Chapter 2
Alanna
Iwake up in a cold sweat in the liminal hour of the morning, when the promise of dawn is in the air yet darkness still reigns.
Unruly strands of hair cling to my neck, and my clammy palms clutch at damp sheets in vain.
The odd thrumming sensation dogged me all night, infesting my dreams and changing them into insubstantial, unsettling nightmares.
Groggily, I crack my eyes open, and as I do, I feel a sharp tug deep in my gut, like an invisible fishing line hooked somewhere vital, pulling. Goosebumps erupt everywhere.
Yeah. There’s no way I’m going back to sleep now. Even if it is only a lingering effect of the nightmare, following me into waking life.
Rolling over to dispel the tugging feeling, I try to will the nightmares away. And while I’m at it, I will away the weird pulsating feeling, too.
Obviously, I am just too stressed. I’ve been working late at the library recently, and then spending my evenings going on a string of lackluster and disappointing dates.
Or maybe I’m simply coming down with something.
A cold. Late onset insomnia. A terminal case of overthinking.
Lots of rational explanations available.
Unfortunately, none of them explain why I still feel the need to go back to the library and look at that book. I’ve been excited and curious about new acquisitions before, but never like this. This doesn’t feel fun. It feels like . . . a compulsion.
An illogical compulsion. Today is Saturday, and not only am I not scheduled to work on Saturdays, but I have my morning Pilates class to attend.
Missing it is practically a cardinal sin against my calendar.
After that is the meetup with Lizzy and Jen for coffee.
I remember feeling eager to tell them about my latest book boyfriend, but oddly, now coffee with my best friends suddenly feels like a distraction.
Before I know what I’m doing, I am out of bed and pulling on comfortable jeans and a simple green T-shirt.
It will be easy and quick, I’ll just pop into the library for a minute and look at the book, with tons of time to spare before Pilates and coffee.
If I scratch this itch, it will go away. I am already awake anyway, so why not?
By the time I step out of my apartment building, the sky is brightening, creating a backdrop of soft pastels for the skyscrapers.
Arriving at the library long before opening, I let myself in through the side door.
I nearly jog through the entry hall—the same one I left with Em just hours earlier—heading straight for the rare manuscript room.
A quick peek is all. I’ll just open that damn book, satisfy my burning curiosity, and go about my day.
In my haste, I hardly notice the internal hum accelerate, matching the rise of my own heartbeat as I rush.
The box is where I left it, and the book is nestled inside, waiting. The sight of it makes me lightheaded, almost giddy. The pull is undeniable, and it drags me forward. Lacking my usual carefulness, I snatch the book and crack it open without a moment’s hesitation.
Pressed into the inside cover like a bookmark lies a thin iridescent crystalline shard.
My breath catches. It is beautiful. An entrancing kaleidoscope of dreamlike hues shimmering subtly from within, giving a dizzying sense of depth that defies the laws of physics.
I’ve catalogued countless treasures in this room, held manuscripts centuries old, but nothing has ever looked like this. Nothing has ever felt like this.
It pulses, once, twice, three times. I thrum in response. Once, twice, three times.
The resonance builds with each pulse, each breath, growing from a whisper to a roar that drowns out rational thought.
Don’t touch it.
The warning surfaces from some distant, drowning part of my mind. The part that still remembers I’m a librarian, a woman of science and reason. The part that knows when something is dangerous. But the warning is faint, barely audible over the deafening call of the delicate crystal.
My hand moves without my permission, fingers extending toward it. I watch as though I’m piloting my body from very far away. My mouth has gone dry. My arm trembles—whether from fear or anticipation, I can’t tell.
It’s so smooth. So fragile. So right.
The thrumming has become everything, obliterating the boundary between choice and compulsion. My fingertip hovers a breath away from its surface, and even that microscopic distance feels like an affront. Like being separated from something essential.
Every instinct screams at me to pull back. But I can’t. I don’t want to.
My finger touches the crystal.
The world stops.
For one crystalline moment, there is perfect stillness. Perfect silence. The thrumming beneath my skin goes quiet, and in that absence, I feel complete in a way I’ve never experienced. Like finding a missing piece of myself I didn’t know was gone.
