I arrived at the library as instructed and parked around the back. The lot was empty save for a motorbike. The streetlights had just begun to illuminate the creeping darkness. I held the key like a weapon and walked towards the back entrance, making my best attempt to look as inconspicuous as possible. Out of habit, I tried the knob before inserting the key. The lock made a tired click and the door creaked open. 

It was eerie being in the library at night. The usually bright and busy aisles were desolate and dark. I gave my eyes a moment to adjust. “Where do I go?” I thought aloud, my hushed tone echoing. A chill ran through me. Upstairs. The notion fleeting, as they were, but I allowed it to lead me up two staircases and just outside of a door with a sign that read, “ARCHIVE ROOM: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.”  The moment my hand touched the knob, I knew this was it. He was here. I could feel him just beyond the threshold, beckoning me forward. 

He was standing with his back to me, facing the fireplace, but our eyes met in the mirror. “You made it,” he said quietly, still holding my gaze in the reflection. “What is it that you’re searching for, Antonin?” The question was direct but gently delivered. “A relic. The library here is also home to the Historical Society, which you know. It’s a relic that I was told you could identify as authentic or not. And I don’t mean real. The trouble is that no one knows where to find it. I got word that the Historical Society may have the answer to where I can find it.” 

So, there it is. The need for which I was graced with his presence. I instantly bristled. “How did you come about that information? It’s not exactly common knowledge.” His eyes narrowed as he took umbrage to my question or perhaps my own defense. “I assure you; your dealings are safe with me. At least the ones off the books.” 

How much does he fucking know?  I tried to fight my rising panic and abounding skepticism but then his expression softened. “Isadora, listen. I know this whole situation is wildly bizarre and it’s impossible to know whether or not you should trust me, but please, I promise I would never hurt you.” 

And I believed him. Just like that. I don’t mean in some naive sense. Every doubt, any and all reservations I had previously melted away. The funny thing was, I did trust him. I trusted him the moment he stepped through the door of my shop. 

Without thinking, he placed his hand over mine in what was supposed to be a comforting gesture, his fingers weaved into mine. He then stood upright and I gasped aloud. There it was. Again. And I couldn’t lie about it being part of the ritual this time. Fuck. 

“Wha... what is this?” His voice sounded dreamy, and I expected him to pull away, but he held my grip tighter. “Isadora, what is happening?” He repeated. “I really don’t know,” I replied honestly, my own voice sounding light years away. “What do you feel, Antonin?”

“I feel you in my bloodstream. You’re like fire in my veins, burning me from the inside out. All I feel is… you.” His breath came in slow, labored sighs as he tilted his head back, eyes closed and growled deep in his throat. “What are you doing to me?” 

Well that was a hell of a question because my own body shivered, though there was no chill. I felt the weight of his question bearing down in the center of my chest as my heart quickened the pace. 

“Touch me.” It wasn’t a request. He obliged without question and trailed his fingers up my arm. My skin must have been gasoline and his touch the spark because we both felt it then. The electric passion so palpable that it burned our very flesh. He pressed me to the wall, his body covering mine. The smell of him; sandalwood, vetiver and a hint of patchouli enveloped and possessed my sense. 

Both hands cupped each side of my face as I tried to look away. He turned me to face him, still cupping my cheek, but bracing himself against the wall. Whatever distance had been between us vanished and his lips came dangerously close. “Fuuuck.” His fist gently pounded the wall beside my head as his thumb trailed over my eager lips. 

He turned away from me then and sat on the bench by the window. “I have to find that relic, Isadora. I can’t tell you everything now, but I promise I will.” I could see the urgency in his eyes. I sat alongside him. “So, what are we looking for?” At my simple question, he beamed. Pulling out his phone, he scrolled to a picture of a large tome with blackened leather binding. Two long, red ribbons marked the page of what seemed to be instructions. “It’s called “Margery’s Tome,” a book of shadows passed down through the generations of Hudson family witches. The last generation of Hudson’s failed to have a girl, therefore, the bloodline died and the book seemingly vanished. Turns out it was donated to the Historical Society and kept here for safety. There’s a lot of incredibly dangerous, albeit valuable, spells, rituals and information on relics thought to have long since been forgotten.”

