Page 4 of Spelling Disaster

“Oh, yeah. I saw your mouths moving but no talking,” I reply snarkily as I bend to grab the book.

Remi’s scowl deepens and the expression is so ‘Mom’ I know I’ll never be able to tell my sister without her freaking out. “When it comes to boys, they can be complicated,” she continues. “And since you’re at the age where you might actually meet someone, let me offer you some advice.”

I shake my head. “I really don’t need advice.” Like I’ll be getting into a relationship anytime soon? Definitely not.

“Even in your books, the heroine has some transformation to do. The same applies to men,” Remi continues. “There are times you have to change something about yourself in order to fit in.”

The advice rankles and feels wrong.

“I have no need to change for anyone.” Something about the statement irks me, burrowing beneath my skin.

Change?

What did my sister think I needed to change, and why?

Her eyes scour me from top to bottom. “I love you, Yas, but hiding out in your marm-like attire isn’t going to get you the happily-ever-after you desire or deserve.” She’s trying to soften the blow. Which I can appreciate.

Especially, I admit, when she is right.

I replace the book on the shelf and tug on the hem of my shirt. It’s a black-and-yellow plaid button up. It doesn’t gap at the breasts and it’s really comfortable with all the moving I have to do. Complete with jeans and my well-worn All-Star sneakers…she might be right.

I’ll never let her know.

“What’s wrong with this shirt?” I ask her.

Remi sighs. “It’s not the shirt. It’s everything.”

She takes off and leaves me in a puddle of hurt feelings. I’m not hiding here. I’m living out in the open the best way I can. Besides, I have responsibilities. Remi has no clue what it’s like to be the one shouldering them. Like getting the work done. The stacks in the cart aren’t shrinking and I’m the only one around to make sure it’s done.

T-minus fifteen minutes before it’s time for my birthday celebration.

I make it through one entire stack of books on the cart and halfway through the second when one of the books slips down from the shelf, one I hadn’t touched.

A tattered grimoire.

Automatically bending at the waist, I reach for it. Stop. My stomach does a strange flip.

I’ve never seen the book before.

Straightening, I stare at the cover and the intricate lines of silver embossing around the title. There’s no author name available but it’s clearly old. Older than a lot of the stuff we have here.

A shiver runs through me.

This one…doesn’t feel right. There’s something wrong about it. Something I can’t put my finger on. I hesitate to use the wordevil—

This thing is supercharged with something bad, though, a tangible darkness I feel buzzing and warm beneath my fingertips. The sensation washes over me and I shiver, but not with the chill.

For some reason, it draws me in and makes me want to read.

ChapterTwo

No.

A small voice in my head gets louder by the second. It has to in order to drown out the very odd sensations begging me to open the book and see what the contents hold.

Don’t do it.

I’m suddenly not sure which of the voices belong to me—the one telling me to put the book down and back away slowly or the one begging me to read. Slowly, infinitesimally, one of the voices drowns out the other.

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