It was after nine and dark by the time we got home, and I had enlisted my strapping teenager to haul my auction bootie into the house. “Christ, Mom,” Michael complained. “Did you buy a box of bricks?”
“Close,” I told him. “You got the first and last letters right.”
He groaned. “How many freaking books do you need?”
“Quit giving your mom a hard time,” Marigold said. “Sure, we might see her on one of those reality tv shows someday where the hosts are hauling crap out of her house…”
She let the implication linger. I shook my head. I had full bookshelves in my living room and in my bedroom, but as long as there was room to walk around, there was room for more books. “I like to push the boundaries between collecting and hoarding.”
Michael plunked the lot box down on the coffee table. “Mission accomplished.”
I walked over to him and tugged on his arm. He dipped his face so I could kiss his cheek. “Thank you for the muscle, babe.”
He grunted and gave a light shrug.
Marigold, who had finished moving her auction finds to her car, walked into the house behind us. She nudged Michael with her shoulder. “You excited about your senior year?”
“I don’t know,” he muttered on another shrug. My son was at an age where most questions from anyone older than eighteen were viewed as a challenge. I could ask him how his day was, and he’d act like I’d accused him of murder. I stuck to statements when talking to the kid.
Marigold accepted the answer and moved on to her next question. “You got any summer plans?”
Michael flashed a quick look at me then shook his head. “Not really.”
“Are you seeing anyone?”
His eyes widened like a deer in the headlights. A large part of me wanted to rescue my boy from his aunt’s interrogation. However, a smaller part of me wanted to see the kid squirm a little, but I suppressed that part.
I flicked my fingers in Marigold’s direction. “Tell your aunt good night.”
The corner of his mouth quirked up. “Night, Aunt Mari-gee.”
“Goodnight, baby boy.” She winked at him. After Michael left the room, she turned her attention back to me. “He’s not really going to bed, right? When I was his age, I never saw the backside of my eyelids until well after midnight. Even on school nights.”
“He has practice early tomorrow morning, but I’m sure he’ll be playing video games into the wee hours. I was just throwing him a lifeline.” I stroked the top of the lot box, my fingers itching to get to the contents. “However, I’m going to call it an early night.” I yawned dramatically. “Big day today. I’m exhausted.”
Marigold shook her head. She gave me a bland look. “You’re right. It was a big day. You had to put on a whole bra and leave the house.”
I chucked a throw pillow from the couch at her.
Marigold laughed as she easily caught the fluffy projectile. She held it arms-length to look at the front. “Oh my gosh.” Her eyes widened. “These are not cabbage flowers.”
I snickered. “Nope.”
“And what does your son think about having decorative penises on the couch.”
“I’ve had it on the couch since December. He hasn’t even noticed. Not once.” I glanced around the room. “An editor friend of mine from Kentucky sent it to me at Christmas time for a laugh.”
“Did it work?”
I smiled. “It did.”
“So…” My sister tapped her chin as she strolled toward my auction haul. “What’s so special about the books that prompted you to get in a bidding war with a seventy-year-old used bookstore owner?”
“I wanted to punch Mr. Jarlsberg in his bifocals,” I muttered. The old guy had been determined to win, but not at any cost. Two hundred dollars had been his limit, so I’d won the bid for the not-so-low price of two-hundred and one dollars. “I’m just glad no one else wanted them.”
Marigold tossed the penis pillow onto the couch and flipped the top cardboard flap open.
I swatted it down. “Hey, don’t touch my box.”
She raised her hands in surrender then eyed me suspiciously. “Did you find a first edition of Shakespeare’s Folio in there?”
“I wish.” I snorted. One had sold the previous year for almost ten million dollars. “I’d be set for life.” I sat down on the couch. “Honestly, I don’t know what I’m going to find in there. I only looked at the top book, and I have no idea what it’s about.” I frowned at Marigold. “Have you ever had a moment when you saw something, and you just knew you had to have it?”
“The last time that happened to me, I ended up spending a Saturday afternoon in a free clinic.”
I snorted a laugh. “I don’t think anything in this box will require a penicillin shot.”
My sister arched her brow and smirked. “You say that now.”
I stood back up and started walking to the door. “If I end up with a rash, I’ll call you.”
“All right. I get it.” Marigold backed up toward the exit. “You want to be alone with your dusty old books.”
The minute she was out the door, and it was closed between us, I stripped off my bra and sat back down on the couch. I rubbed my hands together like a maniacal supervillain. It had more to do with the way my skin tingled around the box more than any vision of world domination. I glanced around the room to make sure I was alone as if I were doing something wrong. Taking a deep breath, I centered myself. Why couldn’t I shake off the feeling of excitement, anticipation, and even a little danger?
