I walk over to Spencer and place both my hands on his neck. “May you rot in the fiery depths of hell.”
Snap.
His lifeless body falls to the floor.
“Well, this wasn’t very entertaining,” Dax grumbles. “This is what you summoned us for? I thought we were at least going to tear him to pieces for touching our girl. Where is she, by the way?”
“Not here,” I say sharply. “I needed it to look like he broke his neck in the accident.”
“And his tongue?” Killian questions.
“Shit... well, perhaps it will look like he bit it off.” I toss his tongue at Killian, “Make sure it’s in his truck when you push it over the edge.”
Killian sighs and throws Spencer’s lifeless body over his shoulder as if he weighs nothing. Dax follows him out the door.
Dani is mine. Well, she is ours. Anyone who touches her will not live to see another day.
I clean up all the evidence that Spencer had ever driven home that night. We don’t need Dani’s crew to investigate anything.
Chapter 4
Dani
I can’t sleep. I don’t want to toss and turn since Jules is sound asleep beside me, so I quietly roll out of bed.
The kitchen is illuminated by the moonlight peeking through my front windows. I never close my blinds. I like looking outside at the darkness. It soothes me.
I can’t stop thinking about the grimoire and necklace I found today. With an eager urgency, I reach into my bag, retrieving the ancient book that now feels alive in my lap. Its leather seems to shimmer in the fading moonlight. Alongside it, I pull out the necklace, it glows faintly with an otherworldly energy.
As I examine it closely, my fingers brush against the cool metal. The temptation to slip it around my neck is strong, yet I clutch it tightly in my hand, feeling its weight and the warmth it exudes.
A strange sensation pulses through me, as if the grimoire is resonating with my very being, calling out to me in a whisper only I can hear.
This is ridiculous, I think to myself.
I sink into the plush cushions of my couch, the soft fabric cradling me as I place the book gently in my lap. I open the cover, releasing a faint, musty odor that speaks of centuries gone by.
Immediately, I see that the first page is inscribed in elegant Latin. I feel thankful I studied Latin Language and Literature during my college days.
It takes a moment for the meaning to unfurl in my mind, but as I translate the ancient words, they come alive:In aforest deep where shadows loom, under the light of the full moon, at midnight’s hour, let silence unfold, open this book to secrets untold. But be not fooled, she who can read, must wear the jewel to fulfill the need. Once it rests upon your neck so fine, you bind your fate to their design.
I flip through the pages further, and I am greeted by intricate incantations. Their elegant scripts dance across the fragile pages alongside vivid illustrations of runes and other mythical symbols that seem to pulse with hidden energy.
Every page is classily framed with a gold vine design that seems to dance along the edges. I gently run my thumb over the raised pattern, feeling the delicate texture beneath my fingertips as if tracing the artistry of nature itself.
“Absolutely beautiful,” I quietly whisper to myself.
The book undoubtedly holds secrets of witchcraft, and I wonder if this could really be the lost book of the Witch of Misty Hollow?
I carefully turn each page, the paper whispering as it unfurls beneath my fingertips. I marvel at the age of this tome. Some sections are so battered that the ink has faded almost into oblivion, rendering the text nearly illegible. Yet, certain incantations stand out, clearly inscribed in English. Other pages are dominated by flowing Latin script, the words swirling with ancient power, waiting to be spoken.
I turn the page again, and I’m greeted by a captivating illustration that unfolds before me—three sets of striking eyes and what appears to be a woman with long hair oddly similar to mine—standing in the middle of them with her back turned. Their faces appear to have some type of mask over them. It’s so faded, I can hardly tell. But the colors… The colors seem vibrant still.
The first pair of eyes, a crystalline blue, seem to shimmer with an oceanic depth. Next to them, a warm, molten amberpair radiates an inviting glow, while the final set—rich, lush hazel—exudes both mystery and warmth.
A shiver of recognition dances along my spine as I trace the contours of these eyes with my fingertips. I find myself absently grazing my bottom lip with my other hand, lost in thought.
These eyes evoke a haunting familiarity, like fragments of a dream—a distant memory that feels both mine and yet entirely foreign.
