Page 72 of The Blood Moon Hunt

Thirty-Eight

SELENE

The library in the manor is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. As I step inside, I’m immediately engulfed by the scent of old parchment, leather, and dust. The space is vast, with towering shelves that stretch toward the high, vaulted ceilings. The walls are lined with dark wood, giving the room a feeling of ancient elegance. A massive chandelier hangs overhead, casting a warm, golden glow over the rows of books. There’s a fireplace nestled in the far corner, its flames flickering softly, adding to the sense of quiet refuge.

I’ve always loved libraries. Ever since I was a little girl, I found comfort in the pages of a good book. When I was younger, fantasy novels were my escape—worldswhere magic was real, where heroes battled monsters, and where adventure waited around every corner. And now here I am, in the middle of my own dark fantasy, but instead of the thrill of adventure, it feels terrifying. This wasn’t the kind of fairy tale I’d ever imagined.

I wander through the library, my fingers brushing over the spines of books, many of which are too old to have titles on them. They’re bound in leather, some with strange symbols etched into the covers, others with titles written in languages I don’t understand. I can feel the history radiating from each one, the power within them humming softly in the air.

As I move through the aisles, I start to get a sense of how things are organized. There are sections on history, alchemy, and magic. I pause in front of a shelf dedicated entirely to magical symbols and runes, scanning the titles for anything that might give me a clue about my powers. But most of them are too complex or advanced for me to make sense of.

I continue browsing, pulling out a few books and flipping through their pages, but nothing seems to have what I’m looking for. My frustration builds as I place yet another book back on the shelf, feeling like I’m running out of time. The answers are here somewhere—I just need to find them.

Then, I notice a small book tucked away at the back of a shelf. Its cover is worn and unmarked, but as I reach for it, I see faint symbols etched into the leather.They’re unlike anything I’ve seen before, almost shimmering in the low light. As I focus on the symbols, they seem to shift, morphing into letters, into something I can read.

Curiosity piqued, I pull the book from the shelf and sit down in one of the plush chairs by the fire. The pages are old, brittle, but the text is clear. As I begin to read, my heart races.

The book is a guide, written by one of the last true witches before she was burned at the stake. The text details the nature of witchcraft, the power that witches possess, and the dangers that come with it. It explains that a witch’s power is tied to nature, to the elements, and to her emotions. It speaks of a connection so deep, so innate, that it permeates every fiber of a witch’s being. Her magic is not something learned; it’s something lived, breathed, felt in every heartbeat. But without control, it warns, that power is wild—chaotic, unpredictable, dangerous. It can lash out when provoked, driven by emotions like fear, rage, and even desire.

My stomach tightens as I read further. The book says that mastering one’s powers takes immense practice and dedication—years of study, discipline, and unwavering focus. There’s no quick solution. No simple way to control the magic coursing through me. The power within me is vast, but it’s raw, unrefined, and without proper guidance, it could easily consumeme. The witch who wrote this speaks from experience, her words laced with caution and regret.

But then, the book offers something—a glimmer of hope, a few techniques I might be able to learn quickly. I flip through the pages eagerly, my fingers trembling as I scan through spells and rituals, small steps that can be taken to protect myself, to harness my power in moments of danger. Grounding techniques, ways to channel energy without being overwhelmed by it. None of it is easy, but it’s something—a start.

Then, the book shifts to something even more unsettling. It speaks of the Order—the warlocks who hunted witches to extinction. I hold my breath as I read the passage. It describes how these warlocks, once mortal men, discovered the power of a witch’s soul. How they craved that power, believed it could grant them immortality, infinite strength. At first, they thought the only way to claim it was through death, burning witches alive to release their souls. But over time, they found something far more sinister—a way to extract that power without killing, by invoking pleasure, by capturing a witch’s soul at the peak of ecstasy.

I feel sick as I read the words, the horror of what the witches endured under the hands of warlocks who fed on their very essence. And then comes the curse.

The warlocks believed themselves invincible, unstoppable. But the witches they burned had the last word. With their dying breaths, they cursed thewarlocks, binding them to their greed, twisting their souls. The text says their hunger for power was turned against them, warping their magic, driving them mad. The warlocks of the Order became something more—something less—than human. Their power grew, but it came with a price. Darkness consumed them, and over time, they became cursed beings, unable to escape the very hunger they sought to satisfy.

Only a witch can lift the curse.

My heart pounds as I stare at the words. The weight of it all presses down on me like a physical force. Is this why they want me? Do they think I can break their curse? Do they know I’m... a witch?

I can barely process it. The idea feels too large, too impossible. I think back to everything I’ve felt since coming here—the power inside me that I’ve barely scratched the surface of, the way the warlocks are drawn to me, their need for me. Is that all I am to them? A way to free themselves from this ancient curse?

I close the book, my mind racing. Could I truly be a witch? It’s absurd. I’m just... me. A girl from Washington D.C., with no knowledge of magic, no reason to believe I’m anything other than human. But the signs have been there. The way I’ve felt power surging in me, uncontrollable, wild. The way I’ve been able to fend off the warlocks, even if only briefly.

Adrian’s words echo in my mind.“Perhaps the last of yourkind.”

I look down at my hands, my fingers trembling. If I am a witch, if I have this power, what does it mean? Could I really be the key to ending all of this? Or am I just another pawn in a game I don’t fully understand?

I sit in the quiet of the library, the weight of this revelation heavy on my chest. And yet, beneath the fear, beneath the confusion, there’s a flicker of something else.

Power.

It hums inside me, no longer something distant and foreign, but something I can almost feel, almost reach for. If I could just learn to control it, if I could just harness what’s inside me, maybe—just maybe—I could turn the tables. Not just on the warlocks, but on the Order itself.

“Burning the midnight oil, I see,” a voice says.

I nearly jump out of my skin, snapping the book shut as I look up to see Adrian standing in the doorway, a faint smirk on his face.

“What are you doing up?” he asks, stepping into the room. His presence seems to fill the space, commanding attention even in the quiet of the library.

“I... I woke up and couldn’t sleep,” I stammer, placing the book down on the table beside me. “I ran into Gerald, and he suggested I come to the library.”

Adrian chuckles softly, the sound low and almost dangerous. “Of course he did. Always finding ways to get involved.” His gaze flickersto the book I was reading, his eyes narrowing slightly. “And what have you found?”

I hesitate, not sure how much I want to reveal. There’s something about Adrian—something calculating and watchful—that makes me wary of sharing too much. “Just... symbols,” I lie, pointing to the cover of the book. “I was curious about them.”

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