“There isn’t. Not officially. But in the sealed archives where they keep the records they don’t want anyone to see, there is.”
Brandon didn’t ask how Jason got his hands on those.
“According to the non-redacted, not-supposed-to-exist version, Rourke was sent to Ireland thirty years ago to investigate reports of a powerful natural witch—Siobhan Brennan. His orders were to locate and secure any magical artifacts, particularly grimoires.”
“We already knew that,” Brandon said wearily.
“We suspected,” Jason corrected. “Not the same. But I agree—old news. What we didn’t know was why he disappeared. Neither did the Consilium, apparently. They sent retrievers after him when he failed to report back. They found his body in the woods outside Siobhan's family estate in Ireland. Field notes mention extensive defensive wounds and evidence of powerful protective magic usage.”
The information settled over Brandon like lead weight. “He died defending Siobhan.”
“That's my read. Whether Rourke was sent to infiltrate and fell in love, or whether something else happened, we may never know. But he didn't abandon her. He died trying to save her. That was a bad look for the Consilium, so they buried it—and him.”
Brandon's throat tightened. That had the potential to change everything.
“Back up,” Brandon said. “If the Consilium found Rourke’s body, then who killed him?”
“My guess? Also the Consilium, but unsanctioned rogues. The Consilium would have wanted Rourke alive to glean as much information from him as possible.”
Great. Because the sanctioned operatives weren’t bad enough. Now they had rogues to contend with as well.
“Here's the other interesting piece,” Jason continued. “Declan Rourke's personnel file lists his specialty as protection wards. Specifically, wards designed to maskmagical signatures and deflect tracking spells—exactly like the kind surrounding Muriel’s cottage in Shenandoah.”
Understanding dawned. “He taught Siobhan how to ward structures before he died.”
“And she used her natural magic to fuel them when she got to Shenandoah,” Jason finished. “That's why the Consilium lost track of her. That’s why they didn't find Muriel for thirty years. Siobhan was maintaining wards designed by a Consilium operative—wards they wouldn't expect a natural witch to even know about, let alone be powerful enough to sustain.”
“Until Muriel opened theCodexand the power surge overwhelmed them.” Brandon's hands clenched. “Every minute she's been safe has been because of her father's final gift. And she thinks he abandoned them.”
“Which is why you need to tell her the truth.” Jason stood. “She deserves to know her father loved her enough to die for her.”
Like I would,Brandon thought but didn't say.
“Agreed, but she asked me not to contact her.”
Jason frowned.
“Perhaps Armand can tell her. She trusts him.”
“Are you sure that is what you want?”
“It’s not,” Brandon said. “But I promised I’d give her space.”
“And breaking your word is not conducive to rebuilding trust,” Jason said. “All right. I’ll speak with Armand.”
“Thank you.”
After Jason left, Brandon stood alone in his botanical garden of a shop. Muriel was at the estate, looking for answers.
He needed answers too.
Brandon moved to the back of the shop, to a door most customers never noticed. His hand pressed against the wood, allowing entry. Stairs descended into darkness, lit by floating orbs of mage-light that flickered to life at his presence.
His private library. His sanctuary.
The underground chamber was larger than The Glas Tann's footprint above, expanded by spatial magic and protected by wards that would make the Consilium's vaults look amateur. Shelves lined every wall, floor to ceiling, filled with texts and artifacts that couldn't exist in the world above. Couldn't be known about. Couldn't be touched by anyone but him.
His inheritance and his burden.