Page 95 of Demon's Bride

Pulling a few from the stacks, I make a pile and carry it back through the chamber with all the maps and into Vayla’s workroom. It’s empty, which I take as a small blessing.

Piling the books onto a workbench, I reach carefully into my bag for the grimoire.

Even without touching it, the magick oozing out of the book crackles over my skin. I set it gingerly on the table in front of me and settle myself with a deep breath. I’m not ready to touch it again, not ready to wade back into whatever magick pulled me in before, especially with no one here to pull me back out.

However, when I flip open the front cover with a gloved hand and stare down at the page, clarity hits me like a slap to the face.

I can read it.

Not quite believing what I’m seeing, I gape at the symbols which have fallen into clear, orderly sense on the page. It’s a dedication, a spell of protection inscribed into the parchment itself.

With these words, I consecrate this book. By the Mother’s blessing and my own hand, no harm shall come to it and no unwelcome eyes shall fall upon it.

I take a few moments to collect myself and scrape my jaw off the floor.

Does this make me awelcomeeye? How on earth am I seeing what I’m seeing?

I stand up and lean closer, eyes greedily drinking in the words on the page. The language comes slowly at first, bits and pieces that settle themselves into sensible lines in my mind, but after a few passes, it begins to sink in. There’s music and magick in it, a certain sense of rhythm and symmetry that’s pleasing to the eye as I read.

Somehow, I’ve been gifted with this knowledge, blessed with the ability to read the language.

Wracking my brain, the only explanation I have for it is my trip in to the grimoire back in Joan’s tea shop. By letting the book have me for those few moments, get its claws into me, maybe leave me imprinted with a bit of its magick, its arcane language has become clearer as well.

Whatever the case, it’s enough to have me absolutely lost in the book. My eyes skim over the pages, absorbing as much as I can. The more I read, the easier the language becomes, like it’s hard-writing itself into my brain with each passing minute.

The spells and rituals in it are complex. A spell for binding powerful familiars, one to break particularly nasty hexes, a ritual for severing ties with a romantic partner. There’s an entire section on potions and tinctures, all of it powerful healing work. As much as I want to take time to study every entry, I flip quickly through, looking for anything related to the Veil or the bargain.

Nothing presents itself. I start at the beginning and go through it again, more slowly this time, and still, nothing.

Letting out a long, frustrated breath, I know what I should do next. I should take off my damn glove and dive back into wherever I was pulled before, but without an anchor or any guarantee I wouldn’t just be lost forever within it, I pause.

I’m afraid, and human enough to admit it.

I need to talk to Eren about it, need to see if he’ll be an anchor and pull me back when I need it like Joan did, but knowing he’ll be busy in court for the next few hours, I settle myself into my seat and get back to reading.

The next couple of hours pass that way. Me, methodically poring over each page of the grimoire, reading and rereading until my eyes ache. I’m flipping back through the section on potions when an ingredient from a brew meant to soothe irritated skin jumps out at me.

Hearthberries.

This book was written in the demon realm.

From the moment I laid hands on it, I’ve been half-convinced this book was written by the first witch, but now I’m almost certain of it. The magick seeping from its pages is ancient, old and humming with the authority of time. Just breathing the barest remnants of it, I’m convinced that it wasn’t written by any witch from this century, or any century close to it. And if it was written in the demon realm…

I’m so caught up in the implications of that, I nearly jump out of my chair when a noise from the other side of the room snaps my concentration.

“You’re back?” Vayla asks, dropping her bag unceremoniously onto a workbench and looking me over from head to toe.

My defenses raise immediately. Not today, demon. Not today.

Spinning around to face her, I cross my arms over my chest. “I am. Is that going to be a problem?”

Instead of answering right away, Vayla just sniffs a little, and surveys her work area. “Did you touch anything?”

Oh. So it’s going to be like that.

“I didn’t,” I tell her. “I’ve just been reading.”

She flicks a gaze to the grimoire, though aside from the slight widening of her eyes she gives no reaction.

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