Page 52 of A Resistance of Witches

“I believe it is.” Lydia winced. There was a menacing hum in the air, like the house was full of wasps. She scanned the horizon warily, searching for any sign of the blond witch or her coven, but they were alone. It seemed impossible.

Where are you?

They pulled the Citroën around to the side of the house, where itwouldn’t be seen from the road. The front door was open, just as she remembered. As she stepped from the car, the humming became louder, more urgent.

“It’s here.” She looked at Rebecca and Henry. “Do you feel that?”

Rebecca frowned. “Feel what?”

Lydia locked eyes with Henry. He looked sick, the skin on his face too tight. He gave an almost imperceptible nod.

Lydia was first inside, her heart racing as she crossed the threshold. Everything was the same as she remembered—the abandoned meal, the broken crockery scattered across the floor. She heard a sound behind her and turned. Rebecca was standing in the doorway, examining the silver ornament—the mezuzah, Henry had called it, with a look on her face that Lydia couldn’t quite read—something that looked almost like grief.

As she walked the creaking floorboards, Lydia felt the ever-present hum grow into a wail, an insistent keening rising from the ground under her feet. She moved through the house until she found the place where it reached a crescendo, transforming into a bone-rattling howl. The book was crying out. It wanted to be found.

Almost there, she thought.Great Mother, at last.

Lydia took the poker from the fireplace and raised it high, bringing it down hard on the wooden floorboards. Again and again, she drove the iron point into the wood, working herself into a frenzy, until she’d created a splintered hole the size of her palm. Kneeling, she wedged the poker underneath the broken floorboard and, using all the force she could muster, pried up the wood with a hard crack. She thrust her arm inside the hole, blocking out any thoughts of what creatures might be found in a hole such as this one. Her fingers brushed against something rough and solid, and as they did, the wailing was accompanied by a chattering, like a thousand voices hissing and gibbering at once.

Lydia withdrew, and the chattering stopped.

She looked up. Rebecca was watching her from the doorway.

Steeling herself, Lydia reached in again, and pulled the book up and into the light.

It had been wrapped in canvas before being hidden away and was covered with dirt and wood splinters. As she unwrapped it, she found to her surprise that it was warm.Like it’s alive, she thought with a sudden, nauseating thrill. The binding was leather, the cover cracked and brittle, though not nearly as damaged as Lydia had expected, given its age. Very carefully, she lifted the cover with the tips of her fingers.

“Lydia.” Rebecca’s voice cut the silence.

She looked up. She’d nearly forgotten Rebecca was there.

“Do you really think you should open that?”

The book was whispering to her.

“It’s fine,” she said.

The pages of theGrimorium Bellumwere inked in a dense wall of illegible script. The characters were hard and linear, laid out in tight lines with no breaks or pictures. She let her fingers trace the letters, and felt the chattering change, settling into a single tune, a commanding chorus, rising to meet her from the pages of the book.

“I can read it.”

Lydia felt a rush of euphoria as the realization swept over her, and the power of the book seemed to bloom inside her mind. It felt like she was breathing magic, like the book was infusing itself into her bloodstream. The characters remained as foreign to her as ever, and still, somehow, she knew every syllable. Each spell seemed to unravel before her like spools of ribbon: Spells for bringing plague. Spells for blighting crops and killing livestock. Spells to snuff out joy, and bring despair and madness. One particularly grisly spell that promised to unmake the spellcaster’s enemies, consuming them from the inside out and leaving nothing but ash in its wake. Lydia knelt there on the farmhouse floor,listening to the song of the book, feeling its warmth under her hands, until something, a voice, pulled her back.

“Lydia.”

She looked up, and for a moment she couldn’t see Rebecca’s face. It was like she’d been veiled under a teeming mass of insects, pulsing and writhing around her. It was horrifying, as if Rebecca had been replaced by something inhuman. Lydia nearly screamed, but then her eyes cleared, and Rebecca was as she had always been. Lydia lifted her fingers from the page. The voices subsided.

“Look,” Rebecca said softly.

Lydia went to the window where Rebecca stood. In the distance, she could just make out Henry, hunched under the old oak tree, a shovel in his hand.

Lydia walked out of the house and across the field, clutching theGrimorium Bellumto her chest. She stopped a short distance from where Henry stood.

“René?” she asked.

Henry nodded tightly.

“I’m so sorry.” She cast her gaze toward the road. No one coming yet. “What happened?”

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