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Lucan sorted stacks of grimoires as he sat on the cold factory floor.
He’d stayed the night here and slept on the floor. His shoulder was killing him. Already he’d popped two painkillers and an antibiotic—the latter was a bitter, horse of a pill—and his arm throbbed.
He had to understand his grimoires. Old Dark had.
Damn!
The grimoires were supposed to be far enough so the dragon couldn’t have reached them.
Old Dark shouldn’t have been able to cast. Lucan had counted on that. When they first met in the tomb, Dark had tried to cast a spell but it backfired on him, exploding in his face. That had only been a few days ago. The dragon’s recovery shouldn’t have been so fast.
Lucan held up one of his grimoires; the card stock glowed as a pentagram emanated from it, flashing into a glo
