Their relationship is the whole reason why I’ve rejected marriage. Because of Charlie.
I refuse to wind up tied to my own version of him.
“Claire, Phillip, y’all need to get down to the bookstore. Stat,” Ovie says, eyes wide.
Mama stands. “Why? What’s going on?”
“The whole place is…well, it’s having the biggest conniption fit I’ve ever seen.”
“We’ll be right there.”
Ovie’s face blips out. Mama rises. “We’ll talk about the nightmare situation later?—”
“Yeah, we will,” I mutter.
She shoots me a dark look. “Right now let’s get down to the bookstore. I can only hope our magic isn’t so broken we can’t fix whatever’s happening.”
My chest quivers when we arrive. The store, fondly referred to as the Bookshop of Magic, appears to be vomiting books.
The shop runs on our family's power. When it weakens, the store destabilizes. But I've never seen it this bad. It feels sudden. Wrong.
It’s just coincidence, Chelsea. The magic was dying anyway. This has nothing to do withhim.
All the books, all at once, from every window and door, shoot toward us.
“All hands on deck,” Dad calls.
“There’s no way our magic can fix this,” I whisper.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Dallas quips beside me.
A knot the size of a baseball clogs my throat. I swallow it down and throw out my arms, willing the books to go back inside.
But the surge of power I experienced last night is gone, and in its place is a puttering engine, coughing and choking.
Books pour from the door out onto the street. The same goes for the windows. It looks like someone is shooting them from a canon.
Even the guard books—books that snap and bite—are outside, desperately trying to get back in.
We’re standing in a line, throwing magic at the store, with nothing happening in return, and as if to mock us, the store’s magic that holds it together, seems to break even more. A huge crash comes from the belly of the shop, and next thing I know?—
A mountain of books gushes out into the street, sweeping us up with it and throwing us to the other side of the road.
There’s nothing quite like being caught up in a tidal wave of pointy-edged books.
“Ow.” I stumble to my feet and rub my side. “That hurt.”
Emory rubs the back of her neck. “You could say that again.”
Dallas’s eyes become big as plates. “Don’t look now, but it’s not over.”
Another wave of books surges from the mouth of the store. This one shoots up into the sky like a dozen arrows, and when they begin to fall, they’re aimed straight at us.
We’ll be pounded by books—heavy, lethal books.
With my magic gone—correction, withallour magic gone—I raise my hands to block the onslaught, silently praying I don’t wind up with head trauma.
But the impact never comes.
