“Bethany? You still upstairs?” came Cynwrig’s voice.

“Yes.”

I stepped back, dropped the token onto the floor, and crushed it under my heel until there was nothing left but dust.

And could feel the anger pouring from her.

As the stair treads shivered under Cynwrig’s weight, I became aware of another type of emotion—one of distress, radiating from the doorway to my right... fuck, I’d forgotten to repair the damaged I’d caused. I shoved my knives away and hurried over the frame. After pushing the shattered edges back into place, I placed one hand on each breach point, then carefully wove the fibers of wood back together, healing the breach and enabling the golden river of power to run unimpeded once again.

I wiped a trickle of sweat from my forehead, then moved back to my captive. Cynwrig appeared, his dark hair wet and coat soaked. Surprise stirred, and I looked toward the window at the far end of the hall; rain sheeted the glass. I’d been so intent on our caster, I hadn’t even noticed the storm breaking.

He moved around my prisoner, then stopped beside me, his left arm pressing ever so slightly against my right. “Who have we here?”

“Peregrine Stace, who was released on bail for attempting to steal a very old, very valuable book from the Welsh National Library. She was supposedly found dead in a Conway boarding house a few months later, but the decomposition was so bad they were unable to confirm identity.”

“I take it dental records were conveniently absent?”

“They’re still searching for them.”

“Huh.” He glanced at Stace. “Why are you here?”

Her face contorted, but she had no choice except to reply now that I’d destroyed the token. “I was sent here to monitor Riayn Aodhán’s movements and contacts.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I wasn’t told. I was simply meant to report any and all contacts she had.”

“Meaning you were listening in to her phone calls?”

“Of course.”

Just as well I hadn’t called before arriving then, because I might have been greeted with a very nasty surprise. “Do you keep a log of calls?”

“No. Once I make a report, everything is erased.”

Of course it was. “Who were you reporting to?”

“Seryn Morrisa.”

Tension rippled through Cynwrig’s big body, though his voice remained even as he asked, “Have you a means of contacting her?”

“Yes.”

“Phone? Texts? Or some other means?”

“Usually texts, unless there’s something major to report.”

“Her number?”

She reeled it off. I glanced at Cynwrig. “Familiar?”

“No.”

I studied him for a second, wondering if that were actually true, then returned my gaze to our captive. “Why did you attempt to steal the Book of Tywyllwch?”

“I didn’t.”

“Well, obviously, because you were caught before you could take it.”

She didn’t say anything because it wasn’t a question. But the amusement that flared briefly in her eyes had suspicion rising. “Were you actually supposed to take it? Or was it a ruse?”

“Neither.”