Then, the resonance doesn’t just magnify—it detonates.
A searing jolt shoots through my fingertips, racing up my arm and exploding through my chest. My vision whites out, the rare manuscript room dissolving into pure, blinding light.
I try to scream but there’s no air, no sound, nothing but the overwhelming sensation of something vast and ancient pouring into me, filling every empty space in my body, my mind, my soul.
Confusing, fragmented sensations swirl in a maelstrom inside of me: memory, power, knowledge, longing.
None of it mine. All of it becoming mine.
It’s too much. Colors in the air, iridescent colors, swirl around me, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
The lights overhead shriek with a sound that shouldn’t exist, a frequency that vibrates in my teeth and bones.
My forearm is on fire, no, it’s ice, no, it’s something beyond temperature entirely.
Wind whips around me—inside this windowless room, inside my body—and I’m dimly aware that I’m staggering backward, that I’m making panicked sounds I’ve never made before.
Too much, too much, too much.
Terror floods my system. Whatever this is—whatever I’ve just done—it’s something I never should have disturbed. The lights scream, the air solidifies, and my forearm erupts in sensation so intense it transcends pain. I’m burning, dissolving, becoming—
The book falls from my numb fingers.
The sound of it hitting the floor shatters whatever hold the crystal had on me. I stumble away, gasping, my lungs remembering how to work. The impossible colors fade. The void recedes. The vast presence releases me.
But something has irrevocably changed.
Shakily, I try to reassert control over my mental state, taking deep calming breaths, and then cataloguing the familiar chamber, verifying that everything is as it should be.
The multitudes of shelves, all brimming with priceless books, extending away from me toward the depths of the room.
The overhead lights, no longer buzzing with unbearable loudness.
The precious tome, now lying unceremoniously on the floor.
Rubbing my sweaty palms on my jeans, I ground myself in the rough feeling of the denim.
But as my gaze falls back to the book, a sick dread creeps over me. Something is amiss. My eyes narrow on the open page, specifically at the shallow, indistinct indentation just inside the cover. The iridescent crystalline shard is gone.
I scream internally. Impossible!
Dropping to my hands and knees, I frantically search the floor for the thin shard, though I can already see that it isn’t anywhere to be found. I lift the book, checking underneath. No crystal. I rifle through the pages. No crystal.
Resisting the urge to assume the fetal position and start crying, I force myself to stand back up. I simply do not have all the necessary data points, but there is a rational explanation for all of this. There is.
As if to refute my flimsy attempts at reason, a palpable chill suddenly sweeps through the already cool room, crowding out the lingering heat that still suffuses my body after the strange surge.
It is a heavy coldness that hurts my lungs.
It couldn’t be a draft—this room is specifically climate controlled to protect the books.
Glancing around wildly, I try to determine the origin of this new anomaly. The door is still closed.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see something.
A fleeting shadow behind the shelves. But when I look directly at it, nothing’s there.
Bilious apprehension pools in my stomach, and I back away toward the door, never taking my eyes off the stacks.
Every part of my body is freezing cold now. Every part except my forearm.
Daring to take my eyes off the shadow for a moment—or at least, the spot where I thought I saw a shadow—I look at my arm.
There, on the inner side of my forearm between my wrist and my elbow, is a strange mark, unlike any tattoo I’ve ever seen.
It glows, softly, a living mosaic of translucent light woven from the same ethereal colors as the crystal.
Its shape, too, mirrors the crystal. As I inspect it, it seems to appear and disappear with every shift of my arm, illusory and elusive.
This is not rational, this is not possible, this cannot be happening, I chant internally as I scrub furiously at the mark with my palm. It makes no difference. It’s like the shard has melded into my skin, its light swirling faintly in rhythm with my own pulse.
I am still trying to wrap my mind around this when the lights flicker, wrenching my attention back to whatever is going on in this room. Then, before I can react, I’m plunged into darkness.
That is it. None of this makes sense and I am done with it. I run to the door, flinging it open and all but throwing myself out of my former sanctuary.
And directly into something solid. I scream.