The Eclipse

Mara

I have to pull my car over before I cause an accident.

I blink as I look out the windshield, whispering to myself that I am seeing things. The book is back in the store ont he counter and Sal will look at it when he opens the shop. I calm my breathing by convincint myself that what I saw earlier wasn’t real

With my nerves settled, I look to the passenger seat.

My heart jumps into my throat. The book is right there.

The ringing in my ears returns and I press my lips together. I curl my fingers tighter around the steering wheel, trying to convince myself to get back on the road.

But the longer I stare out and sit in silence, the more that magnetic pull spreads through me. The book is practically vibrating, the sound painful.

It curls in my gut, rising up my spine like a whisper. My eyes flicker to the book again. Curiosity slithers in unapologetically.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I reach for the bag and slide the book free. It’s so goddamn heavy that I drop it on my lap with a squeal. My fingertips brush the sigil pressed into the leather cover and every hair on my arms lifts.

Goosebumps sweep down my arms and I exhale sharply, a soft groan slipping out of me.

What the fuck is this thing?

My first instinct should’ve been to shove it back into the passenger seat and drive far, far away.

I open it, instead.

The leather is warm under my palms and I hear the faint sound of it cracking. The pages inside smell like dirt, like forest and rain. That sends a jolt of pleasure through me.

Why does it feel familiar?

I run my hand over the text on the first page. It’s foreign, ancient looking. But then, it shifts. I blink as I focuse, the text slowly transforming into English. My eyes widen over it and I shake my head.

Have I been poisened? Drugged?

Maybe something was in the pages and I inhaled it, becuase there is no doubt in my mind that I am hallucinating.

I look up, staring out of the windows and windhsield of my car to look at the quiet, dark town around me. Nothing is different, but it’s like everything feels different.

The trees are more grotesque. The clouds are darker and heavier. The wind that passes through the street is alive.

I shudder and return my attention to the book.

There is no publisher, no author, no barcode or date and price. It doesn’t belong here. I know I never ordered it. I know I never placed it on the shelf myself. So, how did it get here? How did it end up in my car?

I’m about to close the book and drive home when the page catches my eyes.

The text is completely gone, replaced now by a sketch.

A man stares back at me, inked in perfect detail.

He’s tall, towering really, with shoulders like armor. His body is made of muscle, every ridge and hollow drawn with so much detail. Scars crisscross his chest and arms like stars in the sky.

His black hair falls to his shoulders in thick, unruly waves, framing a face that’s too striking, too savage to be real. Brutal and beautiful, all at once. His jaw is sharp, his cheekbones cast in shadow, and his lips, full and unsmiling.

But it’s his eyes that undo me. Blood red. Vivid. Impossible. And yet, they look right at me. Through the page. Through the ink.

Alive.

He wears nothing but a pair of tight leather trousers, if that’s even the word. They cling to him, low on his hips, leaving nothing to the imagination. Every inch of muscle is on display. Strapped to his legs are weapons: a dagger, a sword, and something curved.

Just over his heart, there’s a tattoo of an eclipse, inked in thick black lines that. Like a mark. A warning. A promise.

My breath shudders.

I reach out before I can stop myself, fingers grazing the page. I trace the line of his shoulder, the curve of his bicep, the ridges of his abdomen. My hand trembles. I feel like I’ve touched him before. Like my skin remembers him in a way my mind can’t explain.

Beneath the image, a line of text is sprawled across the page:

“Kaelith of House Virex, first among the Vowed, Commander of the Four, Breaker of the Siege of Aethryn. The Eclipse.”

A flush spreads through me, hot and sudden. My thighs clench instinctively, my breath catching in my throat. I run my fingers down the image, across his chest, over the tattoo, and a burn ignites under my skin, deep and desperate.

It isn’t just attraction; it’s hunger.

For a picture of a man? Not even a picture, a sketch?

My body goes molten in seconds, heat spreading between my legs, my pulse pounds in my ears. I gasp, drawing my hand away from the image like I was being burned, dropping the book onto the passenger seat with a thud.

What the actual fuck?

I grip the steering wheel, trying to catch my breath, to pull myself back into my body. But the ache doesn’t go away. I rub my legs together, searching for any kind of relief, any distraction from the wildfire this stupid book has lit in my blood.

I don’t understand what is happening.