“Getting anything?” he asks, voice low, gaze fixed on me.
I shrug, turning to him when I say, “It’s like—it’s like reading someone’s diary. Or at least that’s what I’m getting—you?”
He nods. “Same.”
“But I thought it would be more like—I don’t know, like a book of spells. You know, a different one on each page.”
“You mean a grimoire.” He smiles, displaying two amazing dimples and charmingly crooked front teeth.
I frown, unfamiliar with the word.
“It’s like a recipe book for spells, containing very specific data—dates, times, ritual performed, results of the ritual, that sort of thing. Strictly business, nothing but the facts.”
“And this?” I tap my nail against the page.
“More like a journal, as you said. A highly personal account of a witch’s progress—what she did, why she did it, how she felt, the results, et cetera. Which is why they’re often written in code, or Theban like this.”
My shoulders droop as I screw my lips to the side, wondering why every bit of progress I’m about to make actually results in two giant steps back.
“You were looking for something more specific? A love spell perhaps?”
I peer at him, eyes narrowed, wondering why he just said that.
“Sorry.” He shrugs, eyes grazing my face, lingering on my lips for a few seconds too long. “Seems like trouble in paradise with the way you and Damen are avoiding each other these days.”
I close my eyes for a moment, forcing the sting to retreat. It’s been one week. One week without Damen—his sweet telepathic messages—his warm and loving embrace. The only hint that he even exists is the fresh supply of elixir I found in my fridge. An elixir he must’ve slipped in while I slept, taking every precaution to get the job done before I could wake. Each passing hour so painful, so agonizing, so lonely—I’ve no idea how I’ll get through the summer without him.
Jude’s energy shifts, his aura pulling back just as a sensitive shade of blue flickers at the edges. “Well, whatever you seek,” he says, back to business again. “You’ll find it in here.” He thumps the page with his thumb. “You just have to give it some time to take it all in. It’s a very detailed account, and the content goes pretty deep.”
“Where’d you find it?” I take in the spray of dreadlocks hitting just shy of his lips. “And how long have you had it?” I add, suddenly needing to know.
He shrugs, averting his gaze. “Picked it up somewhere—some guy I once knew.” He shakes his head. “It was a long time ago.”
“Vague much?” I smile, giving a sort of half laugh he fails to return. “Seriously. You’re only nineteen—how long ago could it have been?” I study him closely, remembering the time I asked the same question of Damen—well before I knew what he was. A sudden chill pricking my skin as I take him in, the crooked teeth, the scar marking his brow, the tangle of dread-locks falling into those familiar green eyes—assuring myself he’s merely someone I knew from my past, that he’s nothing like me.
“Guess I’m not so big on tracking time,” he says, the laugh that follows uncommitted, forced. “I try to live in the moment—the now. Still, must’ve been four—maybe five years ago—when I first started getting into this stuff.”
“And did Lina find it? Is that why you hide it?”
He shakes his head, face flushing when he says, “As embarrassing as it is to admit, she came across a poppet I’d made and completely freaked out. Thought it was a voodoo doll. Misread the whole thing.”
“Poppet?” My gaze fixed on his, having no idea what that is.
“A sort of magical doll.” He shrugs, embarrassed gaze meeting mine. “I was a kid, what can I say? I was misguided enough to think it would convince a certain girl to like me.”
“And did it?” I hold my breath, studying him carefully, wondering why those simple words cause a ping in my gut.
“Lina destroyed it before it could work. Just as well.” He shrugs. “Turns out she was trouble.”
“Your usual type.” The words rushing forward before I can stop them.
He looks at me, eyes glinting. “Old habits die hard.”
We sit like that, eyes locked, breath halted, the moment growing, stretching, until I finally break away and return to the book.
“I’d love to help you,” he says, voice low and deep. “But I get the feeling your journey’s too private for me.”
I turn, about to speak, when he adds, “N