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She froze, eyes glued to the old, worn, tobacco-colored leather. A large seal embossed into the cover, once golden, was now tarnished to more of a copper color. It was their family symbol—the letter ‘J’ interwoven with an oak tree.
Priest placed it in her hands, and for a moment everything faded to black. There was nothing. No sound. No color. No Priest or Kellen.
There was only the book in her hands. Its weight and texture.
Rowan had no idea how much time passed, but eventually she realized she was curled up in the chair beside her grandmother’s bed—the old, ratty, pink, red, and blue blanket from the bottom of her grandmother’s bed across her lap.
And she was alone.
Outside, the early-morning sun had laid waste to the darkness, and beams of light shone in from the newly installed window. Someone had pinned up a cotton bedsheet to one side of the window—in lieu of the ruined curtains—and her eyes lingered there for a moment. It was a gingham pattern, pink, gray, and white, and looked ridiculous. She decided that at some point over the next few days she’d make an effort to get some suitable window dressings in place.
Her gaze swept the room, this cluttered yet clean and well-worn room. It spoke volumes about her Nana’s character. Her love of the color red and of texture and bold patterns. The bookshelves were full of the classics, many of them well used, with a couple of first editions in the bunch.
There was the Elvis head made of concrete that stared up at her from the corner near the fireplace. Rowan smiled. She and Kellen had found it behind Pinto’s Bakery in town when they were maybe ten. It was in the alley, obviously meant for the garbage, and who knows what the heck they’d been doing out back in the first place. The nose was chipped off, and one of the ears was missing, but their Nana loved Elvis almost as much as she loved Patsy Cline.
They’d given it to her for Mother’s Day, and it had rested near her hearth ever since. A place of honor she’d told them. He was the king and should be on display.
Her smile widened as she stared at the head. Elvis’s mouth was open as if he was belting out a song, and with his missing nose and ear, he really did look ridiculous.
She leaned back into the chair and without pause opened the grimoire.
The pages were made of leather, or some type of leather at the very least, and they were thinner than the binding. They were yellowed with age and delicate to the touch. Woven amongst the text were drawings and runes. The colors were still vibrant, which wasn’t something she’d expected after all this time.
It hit her then as she gazed upon the words. They’d been written by another James witch—one who’d lived nearly two thousand years before Rowan’s birth. The grimoire had survived time and space and a trip to Hell. Now it was in Rowan’s hands.
She blew out a long slow breath as she carefully turned the pages, not reading things so much as feeling the power that lay there. It infused her cells and had her heart beating like a jackhammer within minutes.
The pages turned and moments passed. Long moments of studying intricate runes, eloquent passages that described many herbal remedies, potions, and charms. After a while the pages blurred, but she methodically made her way through them, turning them over and over. Eventually she stopped, and when her eyes focused and she could see clearly, Rowan gasped.
It was the spell. The only spell she was truly interested in. She got hot and kicked her feet out so that the blanket fell to the floor as she bent over the page and started to read. There were illustrations along the side of the text. A circle. A woman. A demon—not the human
facade that so many of the bastards loved but one in its true form. An animal/human-looking monster with cloven feet, a dragon head, and a deadly, spiked tail that curled up behind it like a scorpion about to attack.
She’d only seen Mallick on one occasion, and he’d looked like any other human man—an extremely handsome one at that. She wondered for the first time what his real facade looked like. Was he a creature like this one in the book? Or something else entirely?
Rowan read the words out loud, and when she was done she read them over again. And again. And when she was done for the final time she carefully closed the book and held it loose within her grasp as she rocked in the chair.
For several long moments Rowan stared into space, not really focused on anything. She was curiously calm. Accepting of the information she’d just ingested. Was it because she was exhausted?
A soft knock sounded on the door, and Priest entered the room. He crossed to the window and drew the sheet across it, cutting out most of the light and plunging the room into muted darkness.
“You need to sleep, Rowan.”
“I know.”
He tugged the grimoire from her grasp and set it carefully on the side table near the bed. His fingers lingered on it—she watched him caress the cover in a gentle, sweeping motion.
“It’s not often I get the chance to see something this exquisite.” He smiled at her, a wistful smile of remembering. “Time moves on, and humans change and evolve, as do those who inhabit the otherworld. It’s not always for the best in my opinion. Everyone moves forward, always looking ahead and no one takes the time to appreciate the past.”
She watched him in silence, not knowing what to say.
“This is a work of art. A laborious rendering of your history—your family’s history and knowledge.” He paused. “It really is a thing of beauty.”
She nodded, still silent.
“It’s also a book of great power, and it found its way back to you.”
But how long will I have it? How long will I be here?
