Chapter 2 Chapter 2

Raven's POV

The small bell above the bookstore made the usual pathetic jingle as I was locking the shop up for the night. “Sin & Scripture” that was my boss’s ironic name for this dusty, dying shop that was located in the bad part of town. I pulled my hood up against the pouring rain and started the long walk back to my apartment. I had the takeout bag with tonight’s dinner swinging from my fingers.

Another lonely Thursday. I was used to it. I was twenty-six years old with no real friends and no family, just a string of dead-end jobs and an unhealthy obsession with old books that most people would rather burn. It didn’t take long for the rain to soak through my coat, chilling me to the bone. The rain was coming down in sheets, followed by a huge burst of lighting, but I wasn’t in a hurry. I took my time. It wasn’t like there was anything or anyone waiting for me at home except silence and more work. I was halfway home when the email came. My phone vibrated in my pocket. I stopped under a flickering streetlight and opened it with wet fingers.

Subject: Final Payment + Delivery

It was the same client. The same cryptic rich asshole who had been paying me a ridiculous amount of money for the last two weeks, and he had just wired another five thousand dollars. Attached to the email was a single line:

“The book has been delivered to your apartment. Translate the final section tonight. Do not disappoint me.”

I stared at the screen, okay what the hell, I never gave him my home address. A shiver ran through me that had nothing to do with the rain. I shoved the phone back into my pocket and walked faster. By the time I reached my tiny apartment, my nerves were already frayed. And there it was, a black wooden box sitting on my kitchen table like it belonged there. I looked around and there, but there was no note and no sign of forced entry. Just the box and the heavy smell of old parchment and something metallic.

I should have called the police, right? That would have been the sane thing to do, but I had stopped thinking about my sanity years ago. Instead, I opened it. The grimoire inside was massive, it was bound in dark leather that felt warm to the touch. The pages were yellowed and covered in dense, beautiful Latin. I’d already translated most of it over the last two weeks, the ritual texts, the invocations and the warnings about something called “The Eight, The Vessel.” But for some reason this last section felt different, it felt more alive and really dangerous.

I spent the next three hours staring at the first few pages of that section under the glow of my desk lamp, rubbing my eyes until they stung. My dictionary was practically falling apart from how many times I had flipped the pages, trying to make sense of the archaic syntax. It wasn’t normal Latin. The grammar felt twisted, almost like the sentences were breathing against my skin every time I wrote the translations down in my notebook.

By Tuesday, my head was pounding so hard I felt sick. I tried to focus on my shift at the bookstore, but Mr. Cole spent twenty minutes yelling at me because I shelved an entire cart of theology books in the cooking section. I couldn’t concentrate for my shift and every time a customer walked past the front counter, I caught myself looking around, waiting for some anonymous creep to step out of the shadows.

I was losing it big time, I knew I was losing it. The money was piling up in my bank account, five grand here, two grand there, enough to pay rent for a year, but the apartment itself started feeling smaller. The walls felt like they were closing in on me every time I sat down at my desk. The air always smelled faintly of woodsmoke and, no matter how many times I opened the window to let in the city smog, the smell always stayed, it never went away.

By Thursday night, the exhaustion had settled deep into my bones. After I got home from the bookstore and showered, I changed into an old oversized T-shirt and panties. I made terrible coffee, and sat down at my desk. Hours passed, but the rain didn’t let up, it kept pounding against the window. The rain has been falling for days on end. My eyes started getting heavy as I worked through the archaic script but I pushed through. Around 2 in the morning, I leaned back and rubbed my temples. That was when the memory of the dream hit me again, the same one that had been tormenting me for the past six months.

In the dream, I was naked and lying on a cold stone that was something like an altar. There were seven shadowed figures that were always standing in a circle around me. There were hands, too many freaking hands that slid over my body. Some of the hands were gentle, and some cruel. I felt mouths on my throat, on my breasts and between my thighs. The seven pairs of glowing eyes were always standing over me watching as I writhed and begged. But there was one voice, it was colder and more arrogant than the rest, and it always whispered the same thing: “You were made for us, Eight.”

I would wake up from those dreams wet and ashamed, with my thighs pressed together, hating how badly my body reacted. I shook the memory away and focused back on the grimoire.

Morning came too fast, hitting my eyes like a physical blow when my alarm went off. I hadn't slept more than two hours, and my body felt heavy and aching in a way that made me feel sick to my stomach. The phantom heat of those dream hands were still lingering on my skin, making my thighs feel weak as I forced myself out of bed and rushed through my morning routine and pulled on my coat. The walk to the bookstore was a blur. By the time I pushed open the door, my head felt like it was being split into two. Mr. Cole didn't even look up from his ledger when I dragged myself past him to the back aisles. I spent the entire morning staring blankly at the spines of old paperbacks, my hands were shaking so badly that I dropped a stack of poetry books on the floor.

Every time the bell above the door jingled, my chest seized up, expecting... I didn't even know what the hell I was expecting. Just someone looking for me or someone who knew what I’d been dreaming about. I survived the shift by hiding behind a tall shelf of encyclopedias, trying to scrub the memory of those glowing eyes out of my head... I shook the memory away and focused back on the grimoire.