His eyes went back to Finley’s dad, and he studied him thoughtfully. He certainly didn’t look like a man who would one day die by his own hand, but what did that really look like anyway?
Setting the frame on the bedside table in the same exact position it was in before, Carrick opened the drawer in the table and spied a leather-bound journal. Without hesitation, he pulled it out and untied the leather laces. Flipping to the first page, he was surprised to see it wasn’t a diary but rather a sketchbook.
The first drawing was of a butterfly, done in charcoal pencil, delicately balancing on a rose vine barren of flowers but thick with thorns. Carrick’s eyes went to the butterfly lamp, then back to the book. Maybe she had a thing for them.
He flipped through the pages slowly, taking a moment to study each drawing. There were dozens of them, and she never stuck to a single topic, although everything was in charcoal. She was a good artist, equally adept at drawing humans as she was animals and landscapes. It was something new he learned about her that actually touched something inside of him.
Flipping to the next page, he froze when he saw it was a rendering of Zaid. An incredibly accurate likeness of his true daemon self, including the exact shade of gray aura he sported because while he was raised by his Light Fae mother, he has his father’s darkness inside that was never extinguished by his other parent’s nurture.
Below his face, she jotted notes—her handwriting a mixture of print and cursive.
Who are his parents?
Are they here in our reality or elsewhere?
His aura is gray, but who does he really favor?
All exceptionally good questions for sure. If Zaid so chose to bestow answers on her, she’d get an earful. It would probably scare her so bad they’d never see her again.
When he carefully flipped to the next page, a small smile played at Carrick’s lips as he saw her drawing of the daemon she’d identified in the bar. It was a Concordia daemon fairy, a species that was developed through Light Fae evolution and then crossbreeding with Dark Fae. While she had no real purpose, she naturally produced feelings of harmony and unity to those in her presence, despite some dark blood within her. Carrick remembered Finley said the buzzing feeling she got had almost a sweet flavor, and it astounded him that she was able to start identifying qualities about daemons by refining those feelings.
Under the picture of the Concordia, Finley had jotted, Is she as nice as she looks? Is she a fairy?
Carrick wondered where she thought she would get these answers. She rarely pressed him for information anymore, most likely because he often told her it was none of her business. Besides that, she’d found a willing ally in Titus, who didn’t mind sharing information with her. While that rankled him a bit, he pushed it aside. There was no room for him to get soft with her. Besides that, Titus’ loyalty would always be to Carrick over her. He’d never divulge who Carrick really was.
He flipped to the next page, and his body locked tight.
It was his face, done with such attention to detail that emotion seemed to burst from the page and slam straight into his chest. He knew exactly from what memory she’d sketched this… their first meeting at Fallon’s gallery. He knew this, despite the fact it was only his face with no contextual background, because he palpably felt the same anger and astonishment now as she accurately sketched of him then.
His eyes were ice-cold, hard, and disdainful. It was unintentional, his reaction, but it was legitimate.
Carrick’s gaze roamed over the words she’d written below. A litany of curiosities she had, not only about him, but also about herself.
What is my purpose?
Why am I like this?
Will I ever learn anything from Carrick? Can I even trust him?
And… what in the hell is he? Daemon? Fae? Something else? Or maybe, just human like me with some weird abilities?
Why does he hate me?
And, at the same time, why do I fascinate him?
Conversely, why do I seem to have a pull toward him? Am I a glutton for punishment?
Carrick wanted to feel nothing from her words, but he couldn’t deny the disappointment at learning she had a pull toward him. If she were here right now, he’d answer her last question.
“Yes, Finley… you are a glutton for punishment.”
With a sigh, Carrick flipped to the next page, but it was blank. He thumbed through the remaining pages but found nothing. Carefully replacing the book where he found it, he wandered around her room for a good ten minutes, poking around in every nook and cranny.
He found not one thing that would tell him the information he sought, for he was not here out of any curiosity about Finley’s personal life, but rather if she had any inkling—obvious or not—that she was destined to take place in a prophecy that could end the world.