Page 2 of Fleshbound (Enchanted Ink)

T he following evening, Quillam flipped the lock and the sign at closing time, wishing he’d taken Perry up on his offer to work.

The day had been bloody busy, so much so that he’d not been able to continue his hunt through the genealogy volume at all.

Finally closed, he could devote a few hours to it before bed.

Eyeing the desk in his back room, he contemplated taking the book upstairs to his apartment.

Mouse needed company and his comfortable chair in the reading nook was calling his name.

Before he could exit the back door, he heard a thud very much like the night before. He paused with his hand on the knob, another cold chill racing up his spine. Turning, he laid down the book and ambled out into the darkened shop, a ball of magic in his palm lighting the way.

Again, he lit the sky and the fire. He searched the shadows.

He found no one inside with him.

Another book laid in the same exact spot where he’d discovered the one the night before. After another worried check around him, he lifted the heavy tome. Flipping it, he frowned.

Fleshbound.

Rushing to the backroom, he yanked open the strongbox. He dropped to his knees to search inside the small, spelled metal vault but found the copy he’d placed the night before wasn’t there. Digging through the tomes, he pulled every single one out to be sure it hadn’t slid under another.

It wasn’t there.

Rolling back on his haunches, he looked at the book lying beside him. He opened the cover, confused. He’d been tired, of course, but he hadn’t dreamt the event.

Had he?

Quill gasped as he turned the pages.

They were no longer blank.

He stood, carrying the book with him, unable to take his eyes from it.

He rested it on his desk and stared, absolutely sure it had been empty last night.

Turning to the front matter, he found little there.

Antique tomes rarely had copyright pages, or sometimes not even title ones—so that wasn’t surprising.

He turned several pages, noting it was most definitely hand done calligraphy that looked centuries old to his skillful eye.

Fleshbound did have a title page. A medieval illustration of golden curlicues and reddish black dragon with red, fiery eyes. No author was listed. No calligrapher, either. There was no introduction. Page two went right into the beginning of its tale.

The mysts of Evonium did cloak the portal ‘twixt man and fae upon the day of Corven's birth.

It was spoken that he descended upon the earth with a crown of crimson locks, tinged with onyx, bearing the visage of a serpent.

His eyes, aflame and blood red as those of dragons.

All who beheld the bairn did tremble at its presence and the curse which it must needs have herald upon the realm.

Yet, as he did mature, Evonium did gather vast riches. The babe did blossom into a noble knight, stout and comely, who did guard those within the castle's embrace with cunning and might. Corven's wondrous deeds were many, echoing across the land.

In sooth, he was ever accursed. Love did allude him. No wife did he take, nor did he beget heirs. His charmed existence did span far beyond others, yet there be none who would hold his heart dear.

Within this tome lie the legends of Corven and his quest for a love that might eclipse all loves. A love so rare, it doth transcend the very weave of time—as did Corven himself.

Quill lightly traced his fingertips over the page, already captivated by the story.

It was no spell that seized him—his rare magic was the reason he was a bookseller in the first place.

If the tome was cursed, he’d feel it. It would have little to no effect on him.

He’d handled some of the most cursed books in his lifetime and lived to tell the tale with ease—like the one in the catacombs.

Fleshbound wasn’t cursed, even if the man had been.

A curse, hmm? Of never finding love? I understand that curse all too well.

After replacing the books he’d taken from the safe and securing it, he once again ensured all the doors were locked within the shop.

Tucking Fleshbound under one arm, he scurried upstairs.

He quickly brewed a cup of Valerian tea and once Mouse was curled up alongside him in bed, he turned to page on Corven’s tale.

The stories drew him in, painting vivid pictures. He eyed the clock around two in the morning but needed just one more chapter before he called it a night. When he reached the final page—the story it told was incomplete.

Mid-fable, the story was left to his imagination. His heart broke.

“How fucking dare you,” Quill whispered, shooting off the rare curse word.

He laid the book on his nightstand and caught a glimpse at the clock.

Eleven in the morning?

Merciful heavens! How in the heck?

He turned to the window, bright sunlight streaming in. How had he not noticed day had come and brightened his bedroom? He reached for his rotary telephone and dialed Perry’s cell number. The little skunk shifter picked up on the third ring.

“You finally remember how to use your phone? I’ve been calling all morning!” Perry said after he’d said hello.

Quill frowned. “It never rang, I swear!”

He’d not noticed the sun and not heard his phone? He frowned, worried the book was indeed bespelled… and he’d not sensed it.

“Where are you?”

Quill laid a hand over his throat and sent a prayer to Hecate for the fib he was about to tell. Two sins in one morning. A swear word and a lie. What was becoming of him? “I think I’m coming down with a bit of a cold… or something. I don’t feel quite myself this morning.”

The last sentence was the truth. He didn’t feel quite himself at all.

Perry sighed with what sounded like relief.

“As much dust that’s in some of these old books, it’s amazing you’re not sick all the time. I feel like I’ve got a constant tickle in my throat these days,” Perry said. “Please tell me you’re taking the day off. I can handle things here, I promise.”

Quill winced at the kindness Perry offered after he’d given a lie. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Quill didn’t respond for a few seconds. Guilt washed over him.

“The shop is only closed one day a week,” Perry said. “And don’t think I don’t notice you come in most of those anyway. You need to take better care of yourself and get some rest. Just as you told me a couple of nights ago.”

“I heard your mumbling.” Quill sighed. “But you’re right.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Maybe I am a bit overworked.”

“I need you well so you can be here when I need you. Not burnt out and exhausted.”

“I suppose you’re right. I don’t rest much.” He fought off a yawn. “I’m headed to bed. Back to bed, I mean.” He winced again. “Goodnight.”

“I hope you feel better,” Perry said before hanging up.

Quill returned the receiver to the hook, remorse over his little fib tearing him up inside.

“Ye heard what the wee skunk said. Ye need to take better care of yerself, Quill.”