12

"This really wasn't necessary, I could have come down to your office," I told Mr.Balfour as we settled into the seating cozy

in the south reception room a mere twenty minutes after I'd phoned him, detailing what had happened to me in the barn, from

the implement falling and veering, to the mysterious dogs, and finally apprising him of the body. Truth was, I'd hungered

to get behind the wheel of the Mercedes, watch the manor dwindle in my rearview mirror, and escape for a few hours.

"You'll not be leaving the house without protection until I get to the bottom of this," James Balfour said firmly.

"Protection?"

"You now have bodyguards: two out front, two in the rear courtyard. They'll change shift at dusk and dawn. Sleep easy knowing

whatever danger is out there, you have eight of the most dangerous men alive guarding you twenty-four seven. Ex-special-ops,

mercenaries. Lethal when necessary. They follow orders. They'll die to keep you alive. The moment you exit the house, assuming

you have reason to do so"—his tone implied strongly I should not —"they will be at your side. And, lest you fret, they are extremely well compensated by the estate. Should any of them expire,

their families will also be well compensated."

Expire. Tidy word, that. I shivered at the tone in Mr.Balfour's voice, which was unlike anything I'd heard from him before:

flat, implacable, coldly efficient.

"And I suppose they were just hanging around, on standby, in case they were needed?" I mocked.

He shot me a measuring look and laughed softly. "Yes, Ms. Grey, Juniper was concerned something like this might happen. I'm the fool that wasn't. She said I underestimated the lure of wealth, as wealth has never been my driving force."

"Who wants me dead? The alternate heir?"

"I'd be stupefied if this was the work of Archie and Isabel. They knew they were Juniper's alternates, yet I've not seen anyone

more relieved than they were when she told them she'd located you. They have a wonderful life with four lovely children, in

a beautiful home, in a peaceful town. Stepping into Juniper's shoes is akin to inheriting the crown. It changes everything,

and that isn't a transformation they sought. They would have become, as you have now, the focus of countless eyes and myriad,

time-consuming demands. They would have complied, given up jobs they love—she's a children's book editor, and he's an international

tax lawyer—and done their duty, as duty runs deep in them. But they'd never have chosen it willingly, and that's part of why

Juniper selected them. He who hungers for the crown rarely wears it well."

"Then who?"

A gusty sigh, then, "I'm bound by contingencies. There are countless matters I wish to discuss with you at length, Ms.Grey,

but I am currently prohibited. Should I violate those stipulations, your inheritance is in jeopardy. It's possible that's

all someone sought. Not truly to try to kill you, but to make us think they had, goading me to make a misstep and ignore Juniper's express legally binding wishes. Should I do so, your position as the Cameron heir can be formally contested. If that's what happened here—a charade that was never meant to result in your death, only to frighten you—virtually anyone in Divinity might go that far. You're an outsider, an unknown, and many here ascribe to the adage ‘better the devil you know.'?"

"You said ‘currently.' When do these contingencies no longer apply?"

"The moment you read Juniper's letter, which can be opened no earlier than :01 a.m. Tuesday morning. I'm to inspect it Monday

evening, to ascertain the seal is still intact."

I'd arrived Monday night, and it was only Wednesday. That gave me six more nights to wait. "Do you have any idea how bizarre

and off-putting all these contingencies are?"

"I can well imagine. Your friend, Este Hunter... perhaps she could come in this weekend."

"And that's even more bizarre and off-putting. You know who my friends are."

"Juniper had a report compiled on you. I was given a copy to read so I might better assist you when you arrived."

"If I need security, why would you suggest I invite my friend into potential danger?"

"I can guarantee as long as you are inside the manor, you will come to no harm. I will personally see to Ms.Hunter's safe

arrival and leave-taking."

"How is this house so safe, when there's not even a security system?" A lack I'd found odd, given Juniper's wealth. "Four

guards can't cover every window and door."

"The manor has no need of a security system, I assure you. You'll have to take my word on it for now. You'll understand, soon

enough. Stay, at least until you've read her letter and we've had our talk. Invite your friend, enjoy your time together,

in the house or at the pool, or take the guards with you, should you leave." He paused, then said quietly, " Please , Ms. Grey. You won't regret it. You were born to be the heir of Cameron Manor. The blood of—her blood is in your veins. Juniper wasn't wrong."

