I frowned. She died when I was twelve. I couldn't possibly be hearing her voice.
Before I could process what was happening, weight materialized across my lap. Not gradually, but all at once. One moment there was nothing, the next there was something heavy and solid pressing into my thighs through the blanket.
I looked down and my breath caught.
It was a book with ancient leather binding, worn smooth in places from countless hands. The cover bore a symbol that seemed to move when I wasn't looking directly at it, three points and a swirl in the middle, shifting and reforming in my peripheral vision. The leather was nearly black, with lines of gold running through it like veins.
My hands shook as I reached for it, and the moment my fingers touched the binding, electricity shot up my arm. Not painful, but overwhelming all the same. The djinn power inside me surged to meet it, recognizing something kindred.
No.
I jerked my hands back, the book sliding sideways on my lap as it suddenly occurred to me...
But no. It couldn't be. This couldn't be the book Marcus had been searching for. The book he'd murdered Esme's family for trying to find. The book that supposedly contained the spells to bind him, control him, send him back to whatever hell dimension he'd crawled out of.
But I knew it was. Every cell in my body knew it.
My grandmother's voice echoed again from somewhere deep in my childhood memories:
Our family has been its guardian for generations, Alice. Hidden from those who would abuse its power. But it will only reveal itself to the one who truly needs it.
I picked up the book with trembling hands, feeling its weight. It was heavier than it should have been for its size, and the cover was warm, almost alive. When I opened it, the pages were filled with text that made my eyes water. The words shifting between languages I recognized and symbols that existed in no human alphabet.
Most of it was incomprehensible, swimming before my eyes like living things refusing to be pinned down. But here and there, a word crystallized. A phrase became clear before dissolving again.
Binding.
Between worlds.
The price of passage.
I slammed the book shut, my heart racing. This was what Marcus wanted. What he'd been killing for. What he'd tortured Esme's family to find.
And it—quite literally—just fell into my lap.
I should have told Aunt Judy immediately. Marched to her house right then, placed it in her hands, and let the coven decide what to do with it.
But I didn't move.
The book pulsed warm against my palms, and I swore I felt it approving of my defiance.
If I gave this to the coven, they'd lock it away. They'd say it was too dangerous, that the djinn magic in it could corrupt our magic. They'd let Alex rot in that prison rather than risk using the very power that could save him.
But I wasn't pure witch. Neither was Alex. We were something else, something in between. And maybe that was exactly what we needed to be.
I slid out of bed, moving on silent feet to my closet. In the back, behind winter coats I rarely needed in New Orleans, there was a loose floorboard I'd discovered years ago. I pried it up and created a space beneath, wrapping the book carefully in an old silk scarf that had belonged to my mother.
"I'm sorry, Aunt Judy," I whispered to the darkness as I replaced the board. "But I won't let Alex die for your principles."
The book's presence thrummed through the wood, through the floor, through my bones. A secret. A weapon. A possibility.
I crawled back into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin, and stared at the ceiling. Everything had changed. I had what Marcus wanted most in the world. I had the power to save my brother, if I could figure out how to read it. If I was brave enough to use it.
If I could keep it hidden long enough.
I avoided the coven for three days.
Not out of spite or fear of them. They were my family, had been since I was old enough to understand what it meant to be a witch. But I couldn't face their questions when I didn't have answers for myself.
