The Evolution of Fae and Gods (Chronicles of the Stone Veil 3)

I sit forward in my seat, totally hooked. “What did Micah do to her?”

“He used the necklace he had given her as a token of his love and pulled the dark jewel from the gold. He then trapped her within the stone to be imprisoned forever, depriving her and the demi-god of being together.”

“And the demi-god witnessed this?”

Carrick nods. “Indeed. His tears stain the words on the pages as he wrote them. At any rate, Micah dipped the stone into the flowing river of lava to seal his love within before attaching it to the chalice. He cried into the cup every night and then drank his own bitter tears. The author—who refused to leave in the hopes he could save Charmeine—wrote that, within days, Micah’s hatred and twisting of their magic from light to dark had changed him into a monster with cloven feet, a hunched back, horns, and a whip-like tail with a spearhead on the end.”

“The devil?” I guess.

Carrick shrugs. “Possibly. Micah eventually cast the demi-god out of the dark realm, and it’s assumed he continues to live there.”

“How long ago did this supposedly happen?”

“No clue when Charmeine and Micah created this realm, but the demi-god references events at the beginning of the Libri Mysteria that coincide with the time of the Roman empire. There’s specific reference to the Samnite wars which were around 343 BC. But back then, the words would have been written on long scrolls of papyrus and this book is more modern by the type of paper and design. I’m guessing around 600-800 AD is when this particular book was created. The Latin language was pretty dead by then so clearly it was never translated when it was re-written. This could also infer there are other copies of this book out there.”

I settle back in my chair, letting my gaze drift and go a little fuzzy as I contemplate this information.

There’s a realm within this chalice, and we could potentially get it.

And then something strikes me like a slap to the face.

“The Crimson River,” I exclaim.

Zaid points at me. “Ding, ding, ding. She got something right.”

I glare at him before shifting my gaze to Carrick. “The river he called forth is the Crimson River from the Underworld. And the necklace he dipped into it became the Blood Stone, the river making its power limitless.”

“Come here,” Carrick orders, and I don’t think to question him. I go around his desk to stand beside his chair.

He points down to a page in the book, and there’s a crude drawing of the chalice.

It’s rough, made of what I assume is blackened stone, and there’s a large jewel on the front. There’s no way to know its color from the drawing, but the recounting of the lava river and the dipping of the necklace into it, and then the jewel being attached, is just way too coincidental.

“The author wrote that after the faceted stone was dipped in the river, it turned from black to blood red,” Carrick says as we stare at the drawing.

It’s so fascinating, yet, my mind lets go of every bit of it when Carrick’s hand slides in between my legs, glides up to my inner thigh, and squeezes. This is all out of sight of Zaid as it’s covered by the desk, but I know my reaction is way too transparent—a tiny gasp of breath.

Carrick merely keeps his hand there, and I don’t dare pull away.

I don’t want to pull away.

“How do we get there?” I query.

“We need to find the demi-god who wrote the book,” Zaid says, slapping his hands to his knees before pushing up from the couch. “I’ll leave you two to figure that out while I go make us some lunch. I expect it will be ready in about half an hour.”

The time frame he gives us is pointed, as is the way he backs out of the office and closes the pocket doors behind him. The last thing I see is the smug grin he gives Carrick.

I twist to gaze down at him. He tips his head slightly to return my stare. “All alone,” he murmurs.

Gold eyes glowing.

Hand sliding farther up my leg until it can’t any more, and he presses the strength of his hand to my core.

My eyelids flutter closed, and I have to brace my hands on his desk.

“I’m wondering,” he murmurs, his voice rumbling lazily, “if there will ever be a time when I see you that I don’t want to possess you?”

“Carrick,” I whisper, my head feeling fuzzy and my hips rocking against his hand with a will of their own.

“I’m not just talking about sex, Finley,” he says, and my eyes pop open. When I meet his gaze, his expression is the most serious I’ve seen from him in the time we’ve known each other. His hand slides back down my leg, stopping just inside my knee. “I’m talking about in every single way.”