Page 28 of Florescentia

“Absinthe,” I called to one, “Tonic,” the other. I pointed to the floor before me and took a few paces backward. With preacher’s hands, I opened the book flat in my palms, letting the pages languidly flop open.

“What am I doing wrong?” I mumbled to it. “What is stopping me?”

At the bottom of a page, two black dots bled through . . .

One full of static, one smooth.

My eyes tracked over the edge of the book and to my Peculiars, both pacing around the ominous word in the floor.

Suddenly, it became clear who—or rather, what—had interrupted my last ritual.

“You!” I seethed.

Absinthe rowed back and forth, tracing over the O permanently etched in the wood.

My own companions.

“How dare you!” I raised my voice, Tonic fleeing in my wake. “Do you know what you both have done? The damage you’ve caused?” My breath caught, the anger making my limbs cold, my voice shake.

I could feel it building within me, the tension. The wild power of my emotions. At this point, they couldn’t refuse. The grimoire in my hand was growing as hot as my temper. The air filled my lungs fully, and I held it steadily before releasing. Clear your mind, I repeated in my head. Clear it now.

“Florescentia.” I said the word with not only my lips, but with my heart, forcing my tongue to be direct, stern.

My companion shadows reluctantly came back, hesitating around the mark of their disobedience. Dogs with tails tucked.

Never had they refused me like that, never mind closed an entire ritual themselves. Their sentience possibly ran deeper than I knew or they’d let on. It was something to deal with later, but right now I was called to this moment, to the power pulling at me from within.

My Peculiars circled, forming their door to the Otherside just like we’d done many times before. I didn’t know if their hesitance gave me pause because of the difference in attitude or the fact it might mean they were capable of being scared. What could untouchable shadows possibly fear?

They flattened, the black edge of the viscous substance creeping across the floor, stopping at my feet. As it neared, the white spots between my toes and up my shin were alight. The book in my palms became warm, pulsing.

It’s working, something is working.

A hiss was building in the perimeter. At first I thought it might be the water lamps, but they didn’t look like they’d moved much. Then I thought the pipes, but it was stranger than that.

Finally, I realized, it was the Peculiars. Their normally mirror-still surface was simmering, bubbling.

The cosmic demand was so pure, so potent, that it was a struggle fighting the lightheadedness. I choked on my intentions, screwing my eyes shut as I clutched the book.

Please, anything, come.

I peeked from one eye, then the other. The black surface was still again. No combustion, no dramatics, just nothing.

A screech tore from my throat, and I slapped the book shut.

“Useless! Useless again—” I threw the book at the floor.

A loud, boisterous bang and a sudden jolt, like the entire house had lifted and settled back onto its foundation. Astraea wasn’t known for earthquakes. The sound was so loud it rang in my ears, dull like a stick of dynamite.

It threw me, and I hit the back of my head against the wall paneling. One water lamp crashed beside me, though I barely heard anything but a dull, distant pop.

One gasp, then two, only able to exhale. My lungs knocked together, and I couldn’t breathe in. My vision was bleary for minutes. I could only see stars with the heaviness of my skull, throbbing from one too many blows this week. The entire back side of my body burned from hitting the wall.

It was not my imagination. I wouldn’t do myself the disservice of telling a lie. The shelves were completely empty, all the books now piled in a mountainous lump on the floor. The workbench had been tossed, as had the chair. Another biolamp or two had fallen from their wall holders, the floor glittering with glass dust.

I wished so dearly that the shock of the noise was the worst part of my evening . . . then something moved.

In the back, a shriek ringing in my traumatized eardrums. It wasn’t like anything I had ever heard. It wasn’t screaming, not a yelp or a wail, but something that pierced the bones. The type of sound that rang in your ears, the feeling of an acute and pointed headache.