Chapter Fifteen The Nova
Chapter Fifteen
The Nova
I wish I could say that organizing the library had made it easier to find what I needed, but not even a flawless categorization could give me answers to questions I didn’t even know to ask.
Every book had said the same thing. Any mention of my ability to commune with the shadows and reach into the Otherside was treated as some archaic folktale that had yet to be replicated, except for a few descriptions of secondhand accounts hundreds, maybe thousands, of years ago.
None of them noted whether some of these rituals or visits to the Otherside had been successful.
I slouched in my chair, the faint glow of the biolamp dancing in my face. I placed my clenched jaw in my hands, watching the small particles spin and race around the glass. My elbow rested on a softer book . . . my father’s journal.
I brushed my hands over it, clearing any worn leather pieces pilling the edges; even the tie around it was in a fragile state. The leather needed rehydrating—a good oiling would do the trick—but not much could be done for the integrity of the leather tie.
One part of me did not want to intrude, despite my father nearly thrusting this at me in the first place. There was some level of privacy I felt I was invading.
The other part of me missed my father. The way he had been.
It was strange now, knowing what life used to be like.
He was smart, quick with his sources as well as his jokes.
A man who loved to read, to savor slow moments.
The one who’d come from a small town with the only woman he’d ever loved.
The one who thanked the stars every day for his cup of coffee, the bugs on the sidewalk, even for his misfortunes.
He believed that all things were gifts—some rewards just came later.
He never held a grudge; he did not believe in a natural evil, or even a natural good.
My nails traced over the surname etched into the worn leather.
Just one peek.
I lifted the cover, and the comfort of my father’s blocky writing put me at just as much ease as a first language.
But I’d made a mistake.
This was not a journal.
Heed me, reader. Whether this be my future self or an unfortunate stranger—hear my warning, you will never outrun death twice. Take all that I know and run with what you understand.
With a newly straightened posture, I turned the cover over again to check if I had mistakenly opened another book. No, it was his. The same leather-bound book as before.
The deceiver lies alone, cursed with knowing all, and possessing none. Do not let him through.
I flipped to the next page, a sort of index.
There were scribbles of sigils, quick notes beside them.
Half were different types of protections; others were quick symbols for categories, footnotes, and the like.
One that caught my attention was an eye: well, two versions.
An oval eye with an arrow drawn through it.
Arrowhead outward for banishing, inward for trapping. Chalk or carving. Will only apply to the whole object.
Then the next page.
Florescentia to open, Obscuria to close. It is important that you close.
“He can do it too,” I whispered out loud. Though there was no mention of the Peculiars. How was he doing it? Just after the incantations, some descriptions.
Water is a door. Any body of water, but be wary of the size. The size of the door will fit the visitor you summon, make sure you have the strength to close it.
Water is a door.
Water is a door.
I sprang from my seat like a ravenous flea, my legs moving faster than my body, complete with a stumble around the corner. Absinthe and Tonic zipped by my feet, disturbed by the sudden movement. Up to the third floor, past portrait walls and the bedroom door, then finally, the bathroom.
I ran the sink, watching the water putter until it had a steady stream. With a washcloth, I plugged the sink.
“Florescentia,” I whispered.
“I didn’t know your little legs could move that fast.” Altair’s voice sounded distant in the room.
“Just an experiment,” I said, not taking my eyes off the sink.
The shadow peeked over my shoulder, staring at me through the reflection. “Are you experimenting with a new hand soap?”
“No.” I turned quickly, walking directly through the shadow’s chest. A small jolt of energy zapped throughout my body, a flash of coldness as I passed a dark cloud.
The tub faucet was stiff again; the handles needed cleaning. When the turn finally gave way, hot water splashed into the basin.
The shadow was loose in form but vaguely human shaped. I supposed he’d gotten tired of all the effort of a tangible form. It slunk over to the tub, sitting behind it as it watched me.
I glanced down at the book.
There were no instructions, nothing specific. Just the incantations and a couple of paragraphs about the water. I supposed it worked like my Peculiars, but less sentient.
With my eyes closed, I let the breath leave my lungs completely. My heartbeat pumped in my ears, slower and slower. The muscles in my face relaxed, my shoulders releasing.
“Florescentia,” I said again.
“What are you doing?” Altair’s voice cut through.
My eyes snapped open. “Put your hand in.”
“Why?” He sounded offended as he shifted to the farthest end of the basin.
