Tossing the text to the side, I reach under my bed for one of the others. I scan the cover, but it’s the astrology book. Flinging it away, I blindly reach under again for my other Moorechester purchase, but my fingers land on something smaller. I pull it out. It’s the little silver book from my bag. I’d tossed it under the bed with the others and forgotten all about it. Full of nothing, yet it feels heavy.
There’s always some kind of mystery shrouding everything I touch these days. Nothing is just given freely. Not even information. The night I found this little sucker in my bag, I tried everything to see if words would appear. I looked at it under the faint glow of moonlight and sang to it. I even tried to negotiate with it.
Silence.
I crack the spine open, even though I know the pages are still blank. I’m careful not to touch any of the rust-colored stains throughout. I’m not sure, but I suspect those stains are dried blood. It’s slightly disturbing that someone just kept handling the book while bleeding on the pages. Luckily, the majority seems to have buried into the spine.
I scoff.
Always something bleeding or demanding blood around here.
Always something bleeding…
My hand freezes over the parchment.
Always something demanding blood.
No fucking way.
I reach up in the drawer of my nightstand and pull out the dagger Ambrose gave me. I quickly make a small cut along my fingertip and flip back to the first page. Blood drips onto the blank sheet.Drip. Drip. Drip.The majority of it runs off into the crevasse, sinking deep into the spine. An audible gasp flies from my lips. A bit absorbs into the page itself, disappearing.
Words faintly appear, curling across the page like a wisp of fog, before becoming darker the longer the blood soaks.
Hello, Liminal.
My mouth falls slightly open, lips parted in shock. I don’t even breathe afraid the words will disappear. The candle on my dresser sputters faintly. The writing vanishes. The silence feels deliberate. I debate squeezing more blood into the book, butquickly think better of it. Instead, I reach out and run my fingers along the edge of the page.
Words start flowing across the page again.
You’re thoughts are loud.
I internally roll my eyes.So I’ve been told.
“Sorry, I haven’t exactly conversed with a book before,” I reply carefully. “I’m not sure of the proper protocol.”
The words disappear again. Another pause.
Knowledge is patient. It does not rush. It waits. Assesses.
I lean forward. “What are you?” I whisper.
The cover vibrates faintly beneath my fingertips.
I am infinite. An abyss. What are you?
“Lost,” I answer honestly.
You seek answers as armor. That is not learning. That is fear masked as interest.
I pull back. The words hit like an arrow. Precise and painful. “What am I supposed to do? I’ve been here for weeks and haven’t manifested. In fact, I’m not even doing great at my academics, either.”
Unlearn what you have been taught. Knowledge is not given freely.
Riddles.
That’s what this book speaks in. Just like everything else. “Where did you come from? How’d you even end up in my bag?”
The spine bends in my palm. The pages delicately turn on their own.
