THE WITCHING HOUR
Azaria’s POV
The candles were breathing flames.
The aroma of old paper, wax and something untamed pervaded the air as I sat in the process of crouching in the deepest corner of the library of the restricted section of the school library behind a thick curtain that divided the world of the living with the secrets of the old.
I did not belong here.
The restricted section wasn’t for people like me—not unless you had high clearance or knew someone on the inside. I had neither. I was good at getting into places and out again that people could not easily see, though, and desperation had its peculiar knack of opening doors that nobody intended you to go through at all.
The book on my knees was bound in a cracked leather, loose at the seams, and torn here and there in the spine. Symbols danced across the page, some I recognized, others that seemed to shimmer just out of comprehension. But I kept reading. I had to.
Feathers. Fire. Dreams. Mirrors. Blood.
Each word etched into
