Chapter 2: Morning Rituals and Unwanted Visions
Ethan woke with a gasp, the taste of stale wine and cold sweat on his tongue. The room was grey with pre-dawn light, the shapes of Lily’s furniture looming like sleeping beasts. For a disorienting second, he didn’t know where he was. Then he felt it: a solid, rectangular weight pressed against his chest, held in place by his own crossed arms. He’d fallen asleep hugging the grimoire.
He jerked upright, letting the book thump onto the couch cushions. His heart rabbited. The memory of the pulsing green light flooded back, crisp and undeniable. Not a dream. He stared at the cover. It looked inert, just cracked leather. But it had been warm. Almost body-warm.
He listened. From behind Lily’s closed door, the soft, regular sound of her breathing. Asleep. The city outside was quiet, that brief, hollow lull between night revelry and morning traffic.
The fear from last night was still there, a cold knot in his gut. But beneath it, coiling like smoke, was a sharper, more insistent feeling: curiosity. It was the same feeling that had made him reach for the book in Silas’s shop. A need to know. To see. If the glow was real, then the spell… the thunder…
He had to know more.
Moving with a thief’s careful silence, he peeled back the blanket and picked up the book. He carried it to the small dining table, away from the window’s growing light. He clicked on the cheap brass lamp, a pool of warm light falling onto the vellum.
He opened it, the pages whispering. He bypassed the section they’d translated last night, a strange reluctance making him skip past the Fascinatio heading. He turned instead to the very beginning, past the blank frontispiece. The first page of actual text was titled in that same dense script: Prooemium et Fundamentum. Introduction and Foundation.
His Latin was good enough for the gist. It spoke of the “Art” as a path of will, a dialogue between the practitioner’s desire and the “hidden architecture” of the world. It warned of costs, of equilibrium. It was flowery, philosophical. Then his eyes caught a block of text set apart from the rest, under a sub-heading: Initiatio Prima. First Initiation.
To walk the path, one must first knock upon the gate, it began. This key is a testament of intent, a mingling of the seeker’s vital essence with the Art’s recorded wisdom. It is a simple attunement. A calibration of the vessel to the coming current.
His eyes scanned the next lines. The promised effect was blunt, almost crass amidst the lofty language. The form shall answer the mind’s aspiration. For the male vessel, a fortification of the corporeal frame: denser sinew, hardened bone, a vigor of function and form… a alignment to a principle of potency.
A basic spell. An attunement. A stronger male body.
His eyes flicked to the margin. There was an illustration, drawn in the same brown ink but with astonishing anatomical precision. It was a study of a nude male figure, reminiscent of Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man, but devoid of artistic idealism. This was a clinical, almost aggressive depiction of power. The muscles were rendered in cross-hatched bundles, pronounced and heavy. The posture was not one of philosophical balance, but of latent, animal readiness.
And the artist had not been shy.
The figure was grotesquely, impossibly endowed. It was less a human anatomy and more a diagram of primal force, every aspect exaggerated to the point of parody. Yet, staring at it, Ethan felt no urge to laugh. A slow, deep heat spread through his abdomen, a pull that was equal parts fascination and shame.
His mind conjured images: the driver’s leering comment, Lily’s laugh, his own perpetual lankiness, the way he always felt like a boy playing at being a man. He thought of the word “potency.”
It was just a drawing. Words on a page. But the green glow had been real. The thunder had been real.
The instructions were simple. Cleanse the space with breath and focus. Speak the incantation—a short, seven-line verse. And seal it with a drop of the practitioner’s own blood, let fall upon the page to be absorbed as a token of sincere sacrifice.
A bead of blood. It seemed so little. A pinprick.
The curiosity was a physical ache now, drowning out the fear. This wasn’t the love spell. That had been vague, abstract. This was a simple, mechanical adjustment. An attunement. Like tuning a guitar. What was the harm in tuning a guitar?
His hands were steady as he read the incantation again, memorizing the alien syllables. He took a deep, silent breath, exhaling slowly as the book instructed, trying to clear his mind of everything but the shape of the words.
He needed something sharp.
He padded to the kitchen, opened a drawer as quietly as he could. The utensils rattled softly. He found a packet of thumbtacks Lily used for her corkboard. He took one, its steel point gleaming dully in the grey light.
