Touch me and burn

Chapter Three: Echoes in the Archives

‐Amara POV

I realized I was driving in circles before I even noticed. London’s grid of streets blurred past my car window—brick façades, flickering street lamps, the distant rumble of the Underground below. Normally I’d never come to Brixton this late, but when Dean, one of Ciaran Vale’s lieutenants, left a message on my secure line, I knew better than to ignore it.

He said he had answers.

I parked illegally outside the Southwark Archives, wincing as the engine ticked. The building loomed dark and silent, save for the lone security guard by the door. The archive was supposed to be closed until morning, but Dean had a key. I stepped out into the chill, wrapping my coat tighter around me.

Inside, the air was cool and dusty. Rows of glass cases held parchment scrolls and leather-bound tomes—centuries of London’s hidden history pressed into fragile pages. I’d spent hours here over the years, piecing together Celtic rituals and burial rites. Tonight felt different, as though the books themselves were watching me.

I found Dean in the back room, leaning against a heavy wooden desk strewn with maps and manuscripts. He looked up when I entered, eyes tired and wary.

“Amara,” he said, voice low. “Thanks for coming.”

I crossed my arms. “You sounded urgent.”

He swallowed. “I have something you need to see.” He pointed to a pile of vellum sheets. I approached, heart hammering.

“Where did you get these?” I murmured.

“Not from our usual channels.” He glanced over his shoulder. “They came anonymously—through a drop behind the Tate.”

My pulse quickened as I picked up the top sheet. It was a hand-drawn map of London, circa 1792, with a red circle around a small isle in the Thames—Isle of Dogs. Beneath it, written in neat script: “Where fire claims the blood-bound.”

I frowned. “That’s miles from Brixton.”

Dean nodded. “Follow the map. There’s a record in the old Borough registry—only accessible here. The name there… you might want to sit down.”

My palms went slick. “Tell me.”

He let me read for myself. The entry was dated March 30, 1792. Name: Aine Fiachra. Cause of death: burned at the stake, accused of witchcraft and murder. Last words: “Touch me, and burn.”

Aine... the words echoed in my mind, and my breath caught. The phrase was the same as in my dream.

A low laugh escaped Dean. “Thought you’d like that.”

I stared at the name. Aine Fiachra—my past life, no doubt. I closed my eyes, tasting the memory: wide flames licking her flesh, the acrid stench of smoke, betrayal by someone she loved.

I blinked, forcing myself back to the present. “This is why it keeps happening,” I whispered. “The curse. It started with her death.”

Dean shifted, uneasy. “So why now? Why Ciaran’s murders?”

I ran a hand through my hair. “Because the pact was never broken.” I looked up, eyes fierce. “He’s killing women tied to her lineage, isn’t he? Repeating history.”

Dean chewed his lip. “I’ve known Ciaran for years. He never struck me as a ritualist.”

I stood. “He doesn’t know. That map… someone’s orchestrating this.”

Dean studied me, then shrugged. “It wasn’t me.” He straightened. “Be careful, Amara. Whoever’s behind this knows you’re onto them.”

I tucked the vellum into my bag and met his gaze. “Thank you.”

I didn’t sleep that night. Instead, I returned to my flat and stretched the map across my coffee table. By morning light, the Thames wound silver through the paper, the Isle of Dogs marked like a scar. The map’s edges curled, brittle with age, but the ink was fresh—almost too perfect.

I replayed Dean’s warning: someone knew I was onto them. But who would go to such lengths? A rival occultist? One of Ciaran’s enemies? Or… him?

He haunted my dreams and my days. Ciaran Vale—the name tasted bitter on my tongue. I’d glimpsed his face in the archives’ surveillance footage once, blurred by rain. I’d tracked him to an abandoned warehouse near Shoreditch. I’d seen him move bodies in and out, control the underworld with a whispered command. And yet, he’d never believed in fate. I wasn’t sure he believed in curses either.

I poured over the manuscripts I’d borrowed. Aine Fiachra had been a healer turned priestess, rumored to consort with dark gods. The villagers hunted her for strange dreams and stolen children. My hands trembled as I read her final testimony: “If I cannot live, neither shall my betrayer. My blood will burn through his flesh until he remembers me.”

My heart thundered. That line—every word—was a promise. Am I the betrayer? No. But someone in this world had broken that vow. And every death was Niall’s way of repaying the debt.

I slammed the book shut. Enough. I needed to see Ciaran.

By midday I was at Lilith’s—his flat above the faded neon sign—wearing leather boots and a dark jacket. The concierge buzzed me in without question; Dean had given him instructions. The elevator stank of damp metal and old cigarettes. On the fourth floor, I stepped out into the corridor and knocked on the black door.

No answer. I knocked again, softer this time. Should I leave the map? No—too risky. My pulse drummed in my ears.

Finally, the door swung open. Ciaran stood framed in the doorway, his shirt half-buttoned, hair ruffled as if he’d just woken. Grey eyes narrowed. For a moment, I saw something behind his gaze—surprise, perhaps. Or recognition.

“Fae,” he said, using the nickname I’d never given him. My insides twisted.

“Answer your phone,” I snapped, stepping inside. “We need to talk.”

He let me in, closing the door. The room was cluttered with crates of weapons and ledgers. The air was stale, but he smelled of fresh rain and leather. He studied me, eyebrows arched, lips curving into a sardonic smile.

“This must be important,” he said, voice low.

I pulled the map from my bag and slapped it onto the desk. “Who drew this? And why did it end up in Dean’s hands?”

He glanced at the map, brow furrowing. “I have no idea.” He looked up, eyes sharp. “But I’ve never cared for curses or past lives. If someone’s playing games, they’re about to get burned.”

I swallowed, watching his jaw tighten. “That’s why I need your help.”

He closed the distance between us in two strides. I felt the shift in the room—power, threat, something dangerous. He leaned over the map, fingers tracing the Isle of Dogs.

“Blood-bound,” he muttered. “That’s new.” His gaze snapped to mine. “I know you think I’m behind this. But I swear… not this time.”

His voice was earnest in a way that made me hesitate. My instincts screamed to push him away; my curiosity begged to trust him.

I stared into his storm-grey eyes, searching for the devil I expected. Instead, I found something else—haunted, raw, vulnerable.

“Then prove it,” I said, voice barely above a whisper. “Help me stop whoever is.”

He nodded once. “Consider it done.”

As he turned to grab his coat, I saw a flash of metal in his jacket pocket—a knife, its handle wrapped in red leather. I swallowed. This was only the beginning.

And with his promise ringing in my ears, I knew I was in far deeper than I ever intended.