The leather-bound book with the upside-down triangle with the line sat undisturbed on the top of the other books. I carefully lifted it from the container just in case it was more fragile than it appeared. The other four books in the box were literary omnibuses. Nothing too exciting, but I was glad to add them to my collection. However, those could wait until later.
As I placed the mysterious tome on my lap, a mighty whoosh as if I’d just driven my car eighty miles an hour over the top of a steep hill rushed through my body. The burst of adrenaline made my hands cold and shaky as I opened the book to the first page. A handwritten inscription was centered at the top.
Blood of my blood, a sacrifice required.
Tears of my tears bring what’s most desired.
A journey not entered lightly. Magick you must hold tightly.
Once it’s begun, it cannot be undone.
Goddess, help you.
I blinked at the final line and blew out a breath I’d been holding. “That’s not ominous or anything.”
A sting on my left index finger made me jerk my hand out from under the book. A smear of blood coated my fingertip. I flipped the cover shut to see what I’d cut myself on.
A barb of silver thread poked out from the stitching on the top border. I wouldn’t have noticed it if it weren’t for the dark spot where my blood had colored the leather.
“Shoot.” I rushed the book to the kitchen and placed it on the table before rifling through my towel drawer for a white washcloth. Other than a quick rinse of my finger to make sure the wound wasn’t more than a tiny prick, I kept my focus on the book. I needed to get the bloodstain out before it set and ruined the mint condition of the leather. I ran cold water over the terrycloth and wrung out the excess. Quickly, I dabbed the damp cloth onto the affected spot and nearly jabbed myself a second time.
“Son of a bitch.”
“What are you doing?” Michael asked.
I jumped because until he’d spoken, I hadn’t even noticed he’d come into the kitchen. I turned around to face him and slid the book so that it was partially hidden. “Cripes, son. I’m going to put a bell around your neck.”
“You’re so weird,” he said as he grabbed a bottle of juice from the fridge. He threw the cap into the trash then left without a second glance in my direction.
I’d tried to hide the book from him. But why? I’d done it instinctually and without any thought. I’d also slapped the top flap down on the box earlier when my sister had tried to get a peek at the book. I faced the leather-bound tome, the excitement from earlier returning.
Oh my, gawd, I’m turning into Golem, and this book is my preciousssss.
So be it. I scooped the precious up and carried it out the back door to the garden. It was dark out, but the garden was lit with fairy lights. Plenty bright enough for me to do a cursory examination. However, I grabbed a small flashlight and a magnifying glass from the kitchen drawer in case I needed them.
I sat down on the bench, and the stupid gnome, was staring at me. I was going to ground Michael until he graduated from college.
“Stop staring at me, Linda,” I told the stony thorn in my ass. “It’s mine.” I stroked the cover again. “All mine.” I glared at the gnome, its beady eyes twinkling in the glow of the fairy lights. “Don’t judge me.” I hoped the new feeling of obsession was divorce-related and not my sanity leaving the building.
I opened the book once more and tried to shake off the feeling of crazy.
The page after the inscription was blank. I flipped to the next, then the next, and so on until I was absolutely certain. They were all blank.
“What in the world?” I’d been so excited after that initial inscription. Every fiber of my being had been jazzed as if I were on the verge of something amazing. I clapped the book shut. “That sucks.”
“You’re a dunce,” someone said. The voice was low and graveled.
I darted my gaze around the dimly lit garden. “Michael?” It hadn’t sounded like him, but he’d taken great joy in startling me at the most unexpected times. “I swear, if you don’t show yourself, I’m going to take your video games away.” It was the most expedient threat to get a response from him. But no gotcha followed.
“Hey, floppy-tits! If you want to invoke your grimoire, you have to make your intention known,” the disembodied voice growled.
“Nope.” I jumped to my feet. “I have a gun.” My threat was empty. I didn’t actually have a gun, and even if I did, I wouldn’t carry it on me.
“I’m quaking in my winklepickers.”
I held the book tightly to my chest. None of the plants were tall enough to hide a grown human, and my backyard garden was small. Unless the voice belonged to a ghost, I was having an auditory hallucination. One that called me floppy tits and said things like winklepickers. “There’s no one here,” I told myself. “I’m suffering a psychotic break induced by divorce. Plain and simple.”
“You’re right about one thing.” A rock hit my shins. I looked down and saw my bearded, pink-clad gnome, Linda, in the flesh and flipping me the bird. “You really are plain and simple.”