Back at the table, he positioned the book, the illustration of the monstrous Vitruvian Man staring up at the ceiling. He held the thumbtack over his left thumb. Hesitated.
This was insane.
He pressed down.
A bright, sharp pain. A perfect, fat bead of crimson welled up from the tiny puncture. It hovered, trembling.
Now or never.
He held his thumb over the open page, directly above the drawn figure’s chest. He began to whisper, the Latin words feeling like stones in his mouth.
“Sanguis meus pro scientia…”
The air in the room tightened. The hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen seemed to fade.
“Voluntas mea pro robor…”
A faint, static prickle danced across his skin, raising the hairs on his arms. The single drop of blood gathered weight, swelling.
“Hoc pacto, artem introeo…”
The drop fell.
It struck the ancient vellum with a soft, almost inaudible tap. Instead of beading up on the surface, it sank. It was absorbed instantly, leaving behind only a small, dark stain that seemed to shimmer for a second before fixing into the page like it had always been there.
Ethan finished the final line, his voice a dry rustle. “…et mundus mutatur.”
And the world changes.
For a moment, nothing.
Then a warmth bloomed in the center of his chest, deep behind his sternum. It wasn’t unpleasant. It was like swallowing good whiskey, a radiating, golden heat. It spread outwards, down through his stomach, into his groin, out along his limbs to the very tips of his fingers and toes.
He gasped. It was intense, a wave of pure, surging vitality. He felt his heart give a single, hard thump against his ribs, a punch of power. The muscles in his arms and legs twitched, a series of fine, involuntary tremors, as if they were being gently electrocuted. He could feel every fiber, every tendon, as though they were wires being individually tightened.
He looked down at his hands. They looked the same. Slender, long-fingered. But they felt different. They felt charged, full of a potential energy that made him want to clench them into fists.
The warmth began to condense, to settle. It pooled most heavily in his lower abdomen, a low, throbbing hum of energy that was unmistakably, overwhelmingly sexual. He grew hard, a sudden, aching rigidity that pressed against his sweatpants. It felt… different. More substantial. A weight where before there was only sensation.
A soft, rhythmic sound cut through the haze.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Lily’s door.
“Ethan?” Her voice was muffled, thick with sleep. “You okay? I heard you… mumbling.”
Panic, cold and clean, doused the last of the internal warmth. He slammed the grimoire shut, the sound like a gunshot in the quiet apartment.
“Yeah!” he called, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, fine! Just… reading. Sorry.”
“Weirdo,” she mumbled, and he heard the soft thud of her body rolling over in bed.
The adrenaline ebbed, leaving him buzzing and hollow. The intense warmth had receded, but a new awareness thrummed just under his skin. He felt alert, oddly rested despite the scant sleep. And there was that persistent, heavy fullness between his legs, an undeniable reminder that something had happened.
He needed to see. To check.
Quietly, he gathered his towel and a change of clothes and slipped into the bathroom, locking the door. The small, tiled room was still dark. He didn’t turn on the overhead light. Instead, he faced the mirror over the sink, his silhouette a ghost in the pre-dawn grey leaking through the window.
He looked the same.
The same messy brown hair, the same lanky frame visible under his t-shirt. He pulled the shirt off, turned to the side. No new muscle definition, no sudden heroic bulk. A faint disappointment trickled through him. Had it been pure imagination, a psychosomatic rush from the ritual and the fear?
But then he moved, rolling his shoulders. The motion felt smoother, his body responding with a quiet, fluid efficiency that was unfamiliar. He straightened up, and his posture didn’t slump as it usually did. He stood taller without trying. He looked at his reflection again, into his own eyes in the gloom.
The perpetual look of wonder was still there, but it was grounded now, edged with a sharp, new certainty. The gnawing anxiety that usually lived in his chest was quiet. He felt solid in a way he never had. He felt, inexplicably, authorized.
A powerful, urgent pressure bloomed in his bladder, breaking the spell. Right. The "vigor of function." He dealt with it, the stream forceful and startling. Afterwards, he turned on the shower, letting the room fill with steam to mask any sound.
The hot water was a revelation. It didn't just wash over him; it felt like it was waking up every cell. He was hyper-aware of the water hitting his skin, the slide of soap over his ribs, the sheer physicality of himself. He stayed under the spray until the water began to cool, this new, quiet confidence a warm stone in his gut.
