Trees and more trees, craggy with age and glowing with magic, filled the canvas. The artist’s execution gave the forest an uncanny, realistic depth, yet the paint had the texture and surface immediacy of brushstrokes.
As Layla stared into the boughs, her breath grew short, her body hummed, and her nerves crackled. These were Khan’s trees, the ones in his mirror, the ones she’d glimpsed when she’d passed through Shadow in his arms. But more than that, she’d seen this place, time and again, though mostly darker, over the course of her life. Thank God, someone else had seen it, too. The proof was right there.
Layla cocked her head. A child was crying close by. Had to be one of Talia’s kids, but with each squall, the leaves on the magic trees rustled. The painting, like Khan’s mirror, was alive.
She glanced at the corner of the canvas. Kathleen O’Brien was written in a loopy script. Talia’s mother. So that’s why it was here and not in some gallery proving to the world that Layla wasn’t crazy. Talia kept her mom close.
Layla stepped back and forced herself to turn away; otherwise, she’d stare all day.
The library was old-fashioned, with dark wood bookcases, thick and deep. Books lined the shelves, their covers faded, the old paper smell prevailing over the wood burning in the fireplace. Three neat cubby desks had laptops ready for use. And centered in the room were two large tables for spread-out work.
Better get started.
As she skimmed her fingers over the first row of spines, an old guy stepped out from among the deeper shelves, a short pile of books in his hand. He was white bearded, disheveled, with a bit of a belly hanging over his pleated slacks. He moved his reading glasses down his nose as he approached, his gaze sharp on her face.
“You’ll want to begin with these,” he said.
“Excuse me?” Layla had to keep from looking behind her to see if he addressed someone else.
“For background. One of them is mine. It has the most comprehensive review of what you’ll be looking for. The bulk of what’s out there is just sloppy work.”
He handed her the books, and she glimpsed the titles: The Soul of Man in Philosophy and Social Anthropology and Relativism and Rationalism in Paranormal Linguistics . Talk about taking her work in another direction.
“Um, thank you.” She hated initiating introductions. “I’m Layla Mathews, by the way. New here.”
“Not so new, from what I’ve heard.” He held out his hand, and they shook. “I’m Dr. Philip James. Talia asked me to get you started. Colic keeps her busy with her children.”
Disappointed, Layla turned back to the painting, from which she could still hear the faint cries of a baby. She was used to seeing things, not necessarily hearing them. “You mean they’re not down here?”
“No, but I’d not be surprised if you could hear them scream. Their mother, after all, is a—”
A chair went skating across the room.
Goose bumps swept across Layla’s body. Oh, crap. Not another one. “Ghost.”
Dr. James frowned into his jowls as his gaze darted around the room. “Ms. Mathews, you need to do a lot more reading if you believe a spirit did that.”
Layla remembered what Marcie had said. “Ghosts can’t act on the world.”
“Correct.”
“Then what?” She knew of wraiths and now angels, both of whom she’d seen with her bare eyes.
“You, more than anyone, should know. You brought him here.” Dr. James crossed himself and took a backward step toward the door.
“Khan? Fae can be invisible?” If it was he, there was no need to bolt. Sure, Khan was intimidating, especially with his shows of magic, but as a person, he wasn’t that bad.
The light in the room darkened so that not even the fire cast a glow. Okay, that was eerie.
“The fae don’t need to be invisible. They exist in Shadow, which is everywhere,” Dr. James murmured, then louder, to the room, “My apologies. I meant no offense.”
“Khan, knock it off and come out.” Way to scare away a great potential source of information.
“No.” The sharpness of Dr. James’s tone brought her head about. “No,” he repeated. “I don’t want to see him.” He took another step back and gave a slight, but respectful nod toward the room. “I’m not ready.”
“But . . . ?” Now Layla was completely confused.
“Call me when you’ve finished with those.” His gaze flicked to the books in her hand, and then he left, footsteps hurrying down the hall.
Layla was alone. She waited a beat, looking into the murk of the room. “Okay, he’s gone. Come out. I have a lot of questions for you.”
After everything Talia had told her last night, Layla had decided to start from scratch. She needed a deeper understanding of the underlying processes at work within the framework of the three worlds, and how the wraiths fit into the scheme. And Khan still had some explaining to do about the gate.
He didn’t show.
“Khan?”