Chapter 9 #2
“Even for educational purposes?” asked Dr. Bailey, entering the room.
Around six four, his tall, slender, muscular build seemed a result of dedication to fitness.
There was more gray around his temple and in his beard than in his photo.
His studious attire included square black glasses.
Dazzling hazel eyes met mine as he extended his hand in introduction.
His voice had the whiskey-smooth cadence of a man who believed he could charm people into anything.
“Dr. Bailey,” he provided with a wide smile.
Taking hold of his extended hand, I gave it a firm shake and took an immediate dislike to him when it covered mine.
The wistful look laced with comfortable arrogance didn’t have his intended effect on me.
I suspected I was one of the few people it didn’t work on.
Maybe that was another one of my magical abilities: charm resistance.
“It’s a loan. I would if I could,” I provided.
He didn’t look convinced, so I tacked on, “A loan from the House of Hollows.”
Releasing my hand, he gave a quick nod of understanding. When it came to the magical community, humans were decisively in one of three camps.
Camp One was staunchly committed to the denial of the existence of supernatural creatures despite the abundance of evidence that proved otherwise.
Camp Two, accepting supernatural existence, had rudimentary knowledge of the magical entities that was riddled with misinformation.
Their casual curiosity overrode any survival instincts, making them the type to frequent places like Cloak and Dagger and other venues popular with supernaturals.
Members of this group would often plead with witches for a display of magic.
Depending on the witch’s mood, they might oblige with a harmless trick.
Something flashy and shallow that never revealed the true scope of their magic.
This group’s disregard for self-preservation was evident when I overheard a few asking werewolves to transform.
True to their nature, the shifters would bluntly reply that they only shifted to hunt and then question if the person was volunteering to be prey.
Vampires were more tolerant of humans because they relied on them for sustenance.
Both shifters and vampires preferred to satisfy their primal urges with humans.
Camp Three was totally immersed in the supernatural world.
They were well informed and understood the intricacies of witch designations, vampire houses, and shifter dynamics.
They appeared to recognize the delicate balance that maintained civility between the magical community and ensured that humans were not exploited.
I suspected Dr. Sung straddled the lines between Camps Two and Three. Knowledgeable enough not to ask a werewolf to shift but would go hang out in places they visited. Based on Dr. Bailey’s expression change at the mention of the House of Hollows, he was firmly in Camp Three.
He nodded, taking a look at the words. “You’ll have the translation in a few days.”
“I don’t have a few days. If you can do it today, I’d really appreciate it.”
His features fell into a scowl. I suspected my face showed the importance and urgency. There were seven lines to translate. I wasn’t under any impression it would be an easy task and wished I had longer.
Perusing the page, he made a sound of discontent, then grumbled something about doing his best before leaving the room.
When he returned, another contract had been sent to me.
After confirming the changes, I signed it and paid the attached invoice that made my breath hitch.
But I wasn’t in a position to decline or haggle.
“It might take a while,” Dr. Bailey disclosed in what I assumed was a kind suggestion for me to leave.
If it took four hours, I could take a nap.
Despite stipulations in the contract, I wasn’t certain he’d comply and would take liberties with the agreement “not to be copied for professional use” in lieu of stating it was for personal use.
Working with Corrine had sharpened my skill at recognizing deceptive circumvention, and Cirrian was honing it.
I was becoming more cynical than I used to be. I didn’t like that change in me.
“That’s fine. I’ll wait.”
Dr. Sung was unable to hide her frustration as she struggled to decipher the text.
She ran her fingers over the unfamiliar symbols, her brow furrowed in concentration.
Occasionally she’d offer me an explanation of it being more difficult despite the similarities in the closely related languages.
The seven lines of translation took five hours.
They seemed unsure and reticent when they handed me the physical copy.
They’d emailed me a digital file as well.
“I know you did what you could,” I said, fervently hoping it was more than their best and was an accurate translation.
