“I’m not ready.” I’m shaking beyond normality. He puts his hand on my shoulder and lifts my chin with two fingers. Forcing me to look into his eyes.

“Maybe not.” He lowers us down to our knees.

“But you need to tell me.” I begin to protest. “So you don’t have to carry all that weight alone.” I shudder. I’m not ready. I don’t think I ever will. I buried it so I wouldn’t have to bring it back up again. I let out a hopeless sob and he pulls me against him.

“Whenever you’re ready.” His voice is kind but stern. He’s not going anywhere until I tell him everything.

Tears trickle out of my eyes and streak across my cheeks. Just thinking about it makes my heart speed up and my hands sweat. That magic should’ve stayed forgotten. That’s why I buried the book. But then it came back to haunt me. Came back from underground to make its sound known.

I take a breath. The air catching in my throat. Hitching and bumbling out. Dante looks at me his dark eyes giving me strength.

“I found words a couple years ago. Words that lit up the darkest night. Words that made the coldest day warm. Words that brought life in the face of Death.” Now that I have begun the story, I don’t think I will be able to stop it.

“At first I felt that the words could save me. Make life interesting. That the words could make my dreams and wonders reality.” Dante’s eyes widen slightly. He knows where this is going.

“Them a small part of me realized. Realized that this could be the destruction of me.” I pull out of Dante’s arms and sit cross legged on the ground.

“I chose to ignore the words that called me. I buried the book. But the words still haunted me.” In most stories people are haunted by ghosts of lost enemies or friends. But to me the words were such things.

“I couldn’t erase the words from my mind. I whispered them to the Night, and drew them in the water clinging to my window in the morning. The words called— no captured me. Wrapping me in a net made of vowels and consonants.” I sigh. The sound full of regret. Dante’s expression becomes concerned, borderline alarmed.

“Finally the net dragged me back to a meadow with poppys and dandelions. To a small mound with grass just barely growing on it. I raised the book from its roots grave…

and then I screamed the words out. Screamed for the whole world to hear”

“The flowers around me withered and died. The trees guarding the meadow cracked and fell. The sun itself hid its face behind monstrous black clouds. The winds ripped at my face and clothes. Cursing me for speaking the words.” Dante’s eyes no longer look concerned or alarmed. They look…hungry.”

“What did you do with the book?” I stare at him. Trusting him.

“I buried it.” He quirks an eyebrow.

“Where?”

“Right where I buried it before. In a meadow of dead crispy flowers. And blackened murdered guardians.” Dante nods. Then he opens his mouth as if to say something. Then reconsiders. Then speaks Words.

The grass around us dies. My heart stops, my lungs freeze. Dante stands. His eyes full of sorrow and madness and ever bad thing.

“I want the Words.”