This damned dissertation.
Loose leaf papers threaten to take flight. Books stacked upon books, most if not all on the occult. My bleary eyes strain to read one in particular: The Sworn Book of Honorius. It’s old. Language too ancient to ask for help. So, I read aloud, sounding out syllables, hearing myself.
“Angeli domini vos excitent qui vos venire constringant...”
My feet stagger, making a mess of chalk symbols on my wooden floor, summoning angels, maybe demons. The room tilts dangerously, and I shake.
All in the name of research.
From the shadows, something moves, and black wings spread.
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