Page 73 of Haunting the Hunter
“I’m sorry. I never meant to lie to you. But Ineedyou to know that something is wrong with this mission.”
“Youalwayssay that, Calli. You are always paranoid or have some issue. This time is no different.”
“Yourlittle ghostcan’t protect you from physical danger, Cade. Do well to remember that.” She speaks quietly, but it’s laced with venom.
I see something in his eyes, a shift in his expression.You’ve really gotten to that man, ghost.
Calli stomps her way to the library, leaving her brother standing there in shock. She grabs a book off the huge stack and sits hard in the desk chair, slamming the book down.
“Gods, he’s so fucking frustrating!” she seethes.
“He would do well to listen to your counsel,”I tell her seriously.
“Wow. You say that like you’re on my side.” She says it sarcastically, but I feel her genuine surprise.
“I’m on my side,”I remind her.“You are wrong for what you did, but with this, it just so happens you’re right.”
“That’s ironic coming from something like you,” she snorts, opening the book.
“I’m a walking contradiction, baby. Get used to it.”
She brushes me off, skimming the book I now see is the one I threw at her brother.
“I thought there’d be something in here to help—but it’s all generalized bullshit glorifying their intentions.” She sighs in disappointment. “Talking about how their ‘God’ will bring them knowledge and power in exchange for a powerful sacrifice. It’s all vague. This is written as though they were chosen, like they are special. It’s disgusting.”
“Humans are such ignorant creatures—predictable and easily influenced. So easy to see when you’re inside their mind,”I hum, scanning the page through her eyes.
“Sarcasm is exactly what I needed right now. Thank you.” She stills, back going straight as something hits her. “Wait. No. No, that might actually be it.”
“Sarcasm? Oh, darling, I have plenty of that.”
She ignores me, jumping up and rushing to a corner bookshelf stacked with old journals, desperately tracing each spine.
“No, we need to see inside their minds. These journals are dated before the Covenant was established… I put these in here when Iwas unpacking years ago. We have a bunch more packed away, but this is a good start.”
“And you are just now realizing this?”I say with more sarcasm dripping from my tone.
“I never had a reason to learn about their history,” she defends. “I had the grimoire, so I focused on learning about my magic rather than the people who want me dead. I honestly just didn’t connect the dots and forgot about them.”
She pulls one down, opening it and settling back into her chair as we read its contents together.
Oct. 12th, 1847
I write this in haste and against my better judgment, for even now I feel its influence pressing upon me like the weight of sin before confession.
The thing we unearthed beneath the chapel ruins was not written by the hand of man. Its cover is flesh-bound and cold as stone even as it rested near the hearth. I watched the ink bleed anew across its pages, as if the words themselves refuse to remain still. It knows I read it. It wants to be read.
At first, I believed it to be a relic. A piece of forgotten history. But there is no history in this, only hunger. The knowledge it offers is profound. Impossible. And yet… it works. It answers questions not asked. It knows the names of men long buried. And when I dream, I dream not of Heaven, but of blackened altars and blood-soaked promises. Jonathan caught me reading it yesterday.
He is twelve and far too clever and curious. He asked no questions—only watched with that solemn stare he inherited from his mother. I closed the book, told him it was not for his eyes, and still—when I returned from town—I found him hunched over its pages, turning them with a reverence that chilled me. I took it from his hands. He did not protest.
He smiled.
I have locked it away, but locks are a fool’s comfort. I fear I have already failed in shielding him. He is drawn to it like kindling to flame. And the book, in turn, responds to him. The symbols shift more readily when he is near. I dare not say it aloud, but I believe it knows he is the one who will open it again.
I have not told Margaret. There is no comfort to be had in the confession.
I fear we are not its masters. We are its vessels.
