker here to help me.
I reassess the fairy at my side. “Callie,” I finally say, holding out my hand.
He stares at it for a beat before delicately clasping it in his own. “Jerome.” His gaze moves to the book in my other hand. “Are you looking for anything in particular to read?” he asks.
“Just browsing,” I say. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.
“Perhaps you’d enjoy a different section of our library—unless you’re worried about curses.”
“Curses?” I repeat.
Stoically, he says, “The book you’re looking at deals with curse-caused ailments—particularly those that cause hemorrhoids, unexpected bowel movements—”
Jesus.
I close the book and return it to its shelf.
A thought comes to me. “Do you have any books on the king?”
Several hours later I sit at one of the reading tables, a stack of biographies and histories of the realm next to me.
Some of the books were originally written in English, the colloquial language of the Otherworld, but the book I currently have open was originally written in Old Fae. When he pulled it from the shelves Jerome spelled it to read in English. It’s a strange sight; every time I turn the page, Fae letters dance and morph into English ones.
As for the content of the book … it is equally intriguing. I feel like a thief in the night, learning Des’s family history without his knowledge.
He would’ve done the same thing had roles been reversed.
My finger moves over the text. It describes yet another battle Des fought in. Like most of the others, this one took place on the Borderlands, the area where, according to this book, “day meets night.”
And like all the other battles mentioned, the book discusses how swiftly Des cut down his opponents and how courageously he fought.
I begin to skim over the battles. It’s not that I’m unimpressed, but after reading about the umpteenth person getting brained, the glory of the fight is a little lost on me.
Several pages later, I close the book. I’m not sure what I expected to find—perhaps some insight into who Des the Night King really is—but I should’ve known better. So far, all the books seem to be scrubbed of all interesting and relevant information.
All I’ve really learned is that Des has been a revolutionary king, dragging the Kingdom of Night from the dark ages (pun unintended) to not just one of the leading realms, but also one of the most enlightened, a title that had traditionally belonged to the Kingdom of Day.
I’ve also learned that before Des was a king, he was a soldier, as the last book so eloquently (re: graphically) described.
Other than that, there’s precious little about my mate.
I grab the next book from the pile, a small, worn volume that fits neatly in the palm of my hand.
There’s something about this book, between the soft, faded leather cover and its humble size that makes me think this one will be different.
As soon as I open it, I can tell I’m right.
Chapter 1: Desmond Flynn, the Forgotten Child of Night
The next line I come across, I have to read twice.
Like most fae kings, Desmond Flynn was born from the royal harem.
Harem?
That one little word makes me go hot and cold all over. Kings have harems?
Des never told me this. I find I care less that Des came from one, and more that this is a normal practice in the Otherworld.
It’s unnaturally hard to concentrate after that, and I find that my eyes drift over most of the text.
At some point, the atmosphere of the library changes. Where it was quiet before, now the place is deathly still. It’s like silence itself becomes muted. The hairs along my forearms rise.
And then, from the silence, the sound of heavy footfalls.
I glance up in time to see Des striding into the room, his body sinuous as it moves. He has eyes only for me, and it’s here in this grand setting that I realize just how much Des commands the space around him. I’m used to him moving amongst the shadows. Seeing him stride through this huge, cavernous room like he owns it (technically, he does), is sort of hot.
And by sort of hot, I mean really fricking hot.
Harem.
The word slides its way into my mind, souring my sexy thoughts.
Des disappears a moment later, reappearing on the table I sit at. He perches himself on the edge, tilting his head to read the spines of the books next to me.
“Doing some light reading, cherub?”
“Some.”
Harem, my mind whispers. Harem. Harem. Harem.
He lifts the cover of the top book and raises his eyebrows. “You want to know about the history of my kingdom?” His eyes go soft when he glances back at me.
He’s making my intentions seem way too noble. He should know better—he must know better. But he looks sincere, and that’s enough to throw me off.
“Do you have a harem?” The question just slips out, my voice hoarse with emotion.
Des’s expression freezes in place. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Do you have a harem?” I repeat.
A crease forms between his brows. “Why do you ask?”
That’s not a no.
My heart is in my throat, my pulse thundering in my ears.
“One of the books mentions you were born into one.”
His eyes flick to the open book.
“I wasn’t,” he says smoothly.
He lifts the small volume. “‘Desmond Flynn, The Forgotten Child of Night,’” he reads. His gaze moves to me. “So my inquisitive siren hasn’t just been reading about my kingdom after all.”
“Do you have a harem?” I press.
Around us, other fairies have fallen back into their books, either no longer interested in our spectacle, or—more likely—Des is using his magic to cloak our words.
He leans forward, a lock of his white hair falling loose from the leather tie holding it back. “And if I did? What would you do?”