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When there was a ruffle, she shook her head. “No, it is not your fault. And I am very sorry I am not terribly good company.”
The Book was open before her, its ancient parchment folios undulating gently in their spine as if it were breathing. Bound in human flesh—or perhaps vampire?—the entity was no more about words and pages than this metaphysical plane she was hiding them in was about reality. The Book was a conduit for energy in the universe, neither bad nor good, its possessors and their inner worlds determining the course of the spells and incantations held between its covers.
Which meant the thing was capable of great goodness… and unfathomable evil.
There was another ruffle.
“Oh, thank you,” she murmured. “I appreciate your concern. But I shall endure.”
The dismissive sound that came back at her could have meant the Book was doubting her endurance or mayhap her course, but either way, there was no unkindness. With her, it had only ever been full of grace. Then again, unlike so many others, she had never had any interest in harnessing its power—and further, she believed it felt as though a debt was owed because she had rescued it from an untenable, abusive situation: Safety had been requested, and safety had been provided, without questions or expectation of recourse.
Knowing how the poor thing had been used, she could understand why removal from the demon Devina’s sphere of influence had been sought—
Fast flipping now, as if the pages were a spinning wheel that went round and round, no beginning, no end.
“Please don’t,” she whispered in defeat.
Yet it would not listen to her.
Closing her eyes, tension taloned up her spine and dug into the nape of her neck, and on reflex, she tugged at the sweater that clothed her and switched the arrangement of her legs in the jeans she wore. Neither eased the tension.
And when things stilled, she did not want to look because she knew what she would see.
She opened her lids anyway.
And there he was. As if the Book had become a window, she saw through the interior of its contours a male who was never far from her thoughts: Lassiter, the fallen angel, was iridescent-eyed and blond-and-black-haired, his face constructed of powerful angles and balanced by an intelligence that, having watched him in a crowd once, she believed he kept well hidden under a drape of humor.
“Oh, Lassiter…” Then she cleared her throat. “Whyever do you keep showing him unto me?”
The pages fluttered, as if it were attempting to point at something.
“Yes, I know he’s the one. Therein lies my sadness.”
More fluttering and then a couple of slaps.
“I wish I spoke folio, I truly do.” There was a heave of pages, a sigh of paper—as if she were being deliberately obtuse. “And if your commiseration with my mourning is the way you’re trying to repay me—”
Much flipping the now, the sound like it was applauding.
“It is? Well, that is very sweet.” She brushed its pages with a soft touch. “And I understand that you are grateful for this respite here, but I am happy to be of service to you. I know what it is like to be used for one’s gifts and in ways that harm. My own commiseration with your situation is the purpose for the security I offer.”
A wedge of pages puckered up and blew a kiss.
Rahvyn smiled. “Yes, we are kin, are we not.”
Looking out over the landscape, she toyed with changing it once again, shifting the colors and the arrangement of flora, mayhap turning the lake into a waterfall, perhaps creating an unnecessary, but attractive, shelter.
“Lassiter bid me farewell, however,” she heard herself say. “Even if I went to seek him out, he wouldnae hear me in that fashion. He departed from me—and he is probably correct. What would I have to offer him?”
Flipping again, as if in disagreement.
And then the wheel started up once more, an infinite number of folios flashing by—until there was an abrupt stop and the Book bumped itself closer to her. Words she could not translate choked both of the pages, the text in orderly lines—
All at once, the letters began to quiver within their alignment, the vibration intensifying until they broke free and jumbled across the page, scattering like marbles and running into each other’s paths. Waves began to form, rushing forth and receding, only to coalesce and fly away once again.
And then they froze and held their position.
“I am afraid I am unable to read…” She let the statement drift into silence.
With a frown, she tilted her head. It was not text of a strange and unfamiliar derivation. It was not writing.
Portraits.
The letters and symbols had pulled together to reveal two faces, one on each side of the open folio. They were males, and the longer she stared at them in an attempt at recognition, the clearer the depictions became, until they were as pencil drawings attended to with leaded tip over and over, the shadows darkening and bringing out a three-dimensional nature that was positively sculptural.
