The Rose Witch - Chandelle LaVaun Page 0,6
rising up toward the steep vaulted ceiling. It was everywhere.
A violent sob ripped up my spine and my legs gave out. I sank to the floor, my legs bent at weird angles beneath me. NO! Get up! They could show up at any second, I couldn’t be sitting like bait on the floor. I scrambled up onto my hands and knees then crawled over to the wooden bench. I started to drag myself up when my gaze landed on a small black leather-bound book sitting on the bench in front of me.
My mind replayed memories of those books back in the store all coming to life. I’m just crazy. That has to be it. I’m tired. This isn’t real. None of this is real. I reached out with a shaking hand and flipped the book open. Bright golden light shot straight up like a spotlight. I looked up, expecting to see the Batman signal on the ceiling and prove to myself that I was sleeping – but it wasn’t there.
Movement in my peripheral vision caught my eye. I looked back down and choked on a gasp. A holographic image glistened in front of me of a long-haired man tied to a cross. Blood dripped from his wrists and ankles —I threw my hand up to cover my mouth and red smoke slammed into the book, flipping the pages rapidly.
When they stopped, a large tree stood tall from the pages, I looked up to see what this picture was of and nausea rolled up my throat. Five sets of bare feet swung in the air above me. Female feet. NO. I dove for the book, my fingers grazing the soft parchment pages scribbled with handwritten notes. I could barely read their handwriting but the words Salem Witch Trials were all I needed to see. I slammed the book shut and the image vanished.
My pulse fluttered and my body felt like it was on fire. Tears streamed from my eyes, dripping onto the floor around me and onto my knees. I wrapped my arms around the bench and pressed my face to the cool wood and sobbed.
The air warmed and swirled around me…like something was moving in the shadows.
But there were no windows open. No doors open.
It was him. I didn’t look up. I was done. I’d had too much. This was too much. What’s happening to me? I needed to move, to run, to get the hell out of danger but I wasn’t sure where that meant. I didn’t even know how I got here. One second I’d been running through the bookstore, the next I was inside this hall. I’d seen the painting of this room and then it was like I fell into it. Which didn’t make any sense. It was some kind of magic—
I gasped and looked up, though I saw nothing.
Magic.
I’d never believed in magic. I was the historian. The fact checker. The realist. At least in real life. The only magic I knew of happened in the fiction books I read for fun. This was the kind of magic you read about in books about teenagers falling in love with vampires. This was something straight out of Harry Potter: wizards and — witches.
Witch.
Magic.
Witch.
No…it can’t be, can it?
My whole childhood my grandmother had told me stories about a coven of witches and magic, of the wild adventures they went on to save the world from demons. She’d told me of families born from angels…of soulmates…of magic and hiding it in plain sight so humans couldn’t hurt them. They were my favorite stories growing up. I used to make her tell me several every night before bed. They were the reason I read fantasy novels.
But they were stories. Fiction. Made up by an old lady for her granddaughter.
Right? They have to be fake. They can’t be—
A loud, shrill alarm cut into my downward spiral from inside my shirt. I cursed and dove for my phone that I’d tucked into my bra in a panic. When I pulled it out I froze. My grandmother’s name and face filled my screen. I reached down with fingers that trembled so hard my bones were vibrating and answered the call, then pressed the phone to my ear.
“Grandmother—”
“Chloe!” My grandmother said in a rush, her voice a little breathier than usual. “Chloe, are you all right?”
A sob ripped free from deep in my gut and I cried, “No! No I’m not all right. I think I’m going crazy.”
“You’re not going crazy, dear—”
“Yes, I