He turned off the water and wiped a clearing in the fogged mirror. His face appeared, droplets clinging to his stubble. He looked the same. He felt completely different.
Wrapping the towel around his waist, he unlocked the door and stepped out into the hallway. The apartment was brighter now, morning sun painting stripes across the worn rug.
Lily’s door was open. She was standing frozen in the middle of the hallway, blinking sleep from her eyes, her auburn hair a tangled halo. She’d clearly been heading for the bathroom. She wore just an old, thin t-shirt and panties.
Their eyes met.
Ethan gave a small, casual nod, a droplet of water falling from his hair to his shoulder. “All yours.”
He moved past her, the scent of his soap and clean steam trailing in his wake. He felt her gaze on his back, on the bare skin of his shoulders and torso above the towel. He didn’t look back. He walked to the couch, the new assurance in his stride feeling natural, unforced.
Lily stood perfectly still, watching him go. The urgent need that had woken her was forgotten. A strange, static charge filled the space where he had just been.
She replayed the brief moment: the set of his shoulders, the line of his spine, the way the towel hung on his hips. It was just Ethan. Her cousin. Lanky, bookish Ethan who needed a haircut.
So why did her stomach do that slow, peculiar flip?
She’d seen him in a towel a dozen times before. This was different. The mental image from last night—the imagined water sluicing down his body—crashed into the reality of him walking away, and the two merged into a single, unsettling impression. He looked… solid. Defined. Attractive.
A hot flush crawled up her neck. She shook her head, hard, as if to dislodge a bug from her ear.
What is wrong with you? That’s Ethan. Weird, goofy Ethan.
She mentally scolded herself, the internal voice sharp with pragmatic disgust. It was just an observation, a random, errant thought fired by a sleep-addled brain. It meant nothing. She would not, of course, ever act upon it. The very idea was grotesque.
She forcibly shoved the entire train of thought into a mental lockbox and slammed the lid. She stomped into the bathroom, locking the door with a definitive click. She turned the shower on cold, hoping the shock would reset her malfunctioning mind.
On the couch, Ethan dressed, his movements efficient. He could hear the shower kick on. He glanced at the grimoire, now zipped inside his backpack, he wasn't sure what other spells were in there, but he was excited to find out.
He was staring out the window at the awakening city when Lily emerged, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, her hair damp. She avoided looking directly at him, beelining for the kitchen.
“Coffee,” she announced, her voice deliberately normal. “Lots of it. I had the weirdest dreams.”
“Yeah?” Ethan said, turning from the window.
“Mhm. Nonsense stuff.” She busied herself with the coffee maker, clattering mugs. “You ready to head out soon? I’ve got that study group at ten.”
“Sure,” he said. He watched her back, the tension in her shoulders. The quiet in the apartment was no longer comfortable. It was thick, pregnant with things unsaid and feelings neither would name.
Lily poured two cups, her hand steady. She handed one to him, finally meeting his eyes. Her gaze was guarded, a little searching. “So. What were you reading so intently at the crack of dawn?”
Ethan took the mug, the heat seeping into his palms. He held her look, that new confidence a solid wall inside him. “Just that book,” he said, his voice even. “Trying to decipher more of it. It’s… fascinating.”
“It’s… fascinating.”
Lily blew on her coffee, her eyes narrowing slightly over the rim. “Fascinating. Right. Because ancient manuals of weirdness are always just fascinating before they make it thunder inside a building.” She took a sip, studying him. “You look different. Did you sleep okay?”
The question was casual, but her gaze wasn’t. He felt it tracing the lines of his face, his posture. He leaned back against the counter, consciously relaxing into this new sense of occupancy within his own body. “Weird dreams,” he echoed her earlier lie, offering a half-smile. “But yeah, I slept.”
A silence stretched, filled only by the distant hiss of her shower finally shutting off next door. The normalcy of the sound seemed to anchor her.
“Okay, we need to actually talk about last night,” Lily said, setting her mug down with a decisive tap. “The thunder-from-nowhere thing. That actually happened, right? We both heard it.”
“We both heard it,” Ethan confirmed. His voice was calm, matter-of-fact. He found his earlier panic had been replaced by a cool, analytical curiosity. The event was a data point. “It was the spell. The one we translated.”
