Page 46 of Darkest at Dusk
Isabella froze. All the spirits she had seen her entire life were insubstantial remnants, unable to influence the physical world. All save the girl in the moonlit hallway who had looked so very real.
Was she here now? Had she tossed the book to the floor?
Isabella turned, her gaze searching every nook and cranny for signs of a wraith. She saw none.
The book lay sprawled open, its pages twitching in the draft that curled through the room. Slowly, cautiously, Isabella stepped toward it and bent until her fingers brushed the leather cover.
A whisper.
Not a voice, not quite, but something else. A sound that slithered through the silence like cold breath against the back of her neck.
The book’s pages fluttered. The library door slammed shut.
Isabella turned sharply and crossed the room. The door handle was icy beneath her touch. When she tested it, it would not turn.
She gripped it tighter and twisted. Still, it held fast.
The air around her was frigid now, her breath puffing white before her lips.
She rattled the handle and yanked.
Then something brushed against her wrist. Not the air. Not a draft. Something slithered, cold and damp and solid, smelling of soot and wet stone, the aroma of roses turning sulfur sharp.
On instinct, she yanked her hand back, a strangled gasp catching in her throat. The sensation lingered, wet and slippery, a phantom touch that should not have been there.
Her heart beat hard and fast. Her breathing turned ragged.
And then the door swung open on its own.
Isabella stumbled back, her pulse stuttering. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin.
“It will take more than that to frighten me,” she muttered, hating the tremor that betrayed her. Her gaze swept across the crates, the shelves, the desk. The quiet was unnatural. The cold doubly so. But it was the brief blast of heat that unsettled her.
Wraiths were cold, always. Yet this wraith seemed determined to alter the rules.
Isabella took a step toward the door, but her limbs felt sluggish, heavy, the very air resisting her progress. A shiver traced down her spine on centipede legs, pooling in her stomach, heavy as lead.
With a sharp inhalation, she shook off the feeling and stalked toward the now open door. But as she crossed the threshold into the hallway, she could not escape the feeling that something did not want her to leave. That it would wait here for her return.
Then came a whisper. Not a breath. Not a voice. Something else.
“I…s…a…b…e…l…l…a….”
Papa’s voice.
But Papa was dead. Gone.
Grief and horror tangled in her breast until she could scarce draw breath. The syllables crawled along her skin as though the malevolent thing that shaped them meant to sink claws and drag her back through the library door.
Always had she heard the whispers but never had they called her by name.
The air in the hallway felt warm against her chilled skin. Too warm, like the unnatural heat of a fever. She paused, crossing her arms and rubbing her palms up and down.
Her wrist prickled. She glanced down and froze.
Both her skin and the hem of her sleeve were slippery and wet. A single droplet slithered along her pulse and fell. As it hit the floor, the air turned sour with the reek of water thrown on a fire…wet ash and scalding steam.
Chapter Eleven
