A/N: Content/trigger warning: Swear words (2 "damn"s).
"Wes, you idiot!" Jazz ripped the book from Wes' hands. She closed it and threw it to the floor.
Jazz was yelling from the Doorless Room. Her voice rang in Wes' ears. "What?" he grumbled, throat dry and raspy.
"Drop the damn book next time you're about to be incinerated!" She was hysterical. He felt a headache forming; adrenaline was fading and his throat was hurting.
"Jazz, calm down."
"Calm down!" She was pacing, stomping. "If there's green fire coming toward you, you drop the book, gods damn it!"
"I can control fire, Jazz! Did you see that?" He said, annoyance creeping into his voice.
"You didn't know that beforehand! You would have been killed!"
"If I had left, all of Faust would be dead!" He didn't mean to shout. Really. And his voice did not crack.
A sound came from Jazz's mouth. An aggravated, helpless, angry sound. She turned on her heel and grabbed a book, too angry to be cautious. She whipped it open so hard the spine cracked. Wes didn't know where she went and she didn't say.
In the Doorless Room, she sat in the corner. In the book, she did gods knew what, and Wes was left alone, in spirit.
Dejected but worried about Faust, he picked up The Curse of St- and then he was back in front of Faust's church. The annoyance he felt at having to start at the beginning only added to the stew of anger and gloom in his heart. He turned on his heel and jogged out of Faust toward Stingy Jack's most recent battlefield.
Speaking of Stingy Jack, Wes supposed the title of the book was something like The Curse of Stingy Jack. It made sense, thought Wes as he ran. Perhaps the way out of the Doorless Room was to beat the book, for lack of a better term. Finish the book's story, resolve the conflict, go home. Maybe Chariot was testing them, seeing if they were- what? Worthy?- of going home. Wes hoped Chariot hadn't sent them there just to make life hard on them or, heaven forbid, to trap them forever!
Wes shook his head of those thoughts. He had other things to focus on. Like the person who shouted.
"Tomewalker!" She bellowed, scaring Wes so much he tripped and skidded on the dirt. He groaned. "I knew it! You are a Tomewalker," continued Byrnhilda.
"A tome… walker?" Wes asked, his hand to his cheek, It came back golden. A rock had scraped his face and, instead of blood, he shed something gold and sparkly. More of that glitter from the cemetery, the stuff he and Danny had puked.
"Woah, a Tomewalker with gold blood? Never seen that before! 'Course, I've seen so few a Tomewalker I can count them on my hands! Anyway, I knew you and Jazz was Tomewalkers! But ye's amateurs, I know. You gotta start at the beginning an' all-"
"Wait! You know about the books? How?" Wes' head was spinning, and not just from his tumble.
"'Course I do! I'm one myself!"