So, we’re looking for a book. I looked around the room at the wall-to-wall archive cabinets and books strewn carelessly about. Simple enough… if you know who to ask. I let my mind wander somewhere deep; quiet. To a place where I could listen. In my mind I envisioned the tome, every detail exact. I mustered my energy and pushed the image forward in my mind and hoped for guidance.   I heard the whispers drawing my hands to the ground, the energy like paresthesia of my nervous system. Every fiber of my being prickling with a million needles. My knees touched the ground. Whispers became screams. So loud it felt like my ears would burst. I thrust my hands into the pile of books discarded under the bench and was abruptly forced from my own mind once my fingers made contact. 

“It’s here.” Antonin was looking at me with incredulously, uncertain of what had just happened before him. My words seemed to bring him careening back to reality. “Why was it buried under a bunch of books and not locked away in the archives containers?” He seemed dumbfounded by my question. As if it didn’t even occur to him. I brought the tome carefully out from under the books and held it for a moment. It seemed to emanate with a liveliness of its own and I got the overwhelming sense it had just woken from a long slumber. 

I placed the book into Antonin’s outstretched hands only to see his face contort into nothing short of agony. He cried out as the book fell with a resounding thud. “That clever bitch,” he cursed, as his gaze fell heavy on me with a knowing that churned my stomach. 

I didn’t know what those words meant or what he knew that I didn’t, but it was written all over his face. I met his gaze with steel. He looked at me for a long time, his mind working through the realization. “Isadora, the tome can only be used by a Hudson witch.”

-———

My entire world stopped then. It took mere seconds before his words registered with their meaning. Of course, there were things I knew but there was also a vast array of things I did not. My entire life made absolutely no sense up until this point, which still I could make no sense of. In the course of one twenty-four hour period, the entirety of my world had changed. 

I stood, my heart racing. The walls of the restricted area were closing in tighter, and I threw myself into the open foyer of the archive room. My thoughts were hurtling through my mind like a runaway train. I could feel Antonin’s calming presence behind me. “I was given up by my mother at the first signs of magic. I was six. I remember the fight like it was mere hours ago. My father hurtling insults and wine glasses, so sure she had cheated to have such an abomination. That’s the last word I ever heard my father speak. Abomination. And he was right. Jesus fucking Christ, he was right.” 

I swallowed my sob and screamed. The sound filled every empty crevice and corner of the library. Echoed like the haunted cry of a ghost through the aisles once deathly silent moments before. Antonin sat, regarding me with quiet concern; his brows furrowed in question. But he didn’t speak. Instead I felt his hand gently grasp mine. 

Before I could stop, I found myself straddling his lap, my hands thrust deep into his raven hair. My lips touched every bit of skin I could find. Touching him was like waking from the electric chair. Exhilarating and terrifying; erasing whatever torment my mind had just previously endured. I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop for fear that it was actually his touch keeping me sane. It soon became the only thought in my mind. 

“Touch me,” this time I begged. I could hear my own desperation but was too tempestuous to the feel shame. I felt his hands slip beneath my shirt and rest on the small of my back, bringing me closer to him. I wrapped my arms around his neck and held him to my chest, my back arched against his hands. Each place his fingers trailed left an electric aftershock. I wanted, no, needed more. I was sure I would die without it. 

“Please,” it was nothing more than a whimper, a pathetic plea for mercy at the hands of this devil. And that did it. I heard the guttural moan in his throat, felt his fingers curl around my hips, digging deliciously into my flesh. He buried his face into my chest, his lips relentless in their torture. Divine torture. I relished in every wave that swept through me. He rocked my hips against him, growling into my chest and cursing my name. 

Yes, baby. Show me the animal.

I wasn’t sure how to end my last entry and less certain on how to begin this one. The events of last night are still playing, frame by frame, reel after reel in my mind. What have I gotten myself into? Who is this handsome stranger who showed up so surreptitiously at my door? Still, so many answers elude me. 

I spent the night at the shop and after our rather eventful ritual, Antonin decided to sit with me for a while. I’m not sure if he wanted to make sure I was okay or if he was waiting to see if his wretched mother would make another appearance. Perhaps it was both, but in our time together I began piecing together some of his so intricately woven puzzle. 

We sat together on the ottoman by the bed, careful not to touch. I listened as he slowly recalled how his mother's death was ruled a suicide, however, he never really believed that to be true. Said she enjoyed causing too much misery to end her life voluntarily. His words stung with poison laced with a begrudged sense of love and loyalty. Antonin spoke of her for well over an hour and I let him speak, but he was careful not to say too much. After what we had just experienced together, I was just as desperate to know any and everything, but there was something else. Something I didn’t dare lay my finger on. 

