It was a vast repository of knowledge: creature names and their stories, births and deaths, curses and spells, miracles wrought by magic and blood.
It was the story of us—weavers and the vampires who carried blood rage in their veins and the extraordinary children who were born to them.
It told me not only of my predecessors going back countless generations. It told me how such a miraculous creation was possible.
I struggled to absorb the tale the Book of Life told as the pages turned.
Here begins the lineage of the ancient tribe known as the Bright Born. Their father was
Eternity and their mother Change, and Spirit nurtured them in her womb. . . .
My mind raced, trying to identify the alchemical text that was so similar.
. . . for when the three became one, their power was boundless as the night. . . .
And it came to pass that the absence of children was a burden to the Athanatoi. They sought the
daughters. . . .
Whose daughters? I tried to stop the pages, but it was impossible.
. . . discovered that the mystery of bloodcraft was known to the Wise Ones.
What was bloodcraft?
On and on went the words, racing, twining, twisting. Words split in two, formed other words, mutating and reproducing at a furious pace.
There were names, faces, and places torn from nightmares and woven into the sweetest of dreams.
Their love began with absence and desire, two hearts becoming one. . . .
I heard a whisper of longing, a cry of pleasure, as the pages continued to turn.
. . . when fear overcame them, the city was bathed in the blood of the Bright Born.
A howl of terror rose from the page, followed by a child’s frightened whimper.
. . . the witches discovered who among them had lain with the Athanatoi. . . .
I pressed my hands against my ears, wanting to block out the drumbeat litany of names and more names.
Lost . . .
Forgotten . . .
Feared . . .
Outcast . . .
Forbidden . . .
As the pages flew before my eyes, I could see the intricate weaving that had made the book, the ties that bound each page to lineages whose roots lay in the distant past.
When the last page turned, it was blank.
Then new words began to appear there as though an unseen hand were still writing, her job not yet complete.
And thus the Bright Born became the Children of the Night.
Who will end their wandering? the unseen hand wrote.
Who will carry the blood of the lion and the wolf?
Seek the bearer of the tenth knot, for the last shall once more be the first.
My mind was dizzy with half-remembered words spoken by Louisa de Clermont and Bridget Bishop, snatches of alchemical poetry from the Aurora Consurgens, and the steady flood of information from the Book of Life.
A new page grew out of the spine of the book, extending itself like Corra’s wing, unfurling like a leaf on the bough of a tree. Sarah gasped. An illumination, the colors shining with silver, gold, and precious stones crushed into the pigment, bloomed from the page.
“Jack’s emblem!” Sarah cried.
It was the tenth knot, fashioned from a firedrake and an orobouros eternally bound. The landscape that surrounded them was fertile with flowers and greenery so lush that it might have been paradise.
The page turned, and more words flowed forth from their hidden source.
Here continues the lineage of the most ancient Bright Born.
The unseen hand paused, as if dipping a pen in fresh ink.
Rebecca Arielle Emily Marthe Bishop-Clairmont, daughter of Diana Bishop, last of her line,
and Matthew Gabriel Philippe Bertrand Sébastien de Clermont, first of his line. Born under
the rule of the serpent.
Philip Michael Addison Sorley Bishop-Clairmont, son of the same Diana and Matthew.
Born under the protection of the archer.
Before the ink could possibly be dry, the pages flipped madly back to the beginning.
While we watched, a new branch sprouted from the trunk of the tree at the center of the first image.
Leaves, flowers, and fruit burst forth along its length.
The Book of Life clapped shut, the clasps engaging. The chattering ceased, leaving the library silent. I felt power surge within me, rising to unprecedented levels.
“Wait,” I said, scrambling to open the book again so that I could study the new image more closely.
The Book of Life resisted me at first, but it sprang open once I wrestled with it.
It was empty. Blank. Panic swept through me.
“Where did it all go?” I turned the pages. “I need the book to get Matthew back!” I looked up at Sarah. “What did I do wrong?”
“Oh, Christ.” Gallowglass was white as snow. “Her eyes.”
I twisted to glance over my shoulder, expecting to see some spectral librarian glaring at me.
“There’s nothing behind you, honey. And the book hasn’t gone far.” Sarah swallowed hard. “It’s inside you.” I was the Book of Life.