It’s been far too long since I’ve truly communed with my book and it calls to me now, my center aching in a sharp sting.
Maybe… a small communion. Something Lucas won’t notice.
My fingers ripple in a curl, and a draft picks up. The air hits my face and I take greedy gulps of breath. Magic washes over my mouth, saliva filling it. My nose buzzes and my lungs rapidly expand. My eyes flutter and I sway with the heady power of the book. My power. My own Dual Threads that I nearly broke to painstakingly knot together on a bookbinding needle. The reconnection of the other ends of my Threads takes the edge off the sting within my chest. It’s maddening, this small taste when my book needs so much more. Maybe… maybe if I touch it… I take one, clicking step forward.
Lucas spikesThe Arachnomiconthrough the door like he’s back in the south, playing that damn ball game he loves so much. I gasp, chest pumping. The orb bounces manically all around, waking up a few of the slumbering books. Some hiss while others vibrate when they see Lucas. All still when they sense me.
My fists curl, my heart thudding painfully against my ribs. It’s not enough. My book needs more.
“Lucas, can you run upstairs and bring down the ledgers on my desk? I’ve been meaning to put them away.”
Faintly, he agrees. All I can perceive are his retreating steps until they go up and up. Finally, silence rings.
I bolt across my vault, my feet tripping over themselves, and I nearly crash into the shelves. My fingers tremble as I hook and pull the smooth, black leather from the other grimoires. I groan as I run my hands over my beautiful book. Steadiness returns to me. The familiarity of my own soul welcomes my return.
I press the book between my palms and breathe in its intoxicating scent, my eyes rolling and fluttering. I’ve been messing with the rune work along the endpapers to allow it to absorb the power radiating off the deadly grimoires surrounding it. Then it could assist me with keeping these grimoires so depleted that their risk is neutralized. Perhaps it could even feed my curse for me.
I should stop now before Lucas comes back. With a heavy sigh and a silent promise to return later, this time with Jinx to strengthen the communion and protect my soul from the curse’s corruption, I lower the book from my face and shift my hold to place it back on the shelf. The bindings fall open, limp in my parting hands like willing thighs, the pages revealing the curse I cast seven years ago. My smile widens. Blood stains the pages from when I carved the runes onto Alasdair’s unconscious body.
“Oh, you tricksy little minx.” I bite my lip and tilt my head to avoid the lazily floating orb holdingThe Arachnomiconbumping into me as it bounces off the shelf. “I shouldn’t. He’ll be back soon.”
The magic tingles my fingers and my soul vibrates with its frequency. My head tilts, my vision tunneling. Whispers fill my ears, shivering across my skin, until I forget everything but the dark red ink on the crisp, white pages.
The illustration of my brother with the map of the runes gazes back at me. The Archweaver’s eyes are the only similarity between us. Neither of us inherited our father’s dark hair and the golden locks from his mother always shone in the light, even if it was nothing more than the glittering stars above. Wewere paired together for dueling practice often since we were of similar height and I managed to break his perfect nose twice, but it always reset straight. He never let me break it a third time. His mother’s Transformation line assisted him in being incredibly strong with his broad chest and wide shoulders. I wasn’t able to break through his defenses for another physical attack, so I’d win by outpacing or trapping him. It wasn’t hard since he was too busy having fun to improve his stamina.
He was lazy. Lazy with his magic, lazy with his intentions. So sure of his future, he never desired to be more. Spoiled. Wretched. Unworthy. A fucking useless pawn.
My teeth click, my memories sucking me back through time like a whirlpool.
The entire Astrum Order surrounds Alasdair and I within the great hall of the Archweaver Estate. We stand side by side before our father and wait for him to name his Heir. The tall, arching dome worsens the creeping sense of unease that crawls up my insides. I glance at Valen’s father, but Vincentius will not meet my gaze. No one will. My palms sweat and I train my gaze upon my father. He lounges on that gaudy throne of his upon the dais, watching us like we’re no more than dogs at his feet.
He stands and silence falls. Not a soul breathes as we await his declaration.
His voice, strong and sure, echoes in the high ceiling, “Alasdair Atticus Androclaria, Heir to the Archweaver.”
The roar from the applauding crowd is nothing compared to the ringing in my ears. It was supposed to be me. Vincentius promised me it would be me; he said he would convince the rest of the Council to ensure it. I needed it to be me… and they all abandoned me to burn.
Oh fuck, I can’t breathe. This corset is too tight. My empty stomach clenches, and I swallow rhythmically to keep from hurling all over my dress.
Alasdair turns to me, his green eyes wide and glistening. The acid presses against the back of my throat and I hold my breath to keep it from escaping. His jaw clenches, and my heart aches painfully as an understanding seems to pass between us. Was I wrong about him all this time? In my darkest moment, is it my brother who will stand with me?
He pulls me into the gentlest hug he’s ever given me. I pant, the boning of the corset cutting into my ribs, my body trembling. My eyes close and I sway, the temptation to give into the warm comfort surging.
He whispers softly into my ear, “Don’t come back, Astoria Bauer.”
My eyes snap open and my body locks into place as if his cruel words have turned me to stone. The engagement ring that Valen gifted me this morning weighs heavily on my hand. This is why Vincentius would not meet my gaze and why my father was so relaxed. They knew. They all knew and said nothing.
I was sold to be a wife and out of my father’s hands forever. My fate was so carelessly tossed aside despite my life’s training to become the Heir.
That scum of a would-be-brother leans back and fucking smiles, the room exploding in celebration. The Order rushes forward to congratulate him and I am shoved to the side in the resulting chaos. I stumble, my eyes locking with Alasdair’s filthy mother. The bitch smiles, slow and cruel, the only thing she ever needed to do to remind me that I am the Archweaver’s bastard daughter. Unworthy, no matter how hard I try, no matter how much I succeed, no matter how much I need it, it never matters.
Aunt Vi was wrong. I am not to herald in a new era of magic. I am an abomination that survived childhood, only to be hidden away and forgotten about until death claims me. My eyes opened fully to the reality that I’ve suspected all my life.The Order would never accept me. They would rather embrace mediocrity than me.
They will suffer for their choice. I swear to the Weave itself, the Order will fall.
I’m shaking, but my grimoire is stable in my hands. I can taste it, the magic threads within. My mouth waters and the power tingles beneath my skin. The burning within my heart stings in a sharp, yet oddly delightful way. My Entropy Thread dances along the spine of my dear book, its darkness glinting like the sheen of oil.
A cruel smile stretches my mouth and I bring the book to my lips, my eyes never leaving the illustration of Alasdair. My voice tingles with magic.