He finished his story with a defeated sigh, his head hung low, and his shoulders slumped. My heart broke at his resignation. “We will figure it out,” I offered gently before realizing what I had committed to. He looked at me, his amber eyes blazing, and offered a weak smile. “I can tell this takes a lot out of you. You really don’t have to do anything more.” That was it. There was my out. 

“I really don’t mind.” Well. Fuck. Part of me did mind. Part of me wanted to mind more. More of my own damn business. But I simply couldn’t let it go. Or him. 

——- 

I suppose I dozed off in the early hours of the morning and woke to find myself tucked into bed, clothing unmarred. So, he was at the very least a decent person, though I still knew very little of him. After a vigorous stretch to awaken my nervous system, I got up to brew a coffee before getting on with the day.

Just before I reached the stairs, I found a neatly folded piece of paper laid under a key. 

“Meet me inside the Windenburg library tonight just after close. -A” Below the quickly scrawled note was his phone number.

Windenburg was at least a two-hour drive from San Myshuno, but the traffic was usually light in the evenings. I wondered briefly about the significance of Windenburg before my phone rang. I looked down. Brady. 

“What do you want?” My words felt like ice passing over my lips. In that moment the anger from the day before came flooding back in torrents. Rage breaking like waves through my heart. “You didn’t come home.” It sounded more like an accusation than a statement. “Oh, and that worried you, did it? So worried you were that you had to go to the neighbor for comfort? And felt so goddamn comfortable that you kissed her? I was there. Just outside the door. I heard you.”

The laugh on the other end of the phone nearly sent me through the roof. “And what the fuck do you think you heard, Isadora? Sneaking around the door like a goddamn private investigator. You’re so delusional, it’s ridiculous.” In that moment, whatever commitment or loyalty I had to him was severed. “Get the fuck out of my apartment, Brady. Take the two trash bags you walked in with and the third that is you and get the fuck out of my house.” His stunned silence was met with mocking laughter. “I may be delusional, baby, but you’re not. You heard me loud and fucking clear.” I hung up the phone and sat down to collect myself. 

______

555-170-1120…. The line was ringing. I don’t even know why I was calling him in this moment. Why the fuck would a stranger care that I just broke up with my boyfriend? I panicked and hung up. He wouldn’t care. Or at least he shouldn’t. 

I resigned to facing my now overbearingly empty apartment alone and stood to grab my things. My phone rang. Thinking it was Brady and without bothering to check, I answered, “I SAID GET THE FUCK OUT,” my voice somewhere between a scream and a sob. “Whoa, hey. Isadora, what’s wrong?” Immediate relief flooded my system and I let out the sob that had been trapped in my chest, threatening to suffocate me. I couldn’t answer immediately and soon became self-consciously aware of my own tears. This allowed me enough awareness to breathe. “I’m terribly sorry I yelled at you,” my voice was on the brink of breaking again, “but I thought you were someone else.” Even through the telephone, I could hear the realization click. “We can talk when I see you... if you’d like?” His tone was sincere and gentle, and he didn’t question me further. I was thankful for that. “Please.” 

The day has been met with so many twists and turns I nearly have whiplash. I suspect Brady of cheating with the quite literal girl next door. A cute little werewolf, whose name I don’t care to recall. I came home early from the shop today, expecting him to be in the apartment, but the faint giggles and what I know is his voice coming from the apartment next door quickly proved me wrong. I stood just outside the apartment door long enough to hear the wet smack of a kiss. My blood is still boiling. I didn’t stick around much longer after that but once I’ve collected myself, I fully intend to confront him. 

But that’s not even the worst… or weirdest occurrence of the day.

I decided to head back to the shop and collect myself. As you know, dear confidante, cleaning helps me clear my head and I was elbow deep in dust when I heard a faint knock. My sign clearly says closed, so I waited. The knocking persisted, slightly harder than before. Tossing my cloth to the side, I went to see who could possibly be knocking at such a time.

I didn’t realize it had begun to rain over the music, but when I opened the door a tall, at least six-foot, Roman god of a man stood drenched in my doorway. His long, black hair was plastered to his forehead, and he peered at me through soaked strands that obscured his amber eyes. His black, cotton shirt clung to every ridge of his biceps and ripple of his abs. I stood, holding the doorknob until it felt like a white-hot ember in my hand. The sensation was enough to jolt my nervous system back to life. 

