The Book of Spells

Devin Demond paced across the rickety wooden floor, waiting for his jailers to return. With each passing minute, he became more and more agitated. Arms held tight to his side, fingers clenching and unclenching, keeping pace with the pounding of each heavy step. His sharpened, manicured nails, digging into his fleshy palms. A sneer revealed long pointed teeth, partially hidden by a neatly trimmed mustache.

Wild raven hair bristled with static electricity. Empty ebony eyes echoed the darkness of his soul. There was no mistaking the power held within his grasp, waiting to be released, wrecking havoc on anyone stupid enough to cross his path. His recently rumpled, gray, three piece suit bore witness to his wealth. A wealth currently unattainable.

A lonely lit taper, cast meager shadows across the sparsely furnished, windowless room. One chair and a small worn table its only furnishings. A Book of Spells laid open to a well worn page, the writing now barely legible. Was it a relic from the rooms previous inhabitant? Devin wondered what happened to the wizard whose name was etched into the book's binding. He hated wizards. It was his ambition to rid the world of them. Vampires should rule, not wizards.

Each intake of breath, agony. The only exit, a riveted iron door, securely bolted on the other side. To breathe the fresh evening air once again, his only wish.

A wooden bucket, emptied daily allowed him his only relief. He counted the days of his imprisonment by the number of times the bucket was emptied. A series of lines was scratched into the table top using his long, sharp nails, signifying the accumulated days of his imprisonment.

Devin was getting tired of pacing and wanted to lay down, but all he had was a torn, filthy blanket, that reeked as bad as the frequently emptied bucket, that was never washed, only emptied. He wondered If he smelled as bad as that filthy blanket.

Many times he had plotted his escape. The plan was simple. Attack whoever opened the door, knock them out, drain their blood and flee this prison. There was only one fault with his plan. No one ever opened the door, came in, emptied the bucket, or lit the taper.

He had only three questions to ask his jailers.

"Why am I here? How did I get here? What do you want from me?"

Simple questions, yes? No. There was no one to ask them to.

The last thing he remembered was answering his door, picking up his daily newspaper, and reading the obituaries. There at the top of the obituary page, was a name in big bold letters. Devin Demond, listing his date of birth, and death...today. The last thing he knew was the flames from the newspaper engulfing his hands.

His shoulders slumped as he sat at the table staring at the fragile Book of Spells. He could sense it's magic, and was repelled by it. As much as he loathed being in the same room with it, it still called to him.

"Maybe you can answer my questions?"

Devin placed his hand on the delicate worn pages.

"Book of Spells, why am I here?"

The book began to glow, Devin quickly yanked back his hand, the glow began to fade. He didn't realize he was holding his breath until the light had completely vanished. When he looked down at his hand he thought his eyes were deceiving him. His whole body began to tremble. As he jumped up in fear, his chair crashed to the floor behind him. Stepping back from the table his foot tangled between the chair legs. As he fell, his scream echoed through the room. The pain from his twisted ankle, was not the cause of his scream. His missing hand, held the secret of the Book of Spells.

Word count 640