Chapter 17: A Mortal Interruption
Five months, twelve days, and seventeen hours.
The numbers clicked over in Kyra’s mind like beads on an abacus, a silent tally she never asked for but couldn’t stop counting. It was a parasite of a thought, feeding on the quiet moments. When she was pouring coffee. While she sorted a box of mildewed romances. As she lay in the dark, listening to the house settle.
Now, in the amber glow of her living room lamp, her finger hovered over the grimoire’s cover. The leather was cold, unnaturally so, like the skin of something that lived deep underground. She hadn’t opened it since the dream. Since the… incident. She’d shoved it behind a stack of bland gardening catalogs on her highest shelf, a pathetic attempt at demonic storage.
But it called. A low, sub-audible thrum that vibrated in her molars.
With a shuddering breath, she flipped it open. The pages, thick and velvety, didn’t lie flat. They curled inward like dying leaves. The script inside wasn’t the elegant Latin of before. It was a chaotic, spidery scrawl, dark and damp-looking.
As she watched, the ink itself began to move.
It pooled in the center of a blank page, a crimson droplet that trembled and spread. Tendrils snaked out, forming words with desperate, jagged haste.
You left me starving, little librarian.
Kyra’s breath caught. The air in the room grew still and thick, tasting of ozone and old blood.
Five months, twelve days, seventeen hours without your voice—
The ink bled faster, the letters swelling, becoming accusatory scars on the page.
—do you know what that does to a creature made of longing?
A sharp rap at the front door made her jump, her heart slamming against her ribs. The grimoire slammed shut with a sound like a bone breaking.
“Kyra? You home?” Josh’s voice, muffled by wood and screen, was a lifeline tossed from another, simpler world.
She couldn’t speak. She stared at the book, which now sat innocently on the table. Then it twitched. A single, violent spasm that knocked it against a clay pot holding a dead fern.
“I brought potstickers from Golden Dragon,” Josh called. “And I got extra sweet and sour, the good kind, not the gloppy junk.”
Another twitch. The book skittered two inches to the left.
“Just a sec!” she yelled, her voice too high. She grabbed the grimoire, its cold searing her palms, and shoved it under the sofa cushion. It felt wrong, like hiding a live wire.
She smoothed her hair, took a steadying breath that did nothing, and went to the door. She didn’t open it, just stood facing the weathered screen, seeing Josh’s friendly, blurred shape through the mesh.
“Hey,” he said, holding up a greasy paper bag. The scent of fried dough and soy sauce wafted through. “You’ve been avoiding the shop. And my texts. Bert said you ordered all your new stock online. Which is, like, a betrayal of the whole local economy thing.”
He was trying to be light, but there was a real hurt there. Josh in his crisp khakis and a faintly striped button-down, his glasses slightly askew. A good man. A safe man. The kind who brought takeout and noticed when you disappeared.
“I’ve just been… busy,” Kyra said, her eyes darting to the sofa. Was the cushion bulging? “Tidying up. Personal stuff.”
“Right,” he said, not believing her. He shifted his weight, the porch board groaning beneath him. “Well, I’m here. With pork and questionable life choices. Can I come in? It’s kind of spooky out here. Your lamp is making the fog look… possessive.”
Behind her, under the cushion, she felt a sudden, fierce heat. A wave of it radiated through the upholstery. She glanced back.
On the coffee table, a thin, cursed book began to smoke at the edges. Then, with a swift, silent pull.
The ink was black, then it was red.
Invite him in.
Josh was leaning closer to the screen, trying to peer past her reflection. “Everything okay, Kyra? You look pale.”
I’ll show you both what happens when jealousy wears a demon.
“No!” The word tore out of her, sharp as a gunshot.
Josh flinched back. “Whoa. Okay. Message received.”
“No, not you, Josh, I’m—” She pressed her forehead against the cool wood of the door frame. The scent of Chinese food now made her nauseous. The warmth from the sofa was intensifying, a focused beam of malevolent energy aimed at the base of her spine. “It’s not a good time. I’m… sick. A migraine. The light. The smells. I’m sorry.”
A long pause. She could feel his disappointment like a physical chill seeping through the screen. “Okay,” he said softly, dejected. “I’ll just… leave it on the step then. Maybe… text me when the world stops spinning?”
“Yeah,” she whispered, her eyes glued to the Grimoire. “I will.”
She heard the soft thud of the bag on the porch wood, then his retreating footsteps. The crunch of gravel. The start of his sensible car. Only when the sound faded completely did she allow her legs to give way, sliding down to sit with her back against the door.
Silence.
Then, a slow, tearing sound.
From the cursed book on the coffee table, a single, final word was whispered directly into the heart of her mind, a voice of smoldering coals and ruined velvet:
Mine.
The heat vanished. The room returned to a normal temperature. The only smell was stale Chinese food seeping in from the porch.