The steps were uneven and slippery soft, like they’d been ground down by a steady stream of feet. But that didn’t make sense, did it? Unless—unless…this was part of the original foundation of the house. Back when it was growing from just a little seventeenth-century cottage to what it was now. The simple candle sconces on the wall seemed to back up that guess. No electricity. Or heat, apparently.
The damp chill passed through me, icing my bones. As we reached the landing, voices rose from below, flickering in strength like the candles on the wall. My throat felt swollen with the smell of wax and dust and something else—something like rotten eggs—I was gulping down. My thoughts scattered through my mind like spiders, too quick to catch.
But in the end, the dungeon was just an empty, windowless room with nothing more than a small table and fifty of my relatives. With so many people crammed down there, there was barely room for shadows, never mind me and Prue. I watched, my heart thumping painfully in my chest, as one of my great-uncles, the creepy one who never stopped smiling, helped her forward. He cleared a path through the tightly packed room. Great-Uncle Bartholomew nudged me forward until I was directly behind her. I tried to ignore the press of everyone’s eyes, the flicking of their fingers as they twisted away to avoid so much as brushing me.
Get out, get out, I thought, I need to get out—
A small, velvet-draped table had been positioned at the front of the room. I turned back toward the rest of the family, trying to read their faces. The warm orange glow of hundreds of candles caught on the white clothes around us. If I’d had the time to draw the scene, I would have sketched them in lightly, like ghosts floating at the edge of your vision.
Prue elbowed me hard in the ribs to get my attention and pointed to the strange lump on the table in front of us. The silky black fabric could have been a spill of ink.
Oh, crap, I thought, trying to take a step back. My family really is a cult.
That guy with the website had been right.
“Now,” Grandmother began. “Our family’s tradition has long held—”
“Just get on with it!” Great-Uncle Bartholomew snarled behind her. “We all know why we’re here. There’s no sense in putting things off any longer.”
“Perhaps you would like to hold your tongue while I cut it out for you?” she hissed. The raised blue veins on the back of Grandmother’s hands pulsed as she moved her fingers over the black cloth. “No? Then be silent.”
I swallowed hard.
“Our family’s tradition has long held,” she began again, her voice colder than before, “that we would be called upon to do a great service to the world. This evening we take the first step toward doing just that.”
Grandmother yanked the cloth off the table. I took a startled jump back, bringing Prue with me. I kind of expected whatever was under there to pop up and eat my face.
But…it was only a book.
A really, really old one, and much bigger than any I used in school. The brown leather cover was cracked and stained with age. At one point, it looked like there had been some kind of a lock on it, but that had been cut away. The stench of smoke rose from it, as if the pages breathed out a memory of fire.
“Grandmother?” Prue couldn’t seem to decide where to look, and neither could the others. Great-Uncle Theodore was sweating behind me. I felt a drop fall on top of my head.
Grandmother used both hands to carefully lift the front cover of the book and set it aside. The binding was coming apart. There were hundreds of heavy yellowed pages inside. Most of them were loose.
“Prudence, child,” Grandmother said, “please read the first page.”
My hand came up to tug at the collar of my shirt. The room had become sweltering. The longer I stood there, the faster my heart beat, until it was galloping.
Prue leaned forward, so close to the page that her hair brushed against it. Her face twisted like she was upset. I stood on my toes to look over her shoulder—and just about fell over.
I rubbed the sweat out of my eyes, then rubbed them again. The page, at first blink, was blank as a new sheet of paper. Now blots of crimson ink were rising to the surface of it like they were soaking up through hundreds of pages. Rivulets of the ink slid around like tiny snakes, twisting around each other. The stains squirmed and stretched, one end finding another as they formed cursive scrawl.
Spirits of Wickedness, ye Devils of Night,
Shall bear no Entry to this Book of Might.
“But…” Prue began, looking up at our grandmother. “It doesn’t say anything. It’s blank.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, reaching over to turn the book toward me. “Look right here, it says—”
There was a sharp pain in my chest, like someone had stabbed me straight through with a burning rod.
A shrill scream, half pain, half fury, pierced my ears. I reached up to touch my throat, stunned. It hadn’t come from me; my lips hadn’t moved. The hurt in my chest changed. The air choked out of my throat. It felt like I was being ripped down the center, bones tossed to the relatives nearby, panting like dogs. I fell onto my knees hard, knocking my head against the edge of the table. The whole world jerked, rocking the Cottage around me. There was another scream, this one louder. I forced my eyes up.
The book on the table burst into sudden, white-hot flame.
I still don’t really remember what happened next.
My memory turned black and soggy at the edges, like a poisoned pond. Now and then a flash of an image would rise up through the sludge of uncertainty, but everything felt like bits and pieces and maybes. I thought I heard Prue scream my name, and I thought I caught a glimpse of her bright red hair, glowing with the light on the table. My grandmother threw the black cloth back over it, beating out the flames before they could jump up and catch the edges of her white jacket.
I couldn’t tell if I was breathing fire and smoke out, or if I was dragging it into my chest. Every inch of my skin sparked with heat. The rumbling started deep in my chest. A rattling that made my teeth chatter and fingers twitch. My bones felt like they were rearranging into spiky, crooked lines.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, yawned a voice in my ear.
A stampede of feet thundered toward the staircase, shaking the floor pressed against my cheek. But a pair was moving toward me, not away, pristine high heels click-click-clacking against the stone, the toes pointed like knives.
Get up, I thought, get up now. With a grunt, I flopped onto my back, trying to get my arms under me. A wave of dizzy sickness washed from my head down to my numb toes, blurring the darkness. When it finally cleared, I saw Prue for real, standing on the stairs. Her face was as white as the wax dripping from the candles.
“Prosper! Prosper!” She tried to dart toward me, but Great-Uncle Theodore wrapped his enormous arms around her middle and hauled her kicking and screaming off her feet.
“No!” I choked out. I had to help Prue, I had to protect Prue, that was my job—but Great-Uncle Bartholomew was coming toward me, something long and silver clutched between his hands. The curve of the blade caught the winking candlelight from above, and I knew what it was.