This town pulls things in—humans, monsters, power.
And lately, I’m starting to think I’m at the center of it.
No wonder the dumb lump of grey matter between my ears keeps buffering.
I spend the next few days scribbling into a notebook like a woman possessed. No structure, no plan, just questions and anarchy.
The internet was absolutely no help.
Between the endless nymph porn and the preachy angel blogs, I nearly yeet my phone into the sun.
Then I remember Ezra’s hidden library. There have to be books in there that can help.
When I pull aside the clothes that reveal the secret door in his closet, my shoulders slump with relief. Ezra left me the code to get in and a note in elegant handwriting that says:
Little lupine, if you wish to continue your research, here’s the code. All I ask is that nothing leaves the library. And do try not to get too distracted remembering how you fucked yourself on my fingers and begged me so sweetly to let you come.
Behave,
—E
Damn it, Ezra.
How can a single arrogant note turn me into such a thirsty mess? Eventually, I drag myself out of those filthy thoughts and punch in the code harder than I need to. I fold the slip of paper and place it in the back pocket of my jeans.
Am I going to read this note a hundred times while repeatedly getting myself off later?
Abso-fucking-lutely I am.
The minute I step through the secret entrance, I’m overwhelmed.
Was it this big the last time I was here?
There are so many books, I don’t know where to start. Thankfully, Ezra devised a simple system of cataloguing hislibrary, which makes finding books on angels and verdalora surprisingly easy.
I spend hours going over books that look promising and make notes when I find something interesting or new.
I can’t arm myself with magic or weapons yet, but knowledge? That I can manage.
My notes are jagged scribbles, but writing them out gives me a fragile sense of control.
On Sunday evening, I pull myself out of the library, engage the lock, and then trudge downstairs to get something to eat.
While I pick at my wilted salad, Louie comes bounding into the kitchen, full of the energy I wish I had.
“You need to get your head out of them books and do something fun. You’re not doing anyone any good pushing yourself like this. Oh! Let’s watch a movie! I love movies. Well, most of them. The sad ones are shit.
“I get that art reflects human suffering, blah blah blah. That’s what documentaries are for. Or books. Or tragic indie albums. Movies should come with fight scenes and at least one hot person doing something deeply stupid with conviction. Can we watch one tonight? Maybe the one with Racacouille and the butt-plug fight and that daughter I want to fight and marry.”
When I finally look up at the hound, the skin beneath my eyes pulls tight, feeling raw and sore from too much reading and not enough sleep.
And yeah, okay, maybe a little crying.
“You’re right. I need a break. I’m just … tired of feeling scared and powerless, I guess.”
“You won’t feel that way for much longer, Aurora.” Louie flops dramatically onto a kitchen chair. “So … hot dog fingers or what?”
Of course, Ezra doesn’t have a TV. So, thirty minutes later, I have my laptop sitting on the coffee table in the living roomplayingEverything Everywhere All at Once, one of my favorite movies. Louie picked it for the kung fu with dildos. I’m watching it for the bagel and the multiversal mom closure. Plus, ya know, googly eyes.