Narrowing my eyes, I decided to fish on topics he was surely permitted to discuss. "Did Juniper have siblings?"

"Three older brothers. They fought in World WarII. Two came back in coffins. The youngest, Marcus, went missing in action.

It nearly destroyed Juniper, losing all three of them in the space of two years. She was in her early twenties. I've wondered

if the one who went missing perhaps suffered amnesia from a war injury or, for an unfathomable reason, elected not to return.

If he survived and had offspring, that might explain you. You could be her great-great-niece. But even before that, in prior

centuries, the occasional Cameron son or daughter went missing or wandered off. No idea how far back or tangential an offshoot

you might be."

"There's a door in Juniper's office that doesn't open. Do you know anything about it?"

"I've been in her office many times and never seen such a door."

"It's in the concealed room."

His brows rose. "That explains why I've never seen it. I had no idea there was one."

"Why do you want my friend to come visit?" Locking gazes with him, I said forcefully, "Invite me in."

Inhaling sharply, his eyes flared with shock, and he stiffened, then slowly relaxed. "By your leave, Ms.Grey," he said, holding

my gaze.

I don't get words or even linear images. I get emotion with a bit of context and the flash of a vision or two. James Balfour's motives were of pure intent. The only flash I got was a brief image of a seven-pointed star on a delicate chain. He genuinely believed Este could help me, that she knew things I needed to know. I couldn't imagine what... unless... perhaps Mom had told Este about far more than the existence of a mere safe. The idea that she might have done so evoked both hope and a deep sense of daughterly betrayal—that my mother might tell my best friend things she'd not told me. Was that why Este had so insistently been calling, trying to see me since Mom died?

"When you did that in my office the afternoon we met, I didn't think you knew what you were doing," Mr.Balfour murmured.

I hadn't really understood it at the time, not the way I did now, but I had no intention of admitting it. "Can everyone in

Divinity do it?"

"Many. Certainly not everyone."

"What is this ability?"

"Contingencies, Ms.Grey. Please be patient."

"How did the man in the barn die? Has anyone told you?"

"Not yet. But the moment I know, I'll text you. Will you phone Ms.Hunter?"

So many bizarre and deeply unsettling things had happened to me in such a short time, I desperately needed to see my best

friend to hash it all out. And if Mom had told Este things that she'd never told me... Well, there was that surge of hope

and pissed-off sense of betrayal again. "I already invited her. She'll be here Friday." Two days from now, thank heavens.

A smile lit his face. "Then you'll stay?"

"Tonight? Yes. Beyond that, I commit to nothing." I rose, feeling I'd gotten all the answers from James Balfour I was going

to get until Tuesday morning at :01 a.m. And yes, if I was still here, I would most definitely be awake at the witching-hour-plus-one-minute, ripping that damned letter open.

Rising, he said in a low, intense voice, "I make this vow freely, Ms. Grey. I will protect you with each and every tool at my disposal. I pledge my life to guard the blood heir of Cameron Manor."

So formal, so serious. "I've arranged for a package to be shipped to your office in my name. Please bring it to me the moment

it arrives. Speaking of, is there a street address for the manor?"

"One Watch Hill," he replied.

I'd half expected him to say 666, so forbidding was the exterior of the stygian citadel, so strange the events in and around

the place. "Thank you. That will be all." I was surprised by how smoothly I issued the curt dismissal, but I was frustrated,

on the cusp of angry, and I'd not gotten a single answer from him, other than information about Juniper's siblings, that I

deemed worth a damn.

Though deeply distracted, I managed to set up payment plans with my creditors and choose a local attorney to review the settlement

papers. The latter proved simpler than the former. In Frankfort, I was destitute Zo Grey, who owed money to nearly every doctor

and hospital in a hundred-mile radius. In Divinity, I was Ms.Grey-Cameron, heir to an unfathomable fortune.

Mr.Ian Laherty of Laherty, Logan I'm a pro at compartmentalizing), dwelling solely upon how bizarre it felt to be courted by businesses, rather than bullied, threatened, and treated like the shadiest of debt dodgers.

When I found the ropes at the south porch door, I studied them intently, deciding irritably that although they looked frayed,

they might have been manipulated to look frayed, and I could draw no firm conclusions about them.

