About three hours later, I'm done with books. All of them. My hands are dusty, and I'm sick of the smell of musty old pages. They're just so boring—page after page of history regarding shifter worship practices: who genuflected to which god, how, where, and for how long, and the minute changes in those practices.

I groan, pushing my twentieth book away and looking dourly at the fifty or so still left in my pile.

"Come on, Cora," Roger says, sitting comfortably across from me, smirking over a neat little green text. "You're supposed to be the smart one in the family. I thought you'd have more staying power than this."

"Ella's smart," I reply defensively. He nods, conceding the point. "But you gave me all the dusty books," I sigh, frowning and pulling the next one toward me. I cough as it raises a puff of dust.

"I gave you all the ones with more pictures," Roger murmurs, closing his book and reaching for his next. "Wanted to make it easy on you."

My mouth drops open in outrage, but then I see the upturned corner of his lip. "Liar," I say, smiling at my book as I open it. The title page reads A Complete History of the Cults of the Dark God, 1862. "You just didn't want to get your hands and clothes dusty." I gesture passively to my dust-covered clothes.

"You've got a little on your ass," Roger murmurs indifferently. "Come here, I'll help you brush it off."

I smirk, shake my head, and continue paging through the book. This one, to Roger's point, is heavily illustrated, with many pictures of occult ceremonies and practices that I find fascinating, if a little disturbing. I'm letting my eyes drift over the description of a summoning ceremony when I turn the page and—

I stop, frozen.

Because it's him, right there. Well, not him—not precisely; the face is different. Of course it is; he'd be over a hundred years old.

"Roger," I breathe, and his attention is instantly on me. "I think I think I found something."

Roger is at my side in a moment, leaning over the book. I point at the image, which takes up three-quarters of the page: a monk with a partially shaved head, striding through a forest in a dark robe tied at the waist with a rope from which charms dangle. In his hand is a stick—or staff—which he carries reverently.

"Yes," I whisper, swallowing hard. "Um—it has details details I'm not sure I remembered at the time. I'm sorry about that—but the charms, and the rod, and something about the hair"

"It's all right, Cora," Roger says comfortingly, his fingers lightly on my lower back, not accidentally, but steady. "No one expects you to remember every detail at once."

I nod, and we both lean forward, reading:

The Monastic Cult of the God of Darkness is a minor but powerful cult developed in the eighteenth century. They were formed in direct opposition to the Cult of the Goddess, which professed a mission of peace between all living things. What is known of their stated mission—passed from brother to brother, never written down—emphasizes hierarchy, war, and discord between peoples, in order to honor their lord, the God of Darkness, who they understand as best worshiped by sowing disharmony and blood sacrifice. From the eighteenth to the nineteenth centuries, the Cult developed significant magical prowess, and their abilities to manipulate the elements should not be underestimated. While the most devoted members exclusively wear the trademark black robes, many others move through the world in disguise. Devotees tend to flock to high-powered jobs amongst their enemies, particularly in law, politics, and medicine.

I turn the page, expecting more, but am shocked and disappointed to find that's the end. "That's it?" I gasp.

"It's enough," Roger says, his hand flattening against my back. I turn to him, not knowing what to do. "Are you sure, Cora?" he asks, pointing to the picture. "Are you sure this is precisely what you saw in your hypnosis and as a child?"

"Yes," I say, nodding steadily. "When I saw it, it was like déjà vu. An immediate return to those memories. If I had seen that image, even without the hypnosis, it would have brought me right back."

"Good," he says, nodding seriously. "You did beautifully, Cora," he says, hugging me briefly and then releasing me. "Look through the rest of the book if anything else rings a bell. I'm going to call Sinclair and get his team working on finding out anything else they can about this cult."

I nod, quickly looking through the pages, my mind whirling. What the hell was this cult? And what on earth did they want with Ella's baby? Why did they work so hard for him to be born if they…

If they worship the god who works in opposition to his grandmother's mission…

My eyes fall again on "blood sacrifice," and my heart drops. My breathing quickens.

"Miss?" the librarian says at my shoulder, and I jump, spinning around. "I'm so sorry!" she says, hands outstretched.

"It's okay," I murmur, laughing. "Just a lot of work on little sleep."

She offers to make a copy of the significant pages. I thank her, indicating the page with the image and description of the Monastic Cult. She swiftly carries the book away to a scanner. I lean against the table, anxiously watching the door for Roger's return.

He returns a few minutes later and moves swiftly to my side, sliding his phone into his back pocket. As he reaches me, the librarian arrives with about twenty copies of the page.

"Thank you," Roger says warmly. I feel something growl in me as I look between them. She puts on a shy, demure expression, twirling a strand of hair, and asks if we need anything else. Roger quickly and politely declines, saying we'll be leaving. I glare at her as we head for the door, though she doesn't deserve it.

Roger doesn't look back as we leave the library and head for the car, pressing the copies protectively to his chest against the pouring rain. We dash to the car, eager to get inside, and as we open our doors, the car with the guards starts up as well.

"Sinclair wants us home now," Roger murmurs. "We'll be safer there, and more productive, I think."

"Okay," I say, feeling a little guilty. Part of me knows I need to return to the clinic, to my work there. But honestly, the only place I want to be

I think of Ella and the baby, and my determination solidifies. Roger watches me quietly as I turn to him. "To Ella's," I say, nodding. "Let me know if you need me to drive. If you get tired."

"Thanks," he says, smiling, then looks up at the angry sky. "But I think we might need shifter reflexes to get through this storm."

"This storm," I murmur, buckling my seatbelt. "Where did it even come from? The weather was supposed to be sunny for days"