Chapter 9
nine
LIZZY
I ground. I center. I breathe.
I do not, despite a desperate urge to do so, puke. But only because of the muffins; they were too freaking good to yack up in the grass.
So now I’m just standing here like an Instagram yogi whilst trying not to literally die from mortification. Everything inside me burns with shame.
And yet… I’m also turned on?
Apparently I like being scolded by stern British man-demons from the nineteenth century.
Wow. If only I could afford therapy. Just think of how normal and well-adjusted I could be!
“I think you’re ready now,” the professor says, almost kindly, and when I open my eyes, he’s shifting back and forth on his feet, avoiding eye contact, wearing a grimace that’s probably supposed to be a smile.
Speaking of needing therapy!
Okay, so he’s not mad at me. He’s just a Very Socially Awkward Demon. That’s my official diagnosis. Who would’ve thought that was even a thing? Well. If it helps me avoid dealing with my own interpersonal failings, I’m making it a thing.
“We’ve returned to the cemetery today,” the VSAD continues, still not making eye contact, “because I have a theory about your innate powers that I’d like to test. I thought if we could connect more deeply with the origin of your magical lineage—the resting places of your ancestors and the woods in which magic was first bestowed upon them—we could more easily stimulate those powers and conduct our experiments. Are you comfortable with that?”
“Absolutely.” I smile at him. A real, non-awkward one. Lead by example, and all. “Consider me grounded, centered, and ready to be stimulated.”
“You… right. Exactly. As I was saying… I thought… Sorry.” He clears his throat and pushes up his glasses, glancing around as if he just woke up from a decades long coma and is all confused because no one’s wearing middle parts and skinny jeans anymore. “Where were we, again?”
God, it’s fun to mess with him.
“The innate powers thing, Dr. Sutherland.”
“Ah! Yes. Thank you. Innate powers.” He claps once, like, here we go!
and I guess that’s his teacher-mode power move, because the change comes over him at once.
Confidence suddenly animates his face, and he paces back and forth, gesturing with his hands.
“Your core magic comes from the demonic realm—think of it like a battery that powers all your spells. Other witches have different kinds of batteries—elemental magic, storm magic, blood, the moon, the sun. The sources are nearly infinite. Some witches can even access multiple sources.”
“Which they can then channel to summon and bind demons, even if their source isn’t demonic. Like you were saying last night.”
“Exactly.”
“So where does the innate stuff come into the mix?”
“That is the specific and most natural expression of a witch’s magic.
You see, Miss Bonnivarde, many magical workings can be learned and accomplished through general spellcraft, powered by each witch’s own magical source.
But a witch is also born with a unique signature power that she can hone and strengthen above all else.
One that she will always excel at, and this power will inform all of her other magical acts in perpetuity.
Think psychic abilities, telepathy, telekinesis, divination, animal communications, dark magic… the list goes on.”
“Ooh! What’s mine?” My stomach bubbles with new anticipation.
“Can I fly? Or turn invisible? Wait, no… Let’s curse my ex with incurable hemorrhoids and perpetual erectile dysfunction.
Except for when Kenny G comes on his Spotify.
Then, I want him to get a massive hard-on that lasts for two days straight with no relief. ”
“What on earth…?” He stops pacing. Crosses his arms. Does the stern-professor glare. “How much of Oliver’s little gift have you already imbibed?”
“Irrelevant! He’s obsessed with Kenny G! None of his friends even know. He swore me to secrecy. It’s fiendish, Dr. Sutherland. He deserves to be punished.”
“And we are moving on.”
“Fine,” I huff. “Assuming it’s not related to the fine art of genital cursework, which is a total bummer, what is my innate power?”
“I’d like you to make an educated guess. Then, we’ll run some experiments and test the theory together.” He almost smiles again, and opens his arms, like, isn’t that grand?
“But… where do I even start? Our powers were bound, right? I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything magical in my life before last night.
Oh! Unless you count the time I raw-dogged a bag of mushrooms and ran naked through the San Gabriel Mountains screaming, ‘I’m a delicate feminine flower crushed under the boot of patriarchal oppression!
’ until a park ranger intervened, gave me her jacket, and escorted me back to the ranger station to sleep it off. ”
He blinks at me. The smile dims darkly. The sigh sighs heavily. “No, Miss Bonnivarde. I do not count that time. Try again.”
“I’m pretty sure I saw a fairy that night. With wings. And that park ranger? She totally knew what I was talking about. I could see it in her eyes. Man, fuck the patriarchy, you know?”
“For the love of…” He shoves a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up all over the place.
“I’m asking you to consider your feelings and experiences since you’ve reunited with your sisters and reclaimed occupancy in your childhood home.
That’s when you reconnected with your magic, and that’s what we’re looking to connect with here.
Focus, Miss Bonnivarde. What stands out to you? ”
“Oh, that’s easy. The ghosts and visions. Hands down.”
A cocked eyebrow. A quick scratch of the jawline with an elegant thumb. “Not the sentient house?”
His curious gaze pins me in place. My first instinct is to change my answer, but something tells me this is a test of my convictions. I shake my head. “The house magic wasn’t unique and specific to me. It didn’t feel like it was coming from me, whereas the other stuff did, somehow.”
He points at me, the light returning to his eyes. “Precisely.”
Score!
