My dearest confidante,

 

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.