“This is a spell done by a witch?” Dr. Sung asked.
I made a sound that I hoped insinuated confirmation.
“Not a witch,” Dr. Bailey said, curiosity ablaze in his eyes. “Something or someone else?”
“For your safety, it’s best that I limit the information. Plausible deniability will be to your advantage.”
I’d taken some liberties in disclosing the situation but needed to discourage him from asking more questions or exploring the situation further.
Helplessness settled in as I looked the translation over. It read like a riddle rather than a spell.
Sitting on the floor near the bed where Amelia remained in a state between life and death, my head rested against the side of the mattress while I again looked over the translated words.
I started to worry that I hadn’t heard from Rachel.
Belham hadn’t returned my numerous calls, either.
I wondered if something pertaining to the house had come up, which would always take precedence over anything else.
Especially something involving a witch who would never work for him.
Sleep deprivation was clouding my vision and causing me to see double, and the maelstrom of emotions wasn’t making things any better.
“I don’t feel good about this,” I admitted to the sleeping Amelia. The more I read over the translation, the more I began to wonder if I had been duped.
It didn’t read like a counterspell to the curse, in which I expected to find a sigil, philter, and invocation.
The weird lists of ingredients and elements for the potion made no sense: animal poison, fruit of darkness, and revenant.
It included more traditional ingredients such as tannin, evening primrose, and Himalayan salt.
I’d spent hours in the office and the only thing I had to show for it were these four lines of prose, three lines of invocation, a sigil that needed to be placed on Amelia, and the revenant.
“Amelia, what’s animal poison?” I murmured, my voice trailing off as my head sank deeper into the firm mattress behind me.
It wasn’t just Amelia’s presence that I missed, she was also my brainstorming partner and my sounding board.
Our collaboration had always been like a choreographed dance, effortless, complementing our strengths and compensating for our weaknesses.
Faced with a magical challenge of this magnitude, I was desperate for her insight.
I texted Rachel the list of ingredients, but as expected, she responded that she didn’t know.
Anything could poison an animal. Could it be rat poison?
I wasn’t giving Amelia rat poison. Chocolate was dangerous for dogs but could be harmful to humans if they were allergic.
What was the fruit of darkness? In fairytales, mythology, lore, and religion, items like pomegranates and apples often symbolized darkness.
The term revenant was easier: a dead person, a vampire.
As my eyes began to droop with sleep, doubt crept in.
I wasn’t entirely sure about that, either.
What if it had another meaning? Perhaps a cruel individual or someone who seemed soulless.
Symbolisms of darkness and poisons were my final thoughts as I slipped into sleep.
Waking with a start, I sat up from my sprawled position on the floor where I’d fallen asleep with the grimoire next to me.
New translations of the ingredient list were written in boxy script: Animal poison = wolfsbane.
Fruit of darkness = fig from a Balic tree harvested by demons.
Revenant = whatever fool vampire you can get to be the host of the spell, which they may or may not survive.
If I hadn’t known who was responsible for the new translation, the scathing note beneath it made it blatantly obvious: Whatever pretentious twit-lit did this translation did a great disservice to the language.
Twit-lit. He was a creative jerk.
Cirrian hadn’t made any changes to the invocation, which had been translated to English.
But his note encouraged me to perform the spell in Latin.
Spells didn’t just encompass the witch’s magic; there was power in the wording as well.
Amelia had several spells she’d created that she would only perform in Spanish.
Despite this being a demon spell, Latin would be the best option if performed by a witch.
I imagined Etruscan wasn’t a language often used, and mispronunciations could hinder the spell.
I was right: revenant was a vampire. Tannin and Himalayan salt were always on hand in my home.
Primrose, a commonly used ingredient in spells, could be easily acquired from Amelia’s coven.
Heading downstairs, I debated which task I should tackle first: the wolfsbane or the fig from the Balic tree? Both would be equally difficult to get.