Eager to keep the praise train rolling, I say, “It seems to me that those things are related—the visions and the spirit communication. Maybe not in an obvious way, but I feel like they’re connected.”
He neither confirms nor denies, but the light in his eyes grows a bit brighter, inspiring me to continue.
“What do you make of my mother’s ghost showing up?
” I ask. “She was there right before Calista, but then she bounced.” My chest tightens at the memory, the old bitterness simmering.
“If Calista is the ancestor I’m connecting with, the one who’s kind of guiding me, I guess I’m just curious why my mother would come at all.
Especially considering we had no contact for the last twenty-three years. I don’t even remember her, really.”
Something complicated flickers through his gaze, and when he answers, his voice is soft and contemplative.
“In all likelihood, she accompanied Calista in the hopes you’d be less frightened.
It’s actually quite a feat that she was able to manifest at all; newly deceased don’t typically cross back to the human realm so soon after passing.
It’s very draining on them. Painful, even. ”
A tiny pang of sympathy rings in my chest. Thankfully, Dr. Sutherland seems ready to move on.
“How are you feeling right at this moment?” he asks. “Any more visions or spirit encounters since our meeting last night?”
“Not so far. I’m thinking maybe Calista’s a night person.”
“Many spirits are. It can be easier to communicate at night, when the veil is thinner and human minds are more fluid and open to connection. For now, our experiment—if you’ll kindly follow me?”
We gather our things and he leads me to Calista’s grave at the center of the cemetery, then instructs me to close my eyes, reach out with my senses, and report on what I feel.
Almost immediately, that now-familiar tugging grabs hold.
Without overthinking it, I open my eyes and move away from the grave, letting it guide me past the other headstones and out to the back edge of the cemetery.
Dr. Sutherland follows, the only sounds the scratch of his pencil in his journal, and the occasional ahh or hmm—the sounds of his mental wheels turning.
“I feel like I’m being pulled,” I say, continuing out past the hawthorn trees that border the cemetery. “Not enough that it’s controlling me, but… it’s more like an ocean current.”
“Let’s keep following it then, shall we?”
There’s a chance I’m being sucked into a death vortex, but having Dr. Sutherland at my side makes me feel more brave and confident than I have in years. I relax into the sensation and follow the tug deeper into the woods, leaving the graveyard behind.
We end up in a clearing, the hawthorns giving way to other bushes and ferns, overgrown and autumn-brown. Barely passable. Here, the sensation finally ebbs, and a new one slips over me, prickly and sharp, as if my limbs have all fallen asleep and I need to shake them out.
When I tell Dr. Sutherland about it, he nods sagely, peering at me over the tops of his glasses. “This is where Calista took her final breath,” he says, almost reverently. “Where her blood was spilled, and the demons came forth, granting her the magic that became your legacy.”
“The original portal, then?”
“Yes and no. This spot is where the demons first manifested, yes. But calling it a portal—using that term for any of the summoning locations, really, including the one your ancestors established in your basement—is a bit of a misnomer. ‘Portal’ is really just an all-encompassing term for the energetic boundary between your human realm and the realms of Hell. Demons can be summoned into almost anywhere, so long as the witch knows the proper techniques. And when the boundary is weak, some demons can enter at will. That’s why your work is so crucial.
You’re not just protecting the literal portal in the basement.
You’re protecting the entire boundary, the powerful yet fragile ecosystem of summoning and channeling Hell’s magic.
Your basement portal is the channel through which you’ll exercise that control, conduct your workings, summon demons for your personal dealings, that sort of thing, but it’s merely a piece of a much larger whole. ”
“Great. No pressure!”
“None that you can’t handle, leastways.” He opens his journal again, glancing through his scribblings, making a few more. “We are standing at the birthplace of your family magic. The perfect location for our next experiment.”
He directs me to close my eyes again. Then, in a soft, hypnotic voice, “I want you to reach out to me, to perceive my presence with all your remaining senses. Without the visual cues, what else can you detect?”
It’s probably overstepping if I mash my face against his neck and take a good sniff, right? And if that’s the case, licking is definitely off the table.
Sigh.
“I can smell your soap,” I say, inhaling it from a respectable distance. “Like pine trees and mint. Also, the leather of your journal. It’s authentic. You’ve got good taste.”
A soft chuckle. “Keep going. What else can you perceive?”
“Your voice, obviously, and the sound of your breath. You’re shifting your weight a bit—I can hear your feet shuffling in the dead leaves. Oh! Now I hear the pencil. You’re taking notes.”
“You’re doing so well, Miss Bonnivarde.”
A little flare goes off inside me at the praise. The pencil stops. He shifts closer, warming the air between us. His scent envelopes me like a hug. I barely resist the urge to fling myself at him.
“Keep going. What can you feel?”
“Your… your warmth. It’s getting cold out here, but I can sense your body heat radiating in front of me.” I let out a soft laugh. “Come closer, actually. I’m freezing.”
Smooth, girl. Very smooth.
“We’ll head back soon. Just a few more moments.” He shifts a hair’s breadth closer, his voice low and soothing. “I’d like us to go a bit deeper.”
So would I, Dr. Sexy. So would I…
“Ignoring your most rudimentary senses,” he continues, “I want you to reach out with your mind, with your intuition. Imagine tiny energetic cords stretching between us, connecting our bodies.” His seductive murmur is pure torture, drawing me in deeper with every word.
“Feel for my energetic presence, Miss Bonnivarