The Hierophant (Book 1 in The Arcana Series) by Madeline Claire Franklin Read Free Book Online Page A

calls back, and looks directly at me. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

— 11 —
     
    It must be the changing of the season , I tell myself, because for some reason this nervous, thunderous humming inside of me just cannot seem to be sated for more than a handful of hours these past few days. It’s true that it’s been getting progressively stronger all year, but ever since I saw that man at the cemetery, it’s almost relentless.
    At times like this, I’ve found that channeling is not enough. Like today, while my father is at the fire station, and Kyla is organizing things for her party, I’ve been playing my violin for three straight hours while the rain pelts the world outside my window, melting the last of the snow. I’ve played every song I know, several that I made up on the fly, and practiced scales for an entire hour. My shoulders are shaking from fatigue. My fingers are aching.
    But it’s still there.
    The hum inside of me has magnified, intensified, threefold since last night, since I saw that man with the flashing eyes on the street. I can’t get the sound of his voice out of my head, those two soft syllables reaching into my core and playing with my guts. Sorry , he said, voice like a cello sonata, like black coffee and fall leaves, like the crisp chill of winter air.
    What does that even mean?
    I shiver just thinking about it—about the sound, the man, the feeling. I find myself suddenly gasping sometimes, if I’m not careful to breathe deeply, regularly. By the time the sun goes down, I feel like I might go insane if I can’t get rid of this energy—this fire—whatever it might be.
    And if I can’t channel it, I have to burn it off. Somehow.
    I stare out the window, through the raindrops racing down the windowpane, into the shadows where darkness lingers, where darker things wait. My skin flushes with heat, and I imagine the cool clarity of cold water on my face.
    I’m struck with the thought of taking off my sweater and running barefoot through the rain, splashing in the puddles until my feet turn to prunes—but that wouldn’t be a good idea. I would probably get sick, or cut my foot on some broken glass uncovered in the melting snow, or trip and skin my knees. But then, distressingly, the thought of pain somehow thrills me—it’s something direct, simple, certain. The burn of rent flesh, the cool rush of adrenaline in my blood—
    Just the thought of it unleashes something raw and wild inside of me, and now that I’ve had the idea I can’t seem to shrug it off. Before I know it, I’ve pulled off my sweater and socks, and I’m opening the front door in nothing but my jeans and a black camisole.
    I close my eyes and breathe deeply, sucking in the spring air until it fills my lungs, feeding the sparks smoldering in my veins, building to the verge of combustion. And then everything behind my eyelids turns white-hot, and infinite.
    My eyes snap open.
    I leap off the porch, and hit the ground running.
    It is pure exhilaration. The asphalt beneath my bare feet is coarse and cleansing as I run, each new splash dousing the legs of my jeans with cold, sending chills through my body. The rain covers me, inch by inch, kissing my arms, my shoulders, face and neck and chest, each kiss a spike of life, a pinch of ice.
    I sprint, straining my body to go faster and faster, each lean muscle on my long frame vibrant, awake, burning. I run around the block, up to the park at the end of the cross street, through the muddy baseball diamond, relishing the feeling of earth between my toes. I’m so alive , so invigorated by such a simple act, by letting myself do this utterly primal, senseless, stupid thing.
    Lightning flashes in the distance, and a quiet rumble of thunder is slow to follow. I grin and laugh, jump into the air spinning, crying out in the cacophony of the storm with my own, powerful voice—a voice I’ve never used. I don’t say anything, but shout to the sky, to the earth, to the emptiness of the