"I have been forsaken by those who I once served," my translation of La Voisin's writing read. "What a sad thing it is to be a Witch in this day and age. My loyalty to you, first child of Adam and Eve, has not been rewarded. Why did I choose to follow you and not Orchus, Osiris, or even the Dark Lord, as so many of my sisters have?
"Weakness. Weakness of the story of the one called Ankou, who is also Azrael of the heavens. So little is written there, perhaps if I can-—"
I frowned. The script was muddied. The reddish brown French writing smudged a bit. It looked like someone had tried to cross out and rewrite a paragraph three or four times before giving up.
The only sentence I decipher said something like: "a Circle of book and magician, no what's that word the young ones have been using—"
I continued searching through pages in the book for other legible words, but those are few and far between.
Finally, I reached another page where the writing was legible and began the painstaking process of translation again, flipping through my language dictionary and Sylas's own helpful notes about French grammar. His handwriting was incredibly neat. Too neat, and well organized and—
I focused on the book. That helped me keep my mind off Sylas and all that disgusting, whirling mess of emotion there. I was getting close to something with the stupid grimoire. I could almost taste it. Some greater truth or secret about the wretched thing that might give me some insight about why Lord Woodman wanted it, or if it was valuable enough to trade to the fairies at the Goblin Market.
"This book. This journal. The diary shall be my tool. My—"
My frown deepened. What was that word? It was smudged.
Conduit? Artefact?
Those words didn't even look the same. God, the woman had been dead for more than a century and her handwriting was migraine inducing.
The next sentence I made out and translated was: "Parchment made from the skins of babies born to magical—"
I wanted to vomit, and I should've wanted to pull my bare hands off the thing. The book was bound with pages made from the skins of fucking babies. I'd known that already, probably, but it had been something I was desperately trying to shove to the back of my mind. Having the information shoved in my face was enough to make me want to pull away from the grimoire immediately.
But… But I felt a crackle of mana, the potential of necromantic power coursing through every facet of the book, and every time I touched it… it was addictive. Pleasurable beyond belief, and the urge to throw up my lunch got worse.
I turned the pages, skimming the red letters.
"Revenge. Revenge. The dead shall dance."
The same words repeated over and over again.
Revenge. That's this book's Narrative. That was the primary desire the author had when she filled the grimoire with nonsense written in the blood of wizard children upon parchment made from the same kids' hides.
I wanted to vomit or cry, or even just push the wretched grimoire away from me. It was repulsive, but the feeling was so sweet, such a wonderful torrent of mana ready for the taking at my fingertips. I could fill my channels with the power here over and over. I could drown myself in it.
Was that what it felt like to be a noble? To be a real mage? If so, I could almost understand them, understand the appeal behind power and how you could just—
I pushed Le Journal De La Voisin away from me violently. It fell to the floor with a hard thud, and I almost heard a hiss of protest from the wretched thing. I panted, trying to blot out the noises in my head, the temptation of the power that had been at my fingertips. Ever since I first tried to cast what I'd learned was the book's Narrative, I'd felt it calling to me, but since I knew what it was actually meant for, what the book wanted to enact on the world I couldn't think of anything else but starting the spell of vengeance whenever my bare hands touched the leathery cover.
I looked around the room for something to wrap my hands in to pick up the book, and the door opened. Sylas poked his head in, noticed I was on the floor scrounging around for dirty laundry, and grimaced before walking in and closing the door behind him.
I ignored Sylas, selecting an undershirt hidden under my bed to wrap around my hands before I experimentally touched the grimoire through the shirt. The pull of Necromancy and the potential of mana was still there, still thrumming at the edges of my consciousness, but it was much less distinct. Much less like it was trying to drown me in an ocean of power.
Out of the corner of my eye, Sylas shifted through some papers on his desk, his back still to me.
Sylar cleared his throat. "Um, Theo," he managed finally. "Are you doing alright?"
I tensed, my hands still gripped the grimoire. What does he mean by that? Has he finally told the others about my necromancy? Has he told Lion Hall?
"Fine," I said tightly. There was a moment I considered attacking Sylas. Lashing out with the power the grimoire offered me. I could establish a circuit with it, the same way Sylas had with his sword when he fought the spiders in the labyrinth. I could summon hordes upon hordes of the undead, I could—
I dropped the journal and the impulse to fully unseal its Narrative ebbed away from me. I let out a long, slow breath. Even with a piece of cloth between my bare skin and the book, the temptation had still been there, so powerful and overwhelming I could barely think straight.