“The love spell,” Lily said, the word dripping with sarcastic air quotes. “Which we didn’t actually perform. We just read it aloud. Like idiots.”
“Maybe reading it was enough to… stir something up,” Ethan mused. He walked to his backpack, unzipped it, and pulled out the grimoire. He handled it with a reverence that felt instinctual now. “Maybe intention plays a part. We were just translating. We weren’t trying to cast anything.”
Lily watched him open the book, a faint frown on her lips. “So what, the universe just overheard and decided to give us a dramatic sound effect? That’s its thing?”
“Maybe.” Ethan found the page, the Fascinatio heading like a dark stain. He scanned the dense text again, his finger tracing the lines they had struggled with last night. His Latin felt sharper this morning, the syntax unlocking itself with easier clarity. He read silently, further down the page, past where they had stopped.
His breath caught.
“Lily.”
“What?”
“We missed a line. A whole clause.” He looked up, his eyes wide with genuine surprise. “Last night, we stopped at ‘hearts beat as one.’ But it keeps going. Right after that.”
He turned the book toward her, pointing to a cramped subsection she’d overlooked. It was set apart, like an ingredient list after a recipe’s description.
“Et sanguis cum sanguine misceatur,” he read aloud, then translated, the words falling into the sunny kitchen with a chilling weight. “ ‘And let blood be mixed with blood.’ ” He looked at her, the implication settling between them. “It says the practitioner and the… the subject of the fascination… must each shed a drop. Their blood has to be mingled on the page. Then the binding is sealed.”
Lily stared at him. Her face underwent a subtle transformation: the tight worry around her eyes softened, then dissolved completely. She let out a long, shaky breath that was almost a laugh.
“Oh thank god,” she whispered, pressing a hand to her chest. “Oh, thank god.”
The relief in her voice was so profound it was tangible. She sagged against the kitchen island, a weight visibly lifting from her shoulders. “So it didn’t work. It couldn’t have. We didn’t do that part. No blood was mixed. No binding.” She picked up her coffee again, her hand steadier. “It was just a freaky atmospheric anomaly. A coincidence. I knew it.”
Ethan watched her, saying nothing. The green glow. The warmth in his chest at dawn. The thrum under his skin. He thought of his own drop of blood, absorbed by a different page just an hour ago. A solo offering. A different kind of pact.
Lily’s mind was racing, connecting dots she was desperately glad to disconnect. The strange, unbidden attraction she’d felt upon seeing him in the hallway—the vivid, unwelcome imagery her sleep-fogged brain had conjured—it now had a perfectly logical, nonsupernatural explanation.
It was suggestion. The power of a creepy suggestion. They’d read a dark, poetic text about binding and desire, then been shocked by a loud noise. Her subconscious had simply latched onto the theme and played a trick on her. That’s all psychology. That’s all it was.
Now that the spell was definitively neutered by their lack of bloody follow-through, the mental images lost their power. They were just errant, embarrassing thoughts. Not magic. Never magic.
“See?” she said, her tone returning to its normal, pragmatic melody. “This is why you read the whole manual before you panic. We skipped the most important step. The safety catch.” She shook her head, a real smile touching her lips now. “I can’t believe we were actually freaked out. We’re such morons.”
Ethan slowly closed the book. The leather was cool, passive. “Right,” he said, his voice quiet. “The safety catch.”
He looked at his cousin, truly looked at her. The morning light caught the gold in her auburn hair, the intelligent curve of her mouth now relaxed in relief. He felt that low, steady hum inside him, a new constant. He thought of the driver’s words, her laugh, the space on the couch between them.
The Fascinatio spell was inert. A dead letter.
But other pages in the book were not.
“So,” Lily said, gulping the last of her coffee. “We can stop worrying about being mystically bound together for eternity. I’m going to go fail my biology pre-read. You can go back to decoding your creepy, harmless artifact.”
She brushed past him to put her mug in the sink, her movement easy, familiar. The tension that had crackled in the hallway was gone, replaced by her assured normalcy. The spell was a dud. Everything was fine.
Ethan nodded, slipping the grimoire back into his pack. He zipped it shut, the sound final. “Harmless,” he repeated.
He could still feel the faint, promising warmth where the drop of his own blood had fallen.