It was early evening by the time I made my way to the kitchen to find food. I'd not eaten since breakfast, and apparently

a brush with death was a shot of steroids to my appetite, because I was desperately, shakily ravenous. I glanced out the window

as I passed through the front foyer, hoping to catch a glimpse of the bodyguards, but there were no men stationed on the porch.

Hurrying to the kitchen, I spied all four standing out by the pool, wearing headpieces and carrying guns, one giving orders,

the others nodding.

Candy , I thought, staring.

I have a sweet tooth for a certain type of man, and James Balfour had stationed four decadent pieces of candy outside my door.

As if Devlin wasn't temptation enough. These men would hopefully be of short duration. Perhaps they rotated out and were replaced

every few days. Or, I mused, I could request replacements and not feel guilty because this type of professional likely had

a waiting list of high-paying employers. I had a feeling James Balfour would do anything I asked, so long as I stayed.

My gaze drifted from one ruggedly attractive man to the next, as I pondered which man I was going to—

What was wrong with me?

Not only was I behaving as if I had no intention of leaving, I was scoping out a potential lay! It seemed Kellan had awakened a fire in me that could only be put out one way.

Not. Happening.

Shaking my head, I hurried to the fridge, heaped pork chops and shrimp grits on a plate, added some creamed corn I spotted

in a covered bowl, plus a scoop of green beans with cottage ham, snagged another plate upon which I piled biscuits, plucked

a bottle of jam from the fridge, and without warming any of it, sat at the counter and began shoveling it in.

Only after I'd wolfed down half my food was I able to place my fork aside and contemplate heating the rest. I was obsessed

with Lennox's lard-based biscuits, and they weren't nearly as good cold.

I realized, then, that I was in light shock. Too much had happened, too fast; my brain was on overload and no longer processing

data properly.

It used to happen when I was young, if Mom moved us too often; a kind of emotional whiplash would hit me, and I'd detach from

my feelings, focus only on my physical needs, which, of course, amplified them. It was a dangerous way to be, as it was precisely

those emotions I was refusing to feel (why make friends/why care/we'll only leave again just when I start to feel happy) that

drove my physical needs, and as I got older, my needs grew more complex and generated greater fallout if not handled well.

I wanted to stalk out the back door, fire a look at one of those chiseled, hard men, feel his strong arms around me. I wanted

a man to touch me with big, appreciative hands, to make up for the fatherly hugs and affection I never got, the security and

support I'd lived without, as I'd slowly and inexorably become the parent of our two-person family. I wanted to cede all responsibility

and just be a young woman, lost in the moment, adrift in the illusion of love.

Popping the plate in the microwave, I sat back down at the counter, closed my eyes, and drifted inward, greeting and acknowledging each emotion, letting the grief hurt, the anger inflame, the lust inspire, the confusion frighten. By the time the microwave dinged, I was a bit calmer and able to finish the rest of my dinner at a more modest pace.

God, I loved those biscuits. Because I was denying myself the candy beyond the door, I slathered another two with jam, added

some of the candied pecans I'd spotted in a glass canister nearby (serious sugar rush there) and took the plate upstairs with

me, to retire early behind a locked door and decide what I was going to do when morning came.

Stay?

Or go?

One hundred. Fifty. Million.

Possibly a distant Cameron niece with family roots in this town. That elusive thing for which I'd longed all my life—a home.

Courted. Not harangued.

And if someone wanted me dead, as Cameron heir there was no guarantee leaving would make me any safer. It might merely make

me a sitting duck in rural Indiana, alone in a flimsy-walled studio. After all, my arsonist had been there, not in Louisiana—although,

conceivably that person might have traveled to Indiana from the south. An apartment building could be torched just as easily

as a house. Here, at least, I had bodyguards and a fortress that, according to Mr.Balfour, was somehow mysteriously inviolable.

At dusk, I stepped onto the balcony to watch the security guards change shifts, then Devlin passed through on his way to the garage. I eyed the three of them, wondering when I'd become such a frenzy of lust that having multiple choices for my bed, and resisting them, seemed an exercise in pointless self-torture. When Devlin glanced up at me, the invitation in his eyes unmistakable, I asked him to let Rufus out, gave him a perfunctory nod, and went back inside to gorge on the only sweets I was willing to permit myself. I resented feeling out of control and was determined to regain dominion over my wayward thoughts.

