Page 54 of Lux

Her body flinches inward as if she is in pain.

I throw the book aside. Crouch down beside her. Stroke her.

“Come back to me, dear one,” I say, using words that this murderous tongue stumbles over. It's new to me. I’m not good at this. The fake one, Poppy, would be. I should ask her to come. Beg her to coax Niamh back from this dark, far place.

No.

Only she was able to bring me back from an internal hell that I had retreated to after being cast out of Cassius’s mind. I alone will save her. It's just a matter of finding the right method for me. The right language.

But what?

Not speaking. My words aren't beautiful like hers are, my voice isn’t liquid sin. Every grated, grumbled word I speak will harm her more.

But what?

What?

I pace again. Stalk toward that pile of items. Tear through it. There is nothing. Just clothing with parchment shoved into thepockets. In one I find a crumbled nib of wood and lead no longer than my littlest finger.

Pencil,a part of me declares, recognizing the shape. A tool. Utensil.

But not to stab with. Jab with. Kill with.

Something else…

But WHAT?

I pace. Growl into the air. Slash the pencil at nothing.

Wait. That motion. Movement. It is familiar.

Still holding the thing aloft, I crouch down low and flip open that infernal book to the very back page.

Little lines here and there. Scritch scratch.

Magic. It flows through me as it does in her voice when she reads. Only it is in my hands. Magic that makes me drag the pencil across the paper. Magic that makes me shape and mold a creature from thin air.

Magic that resembles her in the end when all is said and done.

No, not magic. An imitation of that which she is so impressed by. A sloppy excuse for a painting with no pigments. No oil. No canvas.

It is ugly.

No…

Even in these unseemly, murderous hands, her beauty shines through. She makes this ugly, forbidden book whole once more with her image.

I rip it out, my defaced page. I shove it into her hands. Wait.

Were she in her right mind, she would wail and rage. How dare I desecrate a book, even one she despises?

I wait.

She doesn’t stir.

Her pale hands clutch at my page, but her eyes gaze right past it.

She is stubborn, my fae. A stubborn wretch. A stubborn, beautiful wretch.

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