Page 12 of Beneath Hoof and Hollow
Reverend Statton’s office is not locked. I half hoped it would be. I’ve come seeking the book Alesia spoke of. What will I do if I get my hands on it? Is Reverend Statton so confident none will challenge his authority that he doesn’t lock up his most prized possession?
The scents of frankincense, charred parchment, and something horribly sour make my nose twitch. The office is as I imagined. A large desk sits near the still-lit fireplace. Parchments lay scattered across most surfaces. A massive bookcase encompasses an entire wall. The two items I’m not expecting to find here are the four-post bed and the shackles hanging from the ceiling.
My stomach twists at the sight. It’s all true. Everything Alesia said was true.
Do not let your mind wander.
The book is my priority.
Fear slithers through my middle, striking at my nerves and nausea as I search for the book. If I’m caught, it will surely mean a hanging of my own. My fingers are shaky as I slide them along the shelves of books. There are so many books. How am I to discover which is the spell book?
My fingertips graze a thick, leather-bound spine. A chill shudders through me. My hand recoils. The room seems to grow darker and the feeling of being watched sends goosebumps prickling along the back of my neck.
The book is heavy. I have to use two hands as I slide it free. The sense of dread crawling across my skin intensifies. There is no title. Just a strange array of markings and symbols carved into the soft, worn surface. This is it.
I don’t know how I’m so certain. But that voice in the back of my head, the one that tells me when to be wary, the voice that stills me into silence when danger is nearby, that most trusted inner guidance for fear and survival, is screaming. This is the spell book.
Run. Run. Run for your life.
The irrational fear takes root, spreading through my legs and sending me sprinting out of the church. My path back to my temporary refuge takes me past the prison. So many voices wail. Begging to be set free, crying out for their lost wives, sisters, friends. They locked up any man who has protested these meaningless killings. My heart aches for them.
Torchlights appear in the distance just as I slip back inside Alesia’s house. The little cat—now I remember Alesia calling him Minx—greets me as I lock the door behind me. Minx winds between my ankles, completely oblivious to my panic. I stand, back pressed against the door, while my breathing steadies.
When I’m able to take a breath without gasping, I move to the floor. I don’t dare to light the fire and draw attention to the vacant home. Minx and I snuggle up beneath blankets with a single candle lit on the ground beside us. A small satchel is tied to the binding. I dump it out, expecting something terrifying. A jeweled necklace, two charred sticks, and a pile of stones come tumbling out. It takes another few minutes for me to build up thecourage to open the book.It’s a bad idea. It’s a bad idea. It’s a bad?—
The book creaks as I crack the spine open. A chilling whisper fills the room. Minx hisses, springing from my lap and disappearing into the bedroom. Well, if I wasn’t freaked out before…
Wait. I’ve heard that sound before. In late summer, on my way back from the wedding. I heard it just after I bumped into Reverend Statton. After he emerged from the fog, covered in dirt and carrying a hidden item. Was that the night he recovered the spell book? It fits the timeline. So many things changed after that night.
Another whisper surrounds me. Was that an acknowledgment?
The book watches me as I flip through its pages. I don’t know how else to describe it. There are no visible eyes, but its gaze sits upon me, focused and intense. The weathered parchment contains all manner of spells and enchantments. Some as basic as healing leg rot. Others as complex as opening a portal to another dimension. I can’t even begin to wrap my head around that one.
When I reach the section on summoning, my page-flipping slows. The spells contain multiple variations of handwriting. All dotted with blood. Have many others altered this book over the years? Including Reverend Statton ? One, two, three, four… I count the number of pages that Reverend Statton has crossed out. Sixteen in total. Each with an angrily scribbled “failed” written on the bottom.
The next page is not crossed out. A bloody handprint half covers the drawing of a reptilian demon. Yellow eyes. A forked tongue. Scales covering its body. The top of the page reads:Itrimort, master of the suffering fates.
My vision blurs and I’m holding my breath. This is the angel who has been guiding the actions of our town? The eyes are too familiar. I’ve seen that sickly yellow. It gazed back at those innocent women in the moments before their deaths. Alesia was right. Reverend Statton has become a demon. A demon parading himself around as an angel.
The word ‘Itrimort’ calls out to me. I open my mouth to speak the name aloud, but something stops me. My lips clamp tight as I read a line peeking out from beneath the outline of the bloodied thumb.To name it with need is to call it forward.
When you say the demon’s name aloud, you’d better not have the intent of calling it to you. Noted.
I scan the next few pages, looking at drawings and reading through the brief summaries of the many monsters.
“Which would be the best to help me fight the Itrimort?”
I pause. When did I decide that was my intent ? The book hums against my fingers. Could the book be controlling me? Why is it so hard to decipher if these ideas are my own?
I pull my hand away from the book. The candle flickers. Somehow I know the book is displeased. The fire burns brightly once I start flipping through the pages again. Am I really going to summon my own demon? The book obviously likes the idea. What if I end up possessed as well? I find my way back to Itrimort’s page.
Several lines of the spell have been crossed out. Shielding runes, binding circle, amulet for personal protection. I recognize a drawing of the necklace I just dumped out on the floor. That must be the amulet.
If Reverend Statton ignored these things, he all but invited Itrimort to take host inside his body.What on Earth was hethinking? Eternal damnation sounds quite unappealing. I can only pray everything goes as planned. I will use this book for good. And when I’m through with the men of this town, they’llbe begging for a death as swift as the ones suffered by those still hanging from the tree. Mercy, so to speak.
It’s a pity. I seem to have left my mercy back in the woods the day Alesia died. Now, my only desire is for revenge.
Unlike Reverend Statton, I will not ignore the spell’s guidelines. Taking every precaution, I gather the supplies needed. It requires a trip back to my home. Lucky for me, Leed is not there.Small wins. He’s at the meadery celebrating his successful witch hunts, no doubt.
