CHAPTER 41: CHAPTER 41: THE UNPREDICTABLE BOOKWORM

Marie reached up, and her fingers touched the top shelf, and the movement of the thighs lifted the skirt another inch, with flashing smooth thighs in the warm light of the bulb.

His eyes were fixed on Gezza, and his bulge was hotter, and an oily mist was floating his mind--write it now, make her open her legs.

But the indecisiveness stuck, a little tiny crack of his chest, his hand gripping midway in a vacuum.

She used a huge tome, whose black leather cover had split and worn, and was stamped with marks resembling the runes of the Playbook, and the dust puffed out at the air like a cloud of gray smoke as it fell violently open.

She moved it on herself, and sank into the chair opposite Gezza, making a soft creak of wood, the tome on her lap.

His eyes remained riveted to her thighs, which were separated a little by the book, the stuff struggling.

She tossed it open, and the pages were yellow, rustling like withered leaves, and the sweet vanilla air was stalemated by the smell of the old ink.

Then clearing her throat with a calculated cough that interrupted the silence, she began, which was steady and scholarly. "So, long ago, during 200 AD..."

Gezza moved, the couch squealing as he lay on it and his eyes followed the edge of the gap between her skirt and skin.

The dark leather cover in Marie was worked by the fingers of the woman, the symbols embossed glowing somewhat in the dark, like the runes of the Playbook upon the table between them.

The air still hung in the air with the shelf dust, and a thick misty veil fell upon the bulb.

She sat down in the opposite chair to Gezza where the wood squeaked gently beneath her, the great book sliding with a dull, thump, upon her knee, pages that were yellow and crumbling along the edges.

Gezza kept his gaze fixed to her thighs, the hem of the skirt crept up by the pressure of the book, a strip of skin flaunting him, his breath coming shallow and with the scent of sleazy heat, fuck, those legs. A tedious stoppage in his desire to take the Playbook and write her name.

She cleared her throat again and started, her voice deep and measured. "Summary—In 200 AD, back, a scribe, Lucius Valerius, a scribe, bitter because of being rejected by a noblewoman. stole Egyptian papyrus, jumbled together cult whispers of a dying priest with the alchemical inks. Made the Playbook bend lust."

Gezza moved, creaking couch, eyes fixed at her thighs, bulge aching—hot as fuck. But the characters of his Playbook shone crimson, in concert with what she was saying, shadows dancing over the walls.

Whereupon she said, "Runes are chains", and stopped to turn a cracking page, dust puffing. "Her character is tied by full name in ink. Breaks once in six weeks—whole with, new script."

He bent forward, paranoia flashing between lust. "The cult?"

"They hunted him", she said, my eyes glistering with it, still another hesitation, and the runes flashed more brightly. "Saw it as heresy. Lucius disappeared; book buried, then later reappeared with wielders--kings, cons, monsters over centuries—arose or burned."

"What type of power did the cult have?" Gezza spoke, his voice low, bending nearer, and the couch springs moaning.

Marie smiled, her eyes gleaming, the mischief in them hissing with the shutting of her tome.

Like the book but twisted, possession, poison, witchy stuff. She threw back her head, bun falling still further. "Have you used it before?"

"No, um..." Gezza told her, throat dry, yet her chair scraped nearer, her hand inches away the Playbook. "Yes."

She was in a flowing movement and grabbed the book whose runes were throbbing in a panic red.

The pages flew up, making a harsh sound, her finger traced the names written in ink--Elena, Riley, and others. "Did it work?"

His heart beat banged, paranoia crashing with sleazy arrogance. Yeah... it did. "What am I doing? Why trust her?" he thought, sweat beading.

"Cool", she probably thought, voice teasing, her eyes fixed on his with wicked playfulness. "So, what’d you do with them?" Her eyes fell on his jeans, the bulge jerking.

"And don’t say nothing."

"That’s personal—return it", Gezza, said; and his hand forced out, his hand brushed air as she moved back, legs on the chair scraping.

"Why should I trust you, aren’t you planning on using it on me? she fired in reply, book in arms.

"No, am will not", he said, moving a little nearer, about to leap.

Her glance slipped back once more; he observed, and pushed the protrusion smooth with a nervous, desperate palm.

"Do you know what you are the same as the other wielders?" she told me, dripping voice with contempt.

"What—He asked",

"You’re all Pervs", she hastened away, sneaked on hardwood, towards the kitchen. Gezza chased, "Wait, stop!" The pages of the Playbook flew about like wings in her hands.

She went sliding to the gas cooker, flame scorching with a hiss, blue fire licking up.

"Move, and I burn it", she said threatening, holding the book at the very edge and the runes screamed crimson, the edges curled in a little.

"I should not have believed you", Gezza said to himself, as he stood numb, with his hands up, and the warmth of the kitchen stinging his flesh.

"You did not get a choice the moment you walked in", she said with a sharp smile. You are not the only one to have magic.

"You’re with the cult?" There was a cracking of his voice, and the dread came.

"No." She swung her down below, and the fire stealing on the leather. "But I have got your book over the fire."

The voice of the Playbook was booming in his skull: Burn me, and thou dost suffer.

Fuck, Gezza said, heart aching.

"What do you want?" he demanded, voice hoarse.

"To get to know whether you deserve the book." She smiled—bright, dangerous. The light flicked once in the kitchen, and shadows engulfed the room, an expression of pain appearing on Gezza.