Page 117 of Forever

The pages fluttered, like it was attempting to point at something. Then came a couple of frustrated slaps.

“I wish I spoke folio, I truly do.” There was aheave of pages, a sigh made of paper—as if she were being deliberately obtuse. “And if this is the way you’re trying to repay me—”

Much flipping the now, the sound like it was applauding her getting on the right track.

“It is? Well, that is very sweet.” She brushed its pages with a soft touch and did not want to hurt its feelings by pointing out the last thing she wanted to see was that unforgettable face. “And I understand that you are grateful for this respite here, but I am happy to be of service to you. I know what it is like to be used for your gifts and in ways that harm. My commiseration with your situation is the sole purpose for the security I offer. Besides, Lassiter bid me farewell. He departed—and he is probably correct. What would I have to offer him?”

Flipping again. Then the folio settled.

Words that she couldn’t translate morphed across the page in a jumble, the symbols and letters surging and interspersing before shuffling off—only to return in a rush, coalescing to form patterns marked by crowding and then scarcity. It was as though the Book were trying to find a language she could understand, and she watched the display idly, enjoying the show—

With a frown, she tilted her head as a visual emerged. It was a pair of portraits: The text had pulled together to reveal two faces, one on each side. They were males, and she couldn’t say that sherecognized either of them. The longer she stared at them, trying to place the features, the clearer the depictions became, until they were as pencil drawings attended to with leaded tip over and over, the shadows darkening and bringing out the three-dimensional nature of the images until they were positively sculptural. One had a long braid over his shoulder. The other had short dark hair and many piercings in his face and ears.

The Book clapped again, the emphatic sound an obvious attempt to focus her, except she was already locked on what it was showing her.

It clapped again.

Rahvyn slowly shook her head. “I do not wish to go find anyone for you. I am sorry.”

Another clap.

“But you need me, too. This landscape is in my mind, so if I’m here, I know you’re safe. No one can—”

The faces broke apart, the letters bursting into action as they whirled around once again. More portraits now, and these were of males and females she did recognize, a veritable gallery of profiles. They were the vampires from the refuge house that had offered her a place to stay, and then others… her cousin Sahvage and the Brotherhood. She watched with great interest as the letters came and went, the waves that became faces cresting and receding as new portraits emerged.

As the display continued, her hand lifted to her sternum and attempted to rub away the pain.

The gallery ended on a male with long black hair falling from a widow’s peak, and a visage that was both aristocratic and cruel. Dark lenses—which she had learned were referred to as wraparounds—covered his unseeing eyes, and the furrow between his brows was evidence of the pressure he was under and the weight he carried on his broad shoulders.

Wrath, son of Wrath, sire of Wrath, the Great Blind King—

Those glasses were slowly removed by a steady hand…

With a hiss, Rahvyn jerked back. Strange, nearly pupilless eyes stared out straight upon her, though they saw nothing, and not only because this was but a rendering of the male himself.

The lips of the portrait began to move, as if the King were trying to tell her something—but before she could attempt to translate, a black tide rushed into him, the roiling cascade of letters overtaking him as he began to scream in agony. There was a tight swirl of utter darkness… and then an explosion that wiped all of it away, leaving only blank pages.

As Rahvyn sat back and put her hands up to her face, letters started to fall from the top to the bottom, like rain.

Or snow. Yes, it was snow because of the way the flurrying symbols collected at the bottom of the book’s display.

“I am not a savior,” she whispered. “I cannot—”

A portion of the Book’s pages lifted in the middle and then it wentpffffffffffffffffffft.

Rahvyn shook her head, a sense of impending doom tightening her throat. “But what happens if I leave here? I do not know if it compromises you in some way—”

The Book closed itself abruptly. After which its knurled, ugly cover pulsated, as if it were flexing.

“You can take care of yourself,” she murmured.

The sharp clap was an affirmative if she’d ever heard one.

“But I’d rather stay here with you—”

The Book flopped itself open, and when the windowpane reappeared, Lassiter’s face was back again, the portrait not something created by a mere artist’s hand, but a faithful representation of what the fallen angel actually looked like. And that was when she realized… it was no drawing at all. It was a contemporaneous, live-time viewing of him, and given the flickering light playing over his grim features and the uneven rock wall behind him, she guessed that he was alone in a cave and before some sort of fire.

“He is wrong,” she said roughly. “I am not the Gift of Light.”

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