“I just want to see something.” I pointed. “Just try it, please.”
Just like Absinthe, the shadow became more textured, irritated at the request. He extended his arm, even tidied up the shape before presenting it. Slowly, he stuck his arm into the water.
I closed my eyes, imagining the sink. The patina on the brass knobs, the crack by the drain, even the feel of the porcelain under my palm.
The dull thud of something in the background startled me.
His hand was now coming up from within the sink. The shadowy fingers flexed.
“Obscuria,” I said, then a hiss.
The hand in the sink contorted as it severed, turning to a fluid shadow as it crept off into the hallway.
“Now look what you’ve done,” Altair huffed, removing his arm from the basin and banishing his limbs into himself, as if he was afraid I’d use more. “You know, every cell in me is as sentient as I, just like one of your octopus species and their independent limbs.”
“Or a worm,” I suggested, “that makes two independent halves when cut.”
The shadow slumped, more static in the texture of the form.
I don’t think he likes that comparison.
“Have you been reading?” I teased. “I suppose nautical books make sense for a creature like you.”
“Ate it,” he said.
“The book?” I paused.
“No.” His voice was muffled now.
“So what is it exactly that you ate?”
“Well, you know things like me and your . . . pets, we eat energy. It’s best fresh.
But because we can consume this type of energy, we can also get glimpses of the same energy rubbed off on objects.
We feed through the . . . skin.” He was choosing his words carefully, then he moved a hand over the other arm, the inky shadow wavering.
“So you absorb through contact?”
“Most times,” he said. “It’s sensitive enough where we don’t necessarily need to touch you. It’s in the air, people’s words, their emotions. It permeates every surrounding breath.”
“So the book—”
“It had remnants of a memory on it,” he said.
I almost understood what he meant when he said remnants, because truly they were.
Suddenly I was transported back to my childhood, my father holding the book in front of me with the octopus illustration.
We’d sat on the edge of the docks by the river.
He convinced me that if I stayed very still and very quiet, an octopus might be brave enough to say hello.
Now, I realized that was some ploy to get an overactive child to focus on something for a while. But I distinctly remembered him pointing to the limbs and talking about how their organs could move about their body, or their legs all had minds of their own.
“How did you know to do that?” His voice brought me back, and I was staring at the shadow again, three glowing eyes looking back at me. “With the water.”
I tucked my father’s journal under my arm.
“What is that?” He pointed.
“None of your business,” I said. “It’s my father’s.”
His arm lunged at me, smacking against the floor when I moved. The shadow grew larger.
“Give it to me,” his voice rumbled, the floorboards creaking as his form stretched, his head almost hitting the ceiling.
I ran between his legs, the wind blowing my hair as his arm swiped again. Then a tendril wrapped around my leg, pulling it out from under me and dragging me sharply across the floor.
I looked at the journal, the mundane, boring thing. What was he afraid of?
I dug my nail into the soft leather, scratching an eye, then making a line through it.
There was no time to wonder if it would work. Only enough time to try.
My nail broke as I scraped the outward-facing arrowhead on the end of the line, and it was like a loud sound under deep waters.
There was a screech, much more horrid than that of my Peculiars the night Altair appeared.
The beast scrambled, much like I had moments before. His form shrank, cornering himself in the room, those three eyes staring out at me.
My throat was ragged from the panic, but slowly I began to breathe.
I stood in the middle of the room, journal in hand. The only thing more frightening than the symbol working was the fact that it was of my father’s discovery. What had he done to learn such a thing?
Altair did not move from his corner, but those monstrous eyes were burning with hatred.
I looked down at the soft leather, inspecting the book on all sides—then threw it his way.
He avoided it like a cat, ducking and bending around the path of the book. It was like lye in oil.
“Do that again”—I approached; he avoided me just as he’d avoided the book, his back never turning—“and I will find a way to banish you from the house too.”
“Is that a threat?” His voice was a low rumble, diverging from his human mimicry.
“Try it again and find out.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” I slowly picked up the journal.
He followed my movements, being as still as he could.
“There is, isn’t there?” I teased.
“Not everything is worth knowing,” he answered, “and some abilities are sparse for a good reason.” He pointed at the book.
“As optimistic as ever.” I stepped past him.
But there was a lingering energy, something foul in the air. Could it be the weight of a secret or the anticipation of something the monster knew that I did not? Was his warning genuine, or was it a way to stop me from looking too hard?