Thus, committed to celibacy until restored to my customary competence and calm, I passed another night beneath the sheltering

and allegedly "perfectly safe" roof of Cameron Manor, succumbing swiftly to sleep, where I was just as swiftly engulfed by

nightmares of fires and killing blades, thunderous drums and rhythmic chanting, doors that couldn't be opened, affording no

escape, and portraits in shadowy rooms that leered with sinister intent.

Nine o'clock Thursday morning found me standing on the main floor of the manor, at the entrance to the funereal northwest

wing, peering into the darkness of the forsaken corridor. After showering, dressing, and seeing Rufus tucked into the cleft

of his jackfruit tree (sans fresh kill), I had two hours before Mr.Laherty arrived.

I had no idea why I was so intrigued by the abandoned wing, but after breakfast, no closer to a decision about whether to

stay or go (who was I kidding—I wasn't leaving, that would be running ), I found myself standing at the entrance, flashlight in hand, lacking conscious awareness of having chosen to come here,

as if the disenfranchised wing of the manor had lured me with a subliminal siren song.

As I took my first step into the hallway, a chilly draft of air surprised me. This corridor felt far cooler than the rest of the manor. I wondered if perhaps they set the air-conditioning to a lower temperature in the damaged wing, hoping to diminish the acrid scent of smoke. Squaring my shoulders, I began to march down the corridor, shining the beam of my light up, down, and all around.

After passing a dozen or so closed doors, I turned to glance behind me and was astonished to see the pinpoint of light at

the entry was dollhouse-tiny, seemingly a half mile away. I'd not bothered trying any of the doors; now, curious, I turned

the handle of the nearest one and pushed. It didn't budge, and fearing a repeat of the mysterious door in the chamber of portraits,

I shoved against it with my shoulder, at which point it gave so effortlessly I lost my balance and flew in headfirst, sprawling

to my knees on precariously charred floorboards. Slowly, delicately, I inched backward, heaving a sigh of relief when I regained

the corridor. Resting against the jamb, I shined my flashlight in.

A nursery, badly burned, with a decrepit, sagging, charred crib, chairs, dressers, and end tables, and no windows. Creepy,

a baby's room with no windows. It was on the interior side and felt dark and suffocating as a coffin. I felt strongly that

all things involving children should be bright and airy and clean, with lots of windows and fresh air. I'd have chosen virtually

any other exterior room in the manor for a nursery, and were they my babies, they'd be sleeping right next to me. Pushing

to my feet, I closed the door and forged on. I seemed to be on autopilot, as if I would know my destination only when I found

it.

When I reached the end of the corridor, I realized I'd expected to find a door to the turret, which seemed to be the focal

point of my obsession. Instead, I found a curved wall with no visible ingress. The hallway simply ended in an unbreachable,

unadorned wall of mortared stone, from floor to fourteen-foot ceiling.

Why affix a turret to the house with no access? Had it once been open, then walled up in later years? If so, why, and how did one enter the tower? Mentally reviewing the exterior of the manor, I realized I'd not seen a single window on the north turret, nor could I recall seeing a door. Not that my memory was 100 percent.

Frustrated, I followed the wall to the right, where I discovered a small wooden, iron-belted door tucked into a shadowed,

weird-angled niche at the junction of corridor and turret. Hinges groaned when I pushed it open and shined the beam of my

flashlight in.

Here, the house morphed drastically from bright and modern to drab, musty, and antiquated. Gone were the high ceilings and

ornate moldings. The tunnel that greeted me had a wide-planked ceiling so low it barely cleared the top of my head, dark,

paneled walls sticky with cobwebs, and floors of rough-hewn plank flooring. Unbroken by windows or doors, with no lighting,

it was tight and claustrophobic. Nonetheless, I stepped inside and began to walk.

And walk. And walk.

I felt as if I trekked a mile down that dark, confined chute, following the thin beam of my flashlight, feeling uncomfortably

as if the narrow, tight walls might close in on me at any moment, crushing me deep in the belly of the house, to rot and be

forgotten. I had the impression of descending a slope, although I couldn't fathom how that was structurally possible within

the design of the house, unless I was tunneling underground.

