Chapter 3

  I didn’t sleep that night.

  I lay in bed, the journal resting on the nightstand like a loaded question. Every time I turned out the light, I imagined it glowing faintly—soft, warm, waiting.

  The image of the woman in the stained glass wouldn’t leave me. That red hair, the bird near her hand. Phoenix, maybe. But the longer I stared at the photo on my phone, the more it looked like something else.

  A crow.

  Not perched. Not painted. Just... implied.

  And my stalker? I couldn’t lie to myself; he is hot as hell. But after the last two disastrous relationships, just being near a guy was a little, well, gaggy.

  ---

  The next morning, I bundled up, grabbed the journal, and walked the familiar few blocks to the Athenaeum. The front steps were dusted with a fresh layer of snow, and the iron rail still had the chill bite of January.

  Inside, the warmth hit me like a wool blanket. Smelled like old paper and lemon oil. The sort of smell that made you straighten your spine.

  Edna was already at the desk, reading a romance novel with a title that had more velvet in it than I thought possible. She didn’t look up.

  “You’re early,” she said, then held out a muffin like I’d been expected. “I can be responsible,” I said, taking it.

  She sniffed. “You? Never.”

  I passed the usual crew—Mr. Thomason muttering over genealogy microfiche, Helen in the local history section humming something vaguely Bach-ish, and a teenager asleep with his head on a chemistry textbook. I gave the kid a wide berth. I’ve been there.

  I found an open computer near the side window, logged in, and set the journal on the desk like a totem.

  ---

  I take my Library Sciences degree way more seriously than anyone expects—it’s not just a major, it’s basically a passport to some of the best research databases in the world. Thanks to tuition, I get free access to JSTOR, ProQuest, EBSCO, and a half-dozen more archives that normal people don’t even know exist. Professors care about metadata and citation styles, but what really thrills me is the hunt—the way a string of keywords can turn into a treasure map. My absolute favorite is EMLO, the Early Modern Letters Online project, which I lovingly call my “gossip column for dead geniuses.” Everyone else uses it for dissertations; I scroll for scandal—queens taking coded jabs at each other, bishops slandering rivals, aristocrats complaining about laundry bills. Once I found a nobleman writing about hemorrhoids in velvet prose, and honestly, it was the highlight of my week. To me, those letters aren’t dusty records, they’re juicy, human gossip frozen in ink. EMLO is basically the original social media feed, just minus the cat memes—though I’m convinced the Tudors would have invented subtweeting if they’d had the chance. Every time I dive in, I feel like I’m eavesdropping on history itself, connecting dots most people wouldn’t even see.

  I crossed my fingers for good luck.

  Search terms: Anne of Cleves + symbolism. Cleves + crows. Cleves + secret family. Nothing helpful.

  I expanded: Lutheran occult. Monster hunters. Historical purges. Grimm brother hoaxes. Still nothing I didn’t already know.

  Until something blinked back.

  A footnote buried in a 19th-century translation of an early Lutheran pamphlet: “Haus Kr?mer ist Hüter der Schwelle.”

  House Kr?mer is keeper of the anchor.

  No further reference. No author. No page citation. Just that sentence.

  I tried searching “Haus Kr?mer.” All I got were listings for a butcher shop in Dresden and a long-defunct apothecary.

  I turned to the stacks. Historical compilations. Witch trial records. Local folklore. Nothing.

  What I needed was a pivot; how was this book related to Anne of Cleves? A quick search showed she occupied Hever Castle from 1540 to 1588; maybe I should look for correspondences between Hever, and, well, anyone during that time. Back at the search engine, I put in my request and sat back – toes crossed this time.

  And there it was! Dozens of letters between Hatfield House and Hever Castle. I printed the roster and began the tedious search of obtaining and download the images (or transcripts). Somewhere here, I was going to find the connection I needed.

  The journal—the one I’d found at the Athenaeum, the one that sometimes wrote in ink and sometimes refused to—was silent.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  But when I flipped through the pages for the hundredth time, I spotted something I hadn’t noticed before: a tiny, detailed illustration on the lower margin of a blank page.

  A crow, wings spread, perched on the hilt of a dagger. A dagger with Elizabeth Tudors’s insignia on it.

  Either I was crazy, or a dead queen was talking to me through a book.

  By the end of the afternoon I had a literal mountain of printouts spread across my desk—letters by and between Anne of Cleves and Elizabeth Tudor. Some were in German, crisp and formal, others in French that dripped with diplomacy, and a few rare fragments in Greek that made me wish I’d paid more attention in undergrad language electives. Reading them felt like eavesdropping on two women who never quite knew if they were adored or disposable, but still wrote with a command that made even kings sound like afterthoughts. One dated 1540 had Anne remarking—politely but pointedly—about the “generous settlement” Henry had given her after their annulment, as if daring him to regret letting her slip away. Elizabeth’s reply from 1545, written when she was still Princess and under suspicion after Catherine Howard’s downfall, hinted at the shared fragility of being useful only until you weren’t. Another letter around 1558, when Elizabeth finally became queen, practically vibrated with restrained triumph, though the French phrasing softened it into elegance. The tone shifted depending on language—German for bluntness, French for politics, Greek for secrets. I kept circling phrases, underlining turns of wit, wondering how many veiled warnings were hidden under the niceties. It felt less like homework and more like gossip across centuries, with Anne and Elizabeth side-eying the men who underestimated them. The journal sat closed at my elbow, smug and silent, like it was waiting for me to line everything up first. My plan was simple: when it decided to display more writing, I’d cross-reference every phrase, every crow, every phoenix-hint against these letters. And maybe, just maybe, I’d find out who was speaking to me twice—once on paper, and once through whatever the hell that book really was.

