Page 29 of Wicked Ends
“Yes, we’re probably breaking the ‘no frogs in the library’ rule. Add it to my rap sheet.” I set him on the table. “Go catch some spiderweb flies, but stay where I can see you.”
He blinks his giant eyes once, which I take as frog for “you got it,” and hops off toward the nearest dusty corner.
I turn back to the pile of ancient books I’ve pulled from the shelves. Drake is fading more every day, and I haven’t seen him since our night together. Each time he comes back, he seems less... there. Less himself. When he holds me now, there are moments when his touch feels like nothing at all. But after Ash turned my magic on full steam, he was more present than he’d been able to be. So, there has to be a way to stop him from fading.
The first grimoire I open is bound in something I don’t want to identify, with pages so thin they’re almost transparent, covered in thin, crooked handwriting that’s barely legible. I try and read the table of contents.
Binding Rituals
Necromantic Practices of the Salem Covens
Spectral Anchoring
That last one catches my eye, and I flip to the chapter.
Spectral entities are bound to our plane by unfinished business or powerful emotional connections. When these connections weaken, the spirit begins to fade, eventually passing beyond the veil permanently.
Yeah, thanks. I already knew that part. The question is how to stop it.
I look up to check on Hank, who’s now perched on top of a bookshelf, his tongue darting out to snag a fly. At least one of us is having a productive evening.
Three books later, I’ve learned that ghosts can be bound to objects, that most spirits pass on within a year of death (Drake’s been here a century, so that’s useless), and that necromancy is really, really frowned upon—shocker.
I rub my eyes, feeling the beginnings of a headache. “This is pointless,” I mutter aloud.
The next book is heavier than the others, bound in dark leather with silver clasps. The pages are filled with intricate diagrams and annotations in multiple languages. Some of the drawings make my stomach turn, as apparently, spirit binding often involves blood sacrifices and things I definitely do not want to do to Drake or anyone else.
I’m deep in a paragraph about soul anchors when a shadow falls across my book.
Harry looms over the table with a smirk. “Harry thinks that’s adorable. Like cramming will save your ass you have to face real witches.”
“Go away, Harry. I’m busy.” I turn the page, pretending to be engrossed in a diagram of what looks suspiciously like a heart being removed from a man hanging upside down by his ankles.
He leans on the table, peering at my book. “Ghosts? Harry thinks Rose has a ghost problem. You scared?” He grins, revealing teeth that are straight and white, the product of expensive orthodontia, like most of the students here have.
“Harry thinks lots of things. Most of them wrong.” I flip another page. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Like, literally anywhere that’s not here?”
He picks up one of the grimoires, turning it upside down like he’s never seen a book before. “Harry didn’t know Charity Case could read.”
I bite back a sigh. Same insult, different day. “Wow, Harry. Did you remember that all by yourself, or did Thorne write it on your hand for you?”
He drops the book, his smile faltering.
“Where is Thorne, anyway?” I ask, finally looking up at him.
Harry’s face darkens. “She’s with that crazy bitch.”
That gets my full attention. I close my book slowly. “Jasmine?”
He nods, looking suddenly nervous, like he’s said too much. “She’s always with her now.”
Something cold slides down my spine. Thorne has always been awful, but the thought of her being mentored by Jasmine is genuinely terrifying.
“Careful, Harry,” I say, leaning forward. “You shouldn’t call the new headmistress a crazy bitch. She might have spies listening everywhere.”
“Ribbit,” Hank agrees from under the table.
“What?” Harry jumps and his eyes widen.