At long last, the passageway deposited me before a door similar to the one through which I'd entered, also narrow and iron-belted. This one, however, was made of highly polished oak and, within a frame of intricate knotwork, the surface was covered with carved triskelions and seven-pointed stars. The arch above it, fashioned from the same glossy wood, had a seven-pointed star at the apex, with undecipherable symbols clustered about it. There was no doorknob, so I pressed my palms to it and gave it a gentle push, not about to go sprawling headlong again, into... Who knew? At this point in my discombobulating trek, I'd not have been surprised to find an oubliette or a dungeon on the other side of the door.

Instead, I found a colonial kitchen.

Leaning against the jamb, I trained the beam of my flashlight from side to side, high and low. Gray swaths of dense cobwebbing

clung to the timbers of the ceiling in heavy, billowing drapes. There were no spiders I could see; it was the kind of matted,

thick webbing that could only accumulate over decades, perhaps centuries, of disuse. A simple wooden table with chairs sat

before a massive stone hearth in which two beehive-shaped warming ovens occupied the side walls. An enormous black cauldron

was suspended from the fireplace crane, with tongs and toaster irons protruding. There was a wooden counter between two tall

cabinets; long-handled skillets and kettles hung from pegs on the log and mud walls. I felt as if I'd slipped back in time,

and shivered, realizing I was standing in the doorway of the original cabin, the very first house ever built on Watch Hill.

The air here was surprisingly fresh, cool, and dry, with none of the musty odor of the chute.

I moved inside, past sprigs of long-dead flowers tied with ribbon and hanging from cabinet knobs, vases of centuries-old thistles and milkweed pods, kettles and pans arranged on the counter, ready for meal prep to begin. There were dark bottles of oils and tonics, canisters of spices on virtually every flat surface, even plates, utensils, and mugs arranged on the table, as if the original Camerons had lived in the cabin while the rest of the manor was being built around it, then, one day, right before dinner, they'd stepped from this room into the main house and never returned. A thick layer of dust coated it all, as if decades had passed with the interior undisturbed.

But this should be a prize, I thought, dismayed. Not tucked away down a forbidding chute, draped with cobwebs and forgotten.

Grateful the ceiling was a few feet higher here than in the restrictive passage, I ducked beneath the gauzy webbing and moved

through the kitchen into a small sitting room with another fireplace. I peeked into two narrow bedrooms, then arrived at another

oaken, belted door that slid open with silent ease, revealing a room that was part apothecary, part library, and dripped the

antiquated storybook charm of bygone times.

Abruptly, I hungered to dig this delightful jewel of a cabin from the charred belly of the dragon in which it languished and

restore it to the sunlight. Seal the notched logs, patch the crumbling mud and stone between them, polish the cauldron, remove

the boards from the windows, and hang fresh, lacy curtains. Give it a proper setting and open it to the town, celebrating

the roots of Divinity. It would fit nicely in the Midnight Garden, were there space enough without disturbing the stately

oaks.

The room was lined with open-shelved cabinetry and bookcases that held tomes of every size and shape. High-backed, upholstered

chairs sat before the hearth. The mantel was covered with bottles, jars, and clay pots; there were cabinets holding more tiny,

dark bottles, along with mortars and pestles. In the center of the room was a tall pedestal, upon which a thick, ancient-looking

book was open. I hurried to it, thinking to find botanical drawings, perhaps recipes, or if I was lucky, a family Bible.

I heard something as I moved toward the pedestal and, in retrospect, would wonder why it hadn't spooked me, alone in that dark, forgotten cabin, but the gently whispered word merely caressed the nape of my neck with the sweetest of kisses.

Kyle-och.

When I shined my flashlight on the manuscript, I was surprised to find the pages blank. Then the oddest thing happened. Words

began to form, as if being inked by an invisible hand wielding an old-fashioned calligraphy pen.

Light... the... candle... Cailleach.

I blinked. Repeatedly. The words were still there.

Laughing nervously, I glanced about, half expecting to find I'd missed someone standing in the shadows, playing a prank on

me, having a grand laugh at my expense. I shined my light high and low, ahead and behind me, but there was no one in the room

besides me. When I couldn't think of anything else to do, I turned my back to the book for a few seconds, then whirled to

look again.

The sentence was gone. Now the pages were filled with writing on both sides. Thoroughly discombobulated, I began to read.