  ---

  My phone buzzed around three. Unknown number.

  I hesitated, then answered.

  “Sadie, its Richard,” came the voice. Smooth, clipped. “Please don’t hang up.” “Why would I—”

  “You don’t trust me yet. That’s fine. But there are things you’re beginning to see, and I think you know that denying them isn’t helping.”

  I said nothing.

  He continued, “Let me buy you a cup of tea. Somewhere public. You can leave whenever you want. I’ll sit across from you and answer your questions. No pressure.”

  I considered it. I hated that I was even considering it. But something in his tone— kind, direct—made me say, “Fine. But no back alleys or blood pacts.”

  “Fairbanks Café. Four o’clock.”

  He hung up before I could change my mind.

  I sighed, this fucking guy.

  ---

  The Fairbanks Café had large windows, over-roasted beans, and a vintage map collection on the walls. When I walked in, he was already there.

  And unfortunately, he looked incredible.

  Dark navy sweater, tailored like it came from a European closet. His coat was slung over the back of the chair, hair tousled just enough to look effortless. He was reading. Who reads before a possible stalker confrontation?

  “You’re early,” I said, sliding into the seat across from him.

  “You came.” He smiled—not smug, not sharp. Just... sincere. Damn it. “What do you want?”

  “To keep you alive.” I blinked.

  “That escalated quickly.”

  He set the book down. “You’re being watched. You already know that. The journal, your DNA results, that portrait—none of this is coincidence.”

  “And you’re what? My supernatural chaperone? An how in the fuck do you k now about the 23 and Me?

  “Something like that.” He leaned forward slightly, his eyes searching mine. “I work with a group connected to the Vatican. Not priests. Not exorcists. A special division most people have no idea exists. We’re tasked with maintaining balance. Containing what shouldn’t be seen. Neutralizing what gets out of line.”

  “Oh my God,” I said. “You’re Mulder.”

  He didn’t blink. “It sounds insane, I know.”

  “No, no—I sound insane for even sitting through this. What kind of girl do you think I am? You drop Vatican X-Files on me and think I’m just going to swoon into your Land Rover?”

  “I think,” he said gently, “you’re someone who already knows something’s wrong. And I think you’re the only person who might survive what’s coming.”

  “Right. Sure. Let me just go get my silver dagger and crucifix real quick.”

  Richard shook his head, but he wasn’t laughing. “You don’t have to believe me. Not yet. But when the time comes—and it will—I’ll be here.”

  Then he stood, gathered his coat, and walked out without waiting for a goodbye. And I sat there, staring at the empty seat, thinking:

  If this is a delusion, it’s got excellent production values.

  And a seriously nice ass.

  ---

  Back at the Athenaeum, I cracked open the journal one more time.

  The crow illustration was still there. I traced it gently with a fingertip, and for a second, it felt warm.

  Then a line of script appeared, slow and deliberate:

  “Nur Blut erkennt Blut.”

  “You know”, I said to a book,” maybe regular English? I mean, if you want me to actually get this shit. ” Again I snapped a photo and loaded it into the OLT app on my phone.

  Only blood recognizes blood.

  I sat back, spine prickling. Outside, a single bird with black feathers flapped past the window and was gone.

  I grabbed my bulging backpack, full of Hatfield/Heaver letters and the journal and left.

  ---

  By the time I got home, the streetlights had just blinked on and my boots crunched across fresh salt on the walk. I fished out my keys, balancing the journal under my arm.

  The door was ajar. Just a few inches. No creak. No sound.

  But I knew I hadn’t left it like that.

  My heart thudded against my ribs as I eased it open.

  The place was *trashed*. Books everywhere. Couch cushions ripped open. My laptop—gone. So was the old ceramic mug I kept pens in. Shattered across the floor like someone had thrown it on purpose. I’d gotten a C in that stupid class, an now this?

  What.in.the.fuck?

  And Tudor?

  “Tu?” I called softly. “Tudor, buddy?” No answer.

  A creak.

  Not from inside. From the hall behind me.

  I spun just in time to see a figure charging—hooded, fast, slim-shouldered. I didn’t have time to scream.

  But something else did.

  A blur of black and white fur launched from the shadows. Tudor.

  He hit the attacker mid-torso, claws bared, hissing like he was born from a banshee’s bloodline.

  The person shouted—loud, furious, muffled behind a ski mask—as Tudor scratched straight down his face. One of the claws caught skin. I saw blood. Real, bright blood.

  The attacker cursed, reeled back, and bolted.

  Tudor landed on all fours, tail puffed like a feather duster, and stared after him with a look that said, *Try me again, bitch.*

  I fell to my knees, grabbed my cat, and literally lost my shit for a few minutes.

  Do you want more?