Cassie stared at it. It stared back, if books could stare, which they couldn't, except this one definitely was.
"Nope." She walked past it to get paper towels. "Not today, Satan."
The pages fluttered insistently.
"I said no. I'm not reading you. I'm fixing my sink like a normal person who definitely doesn't have a magic book that moves by itself."
Flutterflutter.
She grabbed her wine glass from last night (still half full, praise be) and took a defensive sip. The book's pages turned to catch the light, making the words shimmer.
"Fine. FINE. But if this summons a demon, I'm using you for kindling."
She read the spell:
For all that breaks and falls apart,
Mend the pieces, heal the heart.
Bring forth one who holds the skill,
To fix what's broken, cure what's ill.
She snorted. "Right. Because rhyming poetry is going to fix my garbage disposal. What's next, a haiku for the roof?"
But the words felt... warm? They hummed in her throat like she'd swallowed sunshine. Or maybe that was the wine. Hard to tell before noon.
Under the pretty script was something that looked like pronunciation guides written by someone having a stroke in ancient Greek.
She read aloud, because talking to books was apparently her life now. "Fick-saa bro-hen?"
No, that wasn't right.
"Fix-ah bro-keen? Fiss-ka... oh, fuck it. FIX WHAT'S BROKEN. There. Happy?"
She glared at the sink, still dripping its accusatory rhythm.
"Come on, universe. You owe me this one. Fix. What's. Broken."
The words tasted different this time. Sparklier. Like Pop Rocks made of starlight and bad decisions.
She laughed—the kind of laugh that meant she was either drunk at 11 a.m. or having a breakdown. "Sure. Send me a magical plumber. Hell, make him shirtless while you're at it. I could use the eye candy before my inevitable descent into cat lady madness."
The spellbook's pages fluttered.
Almost like it was laughing too.
The kitchen started vibrating.
Not earthquakey vibrating—more like her house was one of those crappy car seat massagers. The dishes rattled in the cabinets, singing a little ceramic song of chaos. Her coffee mugs clinked together like they were toasting something ominous.
"Oh shit. Oh shit, oh shit, oh?—"
The junk drawer shot open, spilling batteries, twist ties, and five years of takeout menus across the floor. The mysterious keys that unlocked nothing danced across the linoleum like metallic spiders.
Tools burst through the garage door like they'd been shot from a cannon. A hammer that definitely wasn't hers. Three screwdrivers in varying states of rust. A level that she didn't even know she owned.That thing that might be for tiles or might be for ritual sacrifice—Derek had never explained it.
They hovered in the air, spinning lazily, like a Home Depot mobile from hell.
