He's An Amewiccan Beauty (Frerard)

12: there's a bit more of a plot this time ayyy

The book hadn't had any kind of instant, deadly, traumatising effect as Frank anticipated that it might have done, and of course, despite this anticipation, he'd still picked it up regardless. Perhaps maybe he'd known it wasn't like that somehow, or perhaps he was indeed just unfathomably stupid and genuinely had a death wish or something like that.

But somehow, instead of dead, he found himself sat in his room, with the book placed on the floor, as he continued to glance at it dubiously, because touching it had gone okay most certainly didn't mean that opening it was going to fare anywhere near as well.

He knew he couldn't really go and ask anyone for advice with this, because he knew how fucking stupid picking it up in the first place had been, and he really didn't want to give Mikey any excuse to hate him anymore than he already did.

Frank wondered if he should just open it, because fuck, the act of opening the other one hadn't done anything - it was the actual spells, and Frank was pretty fucking sure he wasn't going to pull any of that shit again, so really, he should be fine this time.

However, there was something odd about this all: odd about the book in particular, because he felt unnaturally drawn to it, almost as if he felt externally compelled to pick it up and open it, and then who knows what else, which of course led him to distrust it, but the thing about being compelled to open it was that it was indeed quite compelling, and Frank wasn't anywhere near as emotional strong as he reckoned he was.

Because what harm could it do?

It was just a book.

He was the one who held the power, because after all, the danger held not in the book itself but what you did with it, didn't it? Or at least Frank sure as hell hoped so as he reached out and touched the cover with his fingertips once more: this time feeling something a little off as he ran them down the cover - he couldn't quite place it, but he knew for sure that something was up.

But still, this didn't throw him off as much as it should, but of course, the fact that Frank was incredibly stupid had already been established, and just to be true to it, Frank let out a sigh, thinking fuck it, as an unexplainable sudden wave of confidence fell over him and he picked up the book: pulling it into his lap and beginning to run his fingers all over the cover.

The cover, in fact, seemed to tingle as his fingertips brushed over the material, almost as if the book could sense and was responding to his touch, which was absolutely never a good sign, but still, it only seemed to intrigue and even encourage Frank, so honestly, by this point, he just about deserved whatever fate could befall him when he let this book take advantage of him.

Because, after all, it was a book. What could a book do? A book couldn't be alive. A book was paper and ink. And he was alive, he had the power, he was in control here, and being scared of the thing did very little to help him, or so he thought.

But the thing was, that instinct didn't just come about for no reason, and perhaps it wasn't such a great idea for Frank to discard it quite so casually as he traced his fingertips over the lettering on the front: distorted and torn away to the point of illegibility on this book, but still, he was more than certain that this book was similar to the first one: published by the same author, or perhaps part of a series or something like that. It didn't exactly matter.

In fact, somehow, the most important thing seemed to be getting the damn thing open, which was something Frank could never hope to explain, and had a great struggle in resisting as time went on and his fingers lingered closer and closer to the edge of the cover.

It was a stupid idea, and Frank knew that, but still, he found himself even more tempted: like the book itself was reeling him in, drawing him into discover the secrets upon the pages of the blue book, because he could feel the importance, the worth of it all - the power it held.