I shift the book to get a better hold on it and the abrasive hairs scrape my skin. I’ve never been so disgusted by a grimoire in all my years of handling them. I need it farther from my chest, but it’s too damn heavy.
“You sure? I’d rather not have my flesh melted off and soul devoured.”
“Such little faith. Look.” Lucas flares his fingers on either side of the grimoire. Gold threads blaze to life, weaving and connecting to each of his rings. No longer matte black, his rings glow like ten small suns.
Where I can see the stolen Soul Thread within most magician tokens easily, Lucas’ rings are something entirely different. Despite their incredible power, there is no lore about them at all. Not even the history books about the Revolution note anything similar being forged by Leon Obdurate, who was the first magician and only token creator. I’ve spent way too many hours studying Lucas’ fingers to no avail. He’d have to remove them for my full appraisal, but they’re welded to his flesh.
Whatever their source, they make Lucas a powerful curse-breaker. It’s why we’re business partners. I negotiate buyers, the two of us find the book or occasional magical item, and Lucas pilfers it. For the last four years, business has been good and definitely not legal.
The slumbering spider book doesn’t twitch when Lucas’ threads penetrate it. “See?” All the gold threads twinkle merrily.“Flesh-melting curse gone. Put up quite a fight, too. I don’t think it’ll wake up for at least a week.”
Mindful of the eyes, I turn the book to inspect the back. Eight spindly legs are seamlessly folded against each other. It’s by far the most monstrous grimoire I’ve ever acquired and that bar is set high.
My daytime inventory holds plenty of weavers’ diaries and compendiums of potion recipes, incantation lyrics, or sigil art, and those legal-to-sell books range from the ordinary to glittering with traces of imprinted magic. But what elevates a book’s status to that of a grimoire, and makes it illegal to trade outside the Astrum Forest, is the weaver’s Soul Thread woven into the book’s bindings.
The Arachnomiconwould’ve been woven by the priesthood’s ceremonial needles, but an ordinary bookbinding needle with the right runes delicately etched into it also does the trick. The latter is how I made my grimoire. Few would dare attempt such a thing at the young age of eighteen. Only the Elite with absolute control of their magic risk crafting a grimoire. Even then, most decide against it. It is a deceptively easy craft, but carries the horrific risk of the Soul Thread becoming damaged and the weaver doomed to an eternity of being lost in the afterlife, unable to return to the Tapestry. The Soul Thread could snap during the needle threading, when the point of the needle pierces the thread in the exact right spot for proper knotting. An improper knot will drag through the holes in the signatures, inflicting unbearable agony and weakening the thread. Once the binding begins, it must be completed, or else the weaver is trapped in a suspended torture until their heart bursts from the strain.
My teeth sink into my lower lip. Communing with something as old asThe Arachnomicon—where I wrap my Soul Threads with the one inside—could gift me so much lost knowledge.Magic I’ve never dreamed of. After all, I did the same in my youth with my great-grandmother’s grimoire, and the secrets I learned served me well in my revenge.
Curiosity gets the better of me and I gaze deep intoThe Arachnomicon’s spine to discern the Soul Thread. My eyes narrow, aching with strain as I fight through the dormant magic. I’ve hardly had to work so hard before. A headache threatens until, finally, I catch the flicker of a powerful Entropy Thread winding through its bindings. Curse protection or not, this one is a soul devourer for sure. It is the nature of Entropy; always insatiable for more, and a soul is the perfect food for it.
I should resist. The risk of it devouring my soul while communing is too high. This monstrous thing is here for one reason only: to make me a disgusting amount of money. The moment Mr. Solomon Nightingale picks up his book, the Amur’s tithe will be paid and I won’t have to deal with the Guild again for another year.
Besides, I don’t wish to risk waking the damn thing. My lip curls, imagining the spindly legs unfurling and the book scuttling away to hide in dark corners, its numerous eyes peering out at me, and hissing. My throat tightens with nausea.
“Gross.”
Lucas arches a brow at me. “You mean impressive? I came back early and everything.”
I give an apathetic hum and Lucas’ face tightens in annoyance. I hold the book out to him with trembling arms. “Here. Take it. Let’s put it in the vault and contact the buyer.”
Lucas doesn’t move, arms folding across his broad chest. “And you want me to…”
I scoff. “Carry it! It’s fucking heavy and I’m pretty sure the hairs are breaking skin.”
“Such a baby.” He snatches his cap off my head, fingers combing his hair back before sliding it on. “And a hat stealer.”
I snort. “You gave it to me.”
“Yeah, yeah.” His rings glow again, and threads weave around the grimoire until they form an orb. Hovering midair, it sparkles merrily and bounces around like it’s not enclosing a creepy, dark, magic spider book.
I step around him to approach an empty stretch of wall. The air ripples and the magic inspects me like a dog sniffing at a stranger’s shoes. Recognition hums and the illusion disperses to reveal a very large and bloody iron door.
The door to the basement.
I slide my fingers along the seal, my magic crackling along the iron, careful to dispel the protection. With a sizzle, the seal releases, and the lockthunksopen. I grab the handle and wrench the heavy iron open with a screeching bang. I meant to oil the thing yesterday. Maybe I can convince Lucas to do it for me now that he’s back.
I descend the uneven stone stairs that would send an intruder tumbling down. Today, each step is laborious, my body heavier than usual. The combination of handling the shop solo and Valen’s visit weighs me down.
Lucas isn’t helping. He follows closely behind and bounces the orb like a toy. He speaks jovially, the oddly tall but narrow carved stone stairs creating an echo. “Why couldn’t you do this? It’s not like you don’t have the power for it.”
He bats the orb at me and I duck, almost breaking an ankle on a deeper step. I toss a vicious glare over my shoulder, and he grins wickedly in return.
“And risk my weaver magic waking that thing up? No, thanks.”
He shrugs. “Eh. It’s asleep. Trust me. I wore it the fuck out.”
“And yet, ‘wore it out’ and ‘magically put to slumber’ are two very different things.”