The Cailleach practice the Way of the Will through which they translate their desires into reality. Passed from one generation

to the next, magic is a quality in the blood not all humans possess. The power of a witch lies in their ability to shape their

destiny and that of the world around them. Some say, due to intermingling over time, all humans possess at least one drop

of magic, but a single drop is very different from hundreds of drops, cultivated through centuries of careful breeding. That

witch is the one other witches, even cold vampires, fear.

Cold vampires. Did that mean there were warm vampires, too? With a snort of uneasy mirth, I continued reading.

There's vast diversity in witching bloodlines. Some have zealously maintained their purity for millennia, meticulously curating

partners for the sole purpose of power, while others have diluted their heritage by marrying for love outside the community.

Halfblood (or Lowblood, but that term is no longer used in most circles) witches require the aid of spells and rituals to

focus their power, whereas Highblood witches are capable of magic without them.

There are nine Royal witching houses: four that follow the light path, four that follow the dark, and a single gray. To these

nine houses, all witches must answer. Little is known about the gray house. They are intensely private, concealing the secrets

of their power. They appear during times of cataclysmic upheaval and are wont to take cataclysmic action. Some say the universe

itself holds its breath until those terrible witches recede to whatever shadow realms in which they reside. They are the most

feared witches of all. There were once eleven Royal houses, but twice in recorded history, the gray house demolished a house

for reasons unknown, eradicating the entire bloodline to the final seed.

The pattern and purpose of the universe is the Will of the Way, and supersedes the will of all witches combined. If the natural

order of the Way is defied, the universe will exact a price to rebalance its scales, behaving at times more savagely than

the darkest of witches.

Light witches work in tandem with the universe, drawing their power from nature, maintaining a respectful exchange of energy, aware and compassionate. They focus their will in accordance with the grander scheme of the universe's way.

Dark witches do as they please, defiant of the grander scheme of things, employing antithetical arts to deflect or evade the

universe's retribution, draining power with impunity from the richest of sources, including, when necessary, the richest source

of all: human life.

About gray witches, little is known. Living alone or with a carefully selected few, eschewing the laws of the witching community,

they channel their magic from shadow realms few can access, where some of the most powerful light and dark witches in existence

have been lost.

The entry ended there. When I tried to turn the page, they seemed to have been glued together. The ancient, thick tome had

only two accessible pages, and apparently they wrote themselves, if and when they felt like it. I replayed that final observation

through my mind a few times, trying desperately to make sense of it, but there was none to be found. Books didn't write themselves.

Yet, even as I watched, the pages went empty, and another sentence formed.

Light the candle, Cameron witch.

A short, fat white candle squatted to the right of the book. Despite my rapidly diminishing grasp on all things sane and logical,

I observed there were no matches.

The page blanked again, then, With your will.

The situation so drastically exceeded my ability to comprehend, dwelt so far beyond the realm of things I conceived of as possible, that I felt as if I were in a delirium, a fever dream where nothing was real, and nothing mattered. So I decided, with another uncomfortable laugh, to play along.

Closing my eyes, I pictured the candle in my mind, envisioning a flame, but somehow, it didn't feel quite right. The candle

seemed insubstantial, not fully fleshed, so I added driblets of wax down the sides, blackened the wick, and gave it a little

curl at the tip. After a few moments of solidifying the image in my mind, I relit the candle and opened my eyes.

Flame danced on the wick.

It was instinctive to swat it out with my palm. The candle extinguished, I could work on convincing myself it had never been

lit. A trick of the eye, nothing more. And that waft of hazy smoke curling upward was merely dust I'd disturbed.

The pages went blank as a draft rustled through the subterranean room; the temperature plummeted, and my breath began to frost

the air.

A drop of what looked like ink appeared on the page but was swiftly dashed away.

Then a single letter began to form, jerking and twitching, as if enormous effort was required to complete it (it vaguely resembled

an R ) but again, it vanished.

The book began to shudder with such violence atop the pedestal that the candle toppled off and crashed to the floor. The tome's

convulsions grew ever more frantic; it heaved into the air, whumped back down, jerked right, jerked left, then collapsed to

the pedestal before bucking up again, as if gripped by some fierce internal battle to manifest whatever it was trying to say.

Suddenly a single word appeared for a millisecond before it, too, was dashed away.

RUN

I didn't need to be told twice.

Despite my determination to be the archer, never the doe—given I wasn't entirely certain a bow could actually kill anything

that might manifest in this strange room that housed a book capable of writing itself—I whirled for the door and ran.