Page 34 of Mostly Shattered

Tears threaten. It takes everything in me to hold them at bay.

“Take the book.” Costin gives it a little shake. He looks at me like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve.

I hate that part of me wants him to solve it.

I hesitate. Not because of the mausoleum or the goblin, not because of the prophecy. But because ofhim. The closer I get to Costin, the harder it is to remind myself why I need to stay away.

Defying him seems like a mistake, so I finally reach to take it. Nothing happens when my fingers touch the book, and I feel a captured breath release from my body. I turn it over in my hands to examine the plain leather cover. It looks old and smells musty, like wilting paper in the unused section of a public library.

I feel his eyes on me as I flip the cover open and look at the yellowed parchment inside. I squint, trying to see in the dark. The penmanship is old with an artistic flair, and I read, “Wyrd bið ful aræd.”

I struggle to sound out the words as I say aloud, “Word biofuel a road?”before shutting it. “Who wrote this? Medieval monks? I don’t speak Old English.”

I try to give it back to him. He refuses to take it.

His motions blur. I feel cold wrapping my wrist before my hand is jerked forward. Before I can process what is happening, I feel a sharp bite clamp into my palm. I yelp in surprise, and he lets go.

“What the fuck, Costin?” I demand, slamming my fist into his chest before backing away from him. “I told you I’m not a snack.”

My blood stains his lips, and he slowly licks it. The gesture is wholly sexual, and I hate that I notice.

“Blood magic,” he says.

“Annoyed human,” I retort, balling my bleeding hand into a fist.

“Blood lock.” He glances down at the book.

“I hate riddles. Can’t you just get to the point, Beowulf? What is it you want from me? I don’t have the time or inclination to get a doctorate in medieval literature.”

He takes the book from me and opens it. “Hold out your hand.”

I frown but obey.

“The other hand.” He nods to where I’m bleeding.

I lift my bleeding palm. He places the book under it and catches a drop of my blood. The page shimmers with magic, and I watch the words transform so I can understand them. I squint to make them out. The phrase I read before changes, and I make out, “Fate cannot be changed.”

“Hm,” Costin looks at the page. “That is the translation you see? Interesting.”

“Why? What do you see?”

“Roughly, fate is wholly inexorable,” he answers.

Whatever that means.

“Okay, fine, fate is fate,” I dismiss, putting my fist down by my side to drip blood onto the grass. The wound throbs, but I try to ignore it. “So what? That’s it? That’s the great and important message?”

You can’t change shit. That’s the message mygrandfather sent from beyond the grave through a vampire to tell me? I’m helpless to change the past. I can’t have Paul or the normal life he represents. All I have is whatever this reality is.

Costin turns the page to where more Old English words await.

“Don’t tell me I have to bleed on every page.” I frown, shaking my head. “This is gross. Just give me the condensed version.”

I don’t want to stand in the dark, trying to decipher an old crappy story that’s going to fuck up my life.

“You should read it for yourself,” he insists. The vampire waits like he expects me to do it right now.

“I know it’s been a really long time since you were mortal, but this,” I point at the moon hiding behind the clouds, “is not great reading light.”

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