“I’m closed.” I said stupidly. I’m still kicking myself for that. 

He looked a bit taken aback but responded with an urgency in his voice, “I’m terribly sorry but I’ve heard you’re the only one who can do this.” 

Well, I’d be lying if I said that didn’t pique my interest entirely. My senses came flooding back and I sheepishly moved aside to allow him in. He waved his hand in a swift, fluid gesture and the constant drip from his clothing and hair ceased. I know the look on my face was one of question because he simply smiled. 

Okay, so he’s a spellcaster. What could he possibly need me for?

“Thanks for not getting my rugs wet.” I joked, sure to convey my knowing. A few moments passed before he finally broke the awkward silence between us. 

“My name is Antonin, I’m not from around here but I need to contact someone.” In my line of work that’s a pretty broad request. I quirked a brow. “Someone who isn’t… on this side,” he continued, his feet shuffling. I could tell this was his first time asking someone to telephone a spirit. 

He was partially correct. I am the only known medium for hundreds of miles. Madame Zelda, the voodoo priestess of Sulani has a steep price for her services, which often require blood rather than money. But that’s just speculation. At any rate, most people don’t take chances unless their needs are dire. 

“Who do you need to contact and why?” I asked outright, having a very strict policy on not disturbing the dead for petty bullshit. “There are rules and reasons as to why I won’t do this. Speak your need carefully,” I warned. 

The man drew a long, steadying breath, closed his eyes and seemed to really consider his words carefully. “My mother… I need to contact my mother.” He stopped there, his eyes still closed, and drew another deep breath. “She’s haunting me and I need to know why.”

I stood in the wake of his monumental silence and steadied myself, feeling each ripple of his words. “Come downstairs.” 

I left no room for objection and led him through the hidden entrance and down the cold, stone steps where I motioned to the table in the corner. “Have a seat, please, and clear your mind entirely.” After he was seated, I asked him if he had anything of his mother’s. To which he responded by taking a necklace from his pocket and laying it on the table. Radiant emeralds sparkled under the dazzling candlelight. I counted at least twelve of varying sizes and shades of green. I stifled my gasp, but I know he saw the look of utter amazement in my eyes as they darted between the bejeweled necklace and his gaze. 

“It was a gift from an emperor. One of my mother's most prized possessions. She left it to me after she was… after she died.” His eyes betrayed him before his mouth did and I knew in that moment I didn’t know everything. However, noting how his emerald eyes seemed to glow like red hot magma, I didn’t press my observation. Instead, I gently took his hand.

And let me fucking tell you, dear confidante, that’s when things got even weirder. 

Both of us recoiled in the same instant our skin touched, a look of shock, partial horror and wonder etched deep into our features. I know because I could see my own reflection in one of the many mirrors around the seancè table. I opened my mouth to speak as I looked down at my hand, half expecting it to catch aflame. 

He found his words before I did. “What the fuck was that?” Okay, so I’m not totally insane and he definitely felt it, too. “You felt that, right? That… that shock?” He struggled regulating his tone and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. Is that part of the ritual?” 

I don’t know what possessed me in that moment, but I lied. “Yes, it can sometimes happen if the connection is strong. It must be the necklace.” He seemed convinced and I was actually pretty surprised at how well I managed to convince myself. The truth was, no, this had absolutely never happened before. I was slightly scared but oddly thrilled, so I pressed on. Extending my hand to him once more, I took a deep breath.

It was like my blood had been replaced with pure electricity. Every nerve in my body hummed, my skin tingling with warmth. I felt his hand try to pull away but I held his grip tighter, determined to find the origin of this sensation. “Think of your mother,” I whispered, fighting my own urge to let go. “Find her and hold her in your mind.” I let the sensation wash over me as I closed my eyes, finally able to see. “Her name is Eleanor and she’s here.” 

And she was. She was a presence like none I had ever felt before and not certain I wanted to feel again. Overpowering and suffocating, so little of the warmth her son provided. “What do you need to know?” My voice was not my own. Antonin’s expression read he knew exactly to whom it belonged. 

“Mother. You’re here,” breathless, he fought to find the words before blurting, “did he murder you?”