Page 21 of Florescentia

I tumbled back farther, a couple of strangers catching me by the arms.

A pile-on began, the crashing of metal and snapping of wood, horses cut loose and wheels escaping their axles.

Shouts from every side. The strangers let me go as a crowd grew and gawked. People leaned out their windows to see the commotion, the horror. Some piled onto the capsized wagons to open them for those inside.

As I looked around, I thought I’d begun to go mad.

The streets were full, not quiet at all! An active tavern, a busy street . . . so many passersby you’d think a new theater show was debuting.

The sting on the side of my face pulsed hot as my mind turned right to the reality of my environment.

The streets had been empty. I’d seen it with my own eyes! I’d swear it, not that I would be believed.

When I thought on it with a clear mind . . . no street was ever empty here. Nobody ever slept. It was just a constant rotation of people, the foot traffic as consistent as termites.

So why had I not seen anyone?

Where did everyone go for those few minutes I walked the street?

There was no point investigating, not now.

I was already a block away, my legs carrying me on adrenaline and the burning anger I would use to set my luck straight.

I didn’t bother to take off my shoes, my day clothes—all that mattered was the grimoire in my hand, as if it would magically have all the answers for me.

I stepped over the ragged, torn carpet that still concealed the ominous message from not long ago. I pushed the film and jars to the edge of the table to dump my bag. A crisp slap when the grimoire and journal hit the wood, a couple of spare pens and change scattering on their way out.

All items except the grimoire were shoved aside to the edges of the bench.

There was a very real chance that this book would produce no answers, or no easy ones. If I had to work harder, fine. But the possibility of my luck running out completely before that happened turned my blood to ice. It had to work. There was no other way.

Yet there I was, convinced I had more time before I’d start to see trouble.

When trouble was already here.

The emblem shimmered in the glow of the water lamp, the bugs burning brighter as I brought the glass close. With a careful touch, I set it down on the table corner. I didn’t need it to burst like last time.

The indigo cloth was rich, as if freshly dyed. You would never have guessed it was several hundred years old.

I placed my palm on the emblem, a cool tingle under my fingertips. Then the sensation spread. My markings began to glow a dim white. It was a cold kind of burn, slowly creeping up my arm like a chill.

My heart pounded, drumming in my ear in either a chant of victory or warning. The fluid chill rushed through my veins, stinging the back of my head, behind my eyes, between my limbs where the bones connected. It was like I could, at any moment, fall into hundreds of pieces.

My hand was suddenly flung away from it like two positive magnets, so fiercely it nearly dislocated my shoulder.

The book snapped open. Not in an elegant, magical way. It snapped open with such certainty that not a single page wavered. It opened, insisting upon its deliberate presentation.

After that, all was still, even the glow of the lamp.

I approached with caution, as if I might offend it.

With the things I’d seen, it could be quite possible I already had.

The splayed book was nearly flat, an invisible weight pressing down evenly across the pages.

Blank pages.

I thumbed through the book. Blank again.