Page 59 of Wicked Salvation

I don’t look up at first, my heartbeat slowing down when I realize the cadence doesn’t match Silas’ or Lucian’s—then I feel her presence, warm and strange, like a candle burning too close to your thumb.

Lady Agnes Pembroke.

She stands beside the table, holding a worn, dark green book against her like it’s alive. Her hair rests over one shoulder. Agnes is suspiciously quiet today—usually she’s bouncing off the walls and or chatting my ear off about some book.

“I thought of you,” she says, smiling slightly. Her voice is soft, but carries well enough. “This one kept whispering your name to me.”

My stomach dips.

What is she talking about?

Thoughts of the ghosts whispered about in the hallways, whatever possessed Silas that night by the boathouse. I can’t help but be a little suspicious.

“What?” I ask, blinking.

“This book,” she says. “It asked for you.”

She holds it out.

The leather is cracked and fraying at the corners. The gold leaf on the spine is nearly rubbed away, but I can make out the title.

The Blood and the Altar.

It’s not on the syllabus, and I’ve never heard of it.

“I don’t think I’ll have time to read anything extra,” I tell her, gesturing to the books in front of me. “I’m already behind.”

“You’ll find time,” she says. “Books have a way of making themselves known when you need them most.”

And with those words, she sets it down on top of my notes and walks away. No explanation, no questions. Agnes disappears between the stacks of books like a dream I won’t remember right.

I stare at the book.

I don’t want it, but apparently I’m terrible at resisting. I don’t move it either, though. The book just sits there—dark, old and breathing.

When I turn back to the paper, I try to focus on the assigned text.

But the words won’t stay on the page. They smear and twitch. They don’t belong to me. I reread the same passage four times and can’t remember a single word of it. Again, I knead my forehead out of instinct, before remembering just how painful it’s going to be.

I wince, the pen slipping from my fingers and rolls off the table. I duck under to grab it—careful not to hit my head—and when I come back up, the book Agnes gave me seems closer than before.

That’s ridiculous.

Clearly, I’m so tired that I’m unraveling.

I can’t remember the last time I ate. To quiet my thoughts, I stuff the book away in my bag and try to get back in the right frame of mind to tackle this project.

That’s when my phone buzzes.

Silas:

Are you still in the library?

I didn’t tell him where I was.

I don’t reply to his message—instead, I grab my things and shove them into my bag. My heart is pounding now. As stealthily as I can, I slip out the service exit of the library.

My heart is in my throat, because with every step I take the more my throat closes up.