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I flung chalk dust over my shoulder in a containment rune, and didn’t have to turn to see the dark force that was about to bite off my head, not when it roared its rage at being contained. “It’s fine,” I said cheerfully. Honestly, it was kind of nice to face such a normal problem as a demonic book. There were no feelings to get in the way, no questions about oranges or possession, other than that the book would love to possess me, but I didn’t have feelings for it, so it wouldn’t happen. “Seriously though, Pepshaw, if you could run and get some lamb’s blood from Felix, he keeps it refrigerated in case of emergencies, that would be incredibly useful. It will take time to help it work through its dark energies, but when it’s ready, there’s nothing like lamb’s blood to help a book settle down.”
“You want me to leave you here?” he whispered, still the picture of goblin terror.
“Is it against policy? I promise I’m not going anywhere until you get back. Anyway, your choice, but I’m going to have to concentrate for a little while, so if you wouldn’t mind being quiet, I’d appreciate it.”
I turned back in time to catch the jaws of the monster as it devoured me. It stung slightly, but no more than too much orange oil in the tub. I still had oranges floating in my bathtub. I hadn’t eaten any, because that would be admitting that I liked oranges and him. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, searching the dark agony for the heart of the book’s discontent. It wasn’t hard to find, because whoever had created the book had an unhappy childhood involving sorcerers locking them up and feeding them beating hearts, that kind of thing. It wasn’t only the original maker’s darkness that needed therapy, it was a long series of people sacrificed on the book, until it swam in their anger, not to mention blood. You had to be careful with blood and books, because books remembered stains for a very long time. I worked through one story at a time, one stain on the book’s pages until I got to the heart, the center of the book.
As I took it in my hands, it burst open and let out all its pent up frustration. Books were meant to hold knowledge, not blood and sacrifice and misery. Poor thing. I sang to it all the soothing songs I remembered from my childhood, before my father was slaughtered. Some of them must have been from my mother, and not all the lyrics were what you’d consider peaceful, about rivers of blood washing away all your worries, but what was more peaceful than a battlefield after the war had ended? Sad, sure, but definitely peaceful.
Pepshaw came in when I was like that, hovering six feet from the ground with the book in my hands. He stopped abruptly and almost dropped the lamb’s blood. I kept singing, weaving the rivers of purple glowing smoke into a much prettier story, giving suffering purpose and replacing agony with peace. I’d only been grasped by a book in the air a few times, but it was still weird. Not enough for the goblin to still be staring at me like… Not really sure what that expression was, not being familiar with goblins.
I ignored Pepshaw, hoping that he’d stay quiet. I shouldn’t have worried, because he didn’t move from that spot near the door while he watched with that weird expression. Finally, the book’s angst had faded to a sigh, and with a rush, the smoke gathered around me until the book had inhaled every last bit of it, looking thinner, really only a few pages considering how much blood and pain was in it. Poor thing.
I stroked its surface as I hit the ground, barely keeping my balance. “Bring me the blood, goblin. Stay out of the circle of salt.”
He obeyed immediately, bowing as he backed away once I had the vial of blood. I sprinkled it on the book and it sizzled at the contact. Turning the book over, I applied the blood to the other side. It sizzled and hissed, steam rising in a thick vapor that smelled like oranges. That was strange.
“Pepshaw, I apologize for the delay. Sultry told me that it had been long enough for me to…”
I whirled around as the Scholar’s words trailed off. He was staring at me blankly. For a dangerous moment, I almost dropped the book and threw myself into his arms dramatically, but that wasn’t me but the over-emotional book I was still dealing with. I refocused on the book, sprinkling the blood generously and blaming my trembling hands on everything but my scholar.
I hummed and tried to look professional while I finished up, wrapping the book in gold chains once it had drank in its fill of sweet, unblemished blood.
“I know it stings,” I murmured, smoothing my hand soothingly over the cover, “but it will hold you securely. It’s all right.” I finished wrapping it in gold and then tried to reach up to hang it on the hook, but it was too high for me.
Strong hands came around my waist, and the next moment, I was in easy reach of the hook. I carefully put the book away, trying desperately to ignore the Scholar, the feel of his warm hands, strong, careful, incredibly controlled. The dragon was keeping his claws sheathed today.
I swallowed at the memory of his claws and my heart pounded faster and faster, but I wasn’t sure if the claws were as terrifying as my own feelings that welled up like a drama queen demonic book, demanding to be felt and acknowledged.
He lowered me before I could sort out anything. I turned to face him, carefully, slowly, like he’d bite off my head if I moved too quickly.
“Miss Morell. What brings you to the vault this afternoon?”
“Afternoon? Oh, I must have taken more time than I realized dealing with the book. Some books are so emotional. I was just going to check on my book and see how it was…” My words died when I turned to point at my book and saw the disaster.
Last time it had leaked white marble striated with gold. This time it was dripping red magma and had turned the gold chains to demon metal that bubbled up with cute, tiny volcanoes that splashed molten lava out of them. The burbling demon metal had spread to the hook, the solid chain, the ceiling, and to several surrounding hooks and chains. One chain was dripping magma down towards a cute little book that would probably ignite and be damaged, if not completely destroyed.
“Doing,” I finished lamely, shooting a harried smile at Michael.
He was staring at me, kind of how Sultry had been staring at me. He didn’t seem to be worried about his vault being turned into the infernal realm.
Wait, what?
I grabbed his arm, digging my nails into his flesh. “Tell me about the Book of Fates. How is it made?”
He covered my hand with his, and I felt the prick of claws, even though they didn’t break my skin. I did not mind the feel of his claws. No, there was something sweet about them, like Anna’s squirrel’s little claws when he clung to your shoulder.
“Your book is a Book of Fates?” His voice was low, soft, but sank into me more rich and sweet than old worn leather or crackling parchment.
“It wasn’t, but these things fluctuate, don’t they?”
He stared into my eyes, his own eyes shifting from red to blue, until there was a very interesting blend that reminded me of the purple smoke. “I’ve never witnessed the creation of a Book of Fates. I assumed there would be blood involved.”
“Should we see? There’s a goblin over there that would love to be a blood sacrifice.”
The Scholar smiled, flashing his fangs at me in a way that made my toes curl. “Is that right, Pepshaw?”
“If the Librarian would prefer my blood over another creature’s, I would be honored.”
