Chosen Ch. 02

Suddenly there was faint, whispering sound all around me, not words that I could make out, but somehow they had meaning – I bolted to the bedroom again.

+++

I peered out of the doorway to my bedroom. The book was sitting where I'd left it. I didn't hear any whispering.

There was a sewing needle in my hand, and a bottle of alcohol. I wasn't even trying to understand my feelings, which was probably good because there were an awful lot of them.

What had tipped the decision was the thought that maybe it needed blood to live, and I was starving it.

"Anything scary happens and I'll start going to church," I told the book.

"One drop," I told it. "That's all you're getting. And you better appreciate this. No more whispering."

"So just remember," I chided it. "You're my guest and I expect you to behave. No making the bed move or any of that shit. No scary creatures coming out of widescreen TVs. Especially since I don't own one, ok? Um... and no... no, I'm not even going to mention that one. Leave my mirrors alone. I mean it."

"And," I added. "I'm going to invest in a paper shredder. So you just-"

Whispering. I fled back into the bedroom and slammed the door tight.

+++

I peeked out, ten minutes later.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. It's just... you're the first book that's ever asked for my blood. I mean I don't even know your name. The gilt was scraped off. Can't tell a book by its cover, I guess. Except Jane in Chains, that one pretty much said it all. That was me, you know."

I wasn't really sane at the moment. I knew that.

"So let's just... do this. This thing. Let's do this thing. Just... be a good book, ok? I've read a lot of bad books. With worse endings. You know all about that I bet. But you get to write the ending, don't you. Please don't let this be the worst mistake of my life, ok? Pretty please. Nice book. You've been generous, so I owe you, I get that, ok? Feeding time. Don't bite the hand that bleeds for you."

I stepped out, with the needle and alcohol. Slowly and carefully, I collected the inkwell, and sat down with the book. I looked at the page, hoping the demands had changed, but the words were the same, written in ink that looked like it had been there and unchanged for centuries. I wiped down my thumb and the needle with alcohol. Cold, clean.

I pricked my thumb. A drop of blood welled up immediately. Blood is so warm and dark and rich; I'd been fascinated in school by that New York artist who painted in blood and water...

This seemed like a good time for a significant statement.

"Um... here goes. Play nice."

Maybe, I reflected, I'm not good a significant statements.

I let the drop fall into the inkwell.

I'd expected... green hissing vapor, blue eerie glows, susurrate sounds, maybe a sudden vision. But nothing happened. The blood sat on the surface of the ink for a moment, and then sank into it, dispersing, leaving only a faint star pattern of warmer red on the rusty brown surface. I swirled the container gently, and it vanished.

I looked at the book.

You have been chosen.

(-)

Never show this to anyone.
Take the job.
Obey my words.

(-)(-)

You are Adriana.
You are mine.

"Oh... oh, shit," I whispered, softly.