Sylas still watched me. "Look," he said. "Maybe we should talk. I think—"
"I have somewhere to be," I lied, picking up the grimoire again and ignoring the sultry promises of power it offered before stuffing it into my book bag. It wasn't a total lie. I planned on heading to the mausoleum to see Sgaile again. The hound had been a rare comfort to me, even if our friendship seemed contingent on him not remembering me as a grave robber.
But I also couldn't be around Sylas. Looking at him, hearing his voice was too much of a confusing mess. Anger, sadness, wanting him to smile at me, wanting to smother him in his sleep since he'd learned one of my secrets, and others rattling around in me at risk of spilling out or being discovered due to my own incompetence.
I shoved that down deep inside myself and gritted my teeth as I walked out of my dorm room, still feeling Sylas's eyes on me.
I'm fine, I tell myself sharply. This will all be over soon enough. I just need to endure a bit longer.
***
That night, after a much-needed visit to the mausoleum, I went to the showers to bathe.
Dogs, magical or otherwise, left a scent on oneself.
Showering at Angitia had been something of a challenge, given that the mere sight of the Witch's Mark on my chest was enough to condemn me to death. I had to wait until I knew everyone else was asleep, minimizing the chances of someone walking into the communal showers and finding me out while I scrubbed at my unmentionable bits.
The bathroom was not an attractive place; it matched the rest of Letus Commons in that way. All cracked yellow tiles and the smell of dank air.
I'd taken off my robe after I stepped into the showers, hanging it up on a nearby rusted hook alongside my towel before I turned the water on. Grey liquid spilled onto me, chilling me to the bone. I hissed through my teeth.
I hadn't needed to bathe every day until Lord Woodman had demanded it of me.
"Only nulls may wallow in their filth," he'd said.
Only nulls…
I scrubbed at my arms first, soap bubbles covering me as I worked my way down. The cold water wasn't so much of a pain, all things considered. I just had to be quick about everything. That wasn't a terrible mindset to have.
As I worked my way down, I removed the wax covering my Witch's Mark.
Momentarily, it shone in all its twisting veins of glory in the showers, before I scrubbed at it with soap and cloth. My skin burned. I thought the wax was giving me some sort of rash there. Having the wax on for so long every day and night couldn't be the best for my skin.
Gritting my teeth, I finished soaping myself up, then rinsed off the bubbles.
The faucet turned off with a click.
I stood there in the showers. Nude with my Witch's Mark exposed.
I didn't want to reapply the wax just yet.
I didn't want to slip back into my robe, go back to my room and resume the life of a perfect little Angitia student. I didn't—
The door to the bathroom opened. It scrapped against the ground.
I froze. Dripping and nude in the shower. The wax that should cover my Witch's Mark was on the tiled ground next to me. My robe mere footsteps away.
Then there were footsteps on the ground. Soft ones. I wouldn't have even noticed them if every fiber of my being hadn't been focused on the other person in the bathroom.
I should reapply the wax. I knew that, of course I knew that. I knew I should bend down, get the wax to slap back over my Witch's Mark, dry off, put the robe back on, then get the actual hell out of the bathroom and back to bed.
The footfalls came again, closer to the showers, and I forced myself to reach down and, as quiet as I could, start reapplying the wax. My heart thundered in my chest.
I knew that was when they would find me out. Irregular. Abomination. Aberration that had to be culled. I would die and so would my family.
I heard the slightest hint of steps again as I finished applying the wax and started desperately drying myself off. There was also a sniffing noise. Like Lord Woodman when he was examining a cup of brandy.
Whoever was in the bathroom with me was right in front of the showers.
I threw the towel aside and laced up my robe. If I had a conduit with me, then I would have drawn in mana by the fistfuls. If I had the barest scrap of mana in my channels, then I would have woven tit into a Working of stealth or of combat.
I finished putting my robe on, just as I heard the footstep again.
But it was leaving. Going away from the showers.
I stayed still. Hands frozen in the process of tying the knot of my robe. I remained that way until the door of the bathroom opened and closed again.
Then it was all I could do to not slump to the ground.
I couldn't live like that anymore. Fear and panic and anxiety all rattling around in my brain like rabid birds trying to find their way out of my skull.
It needed to end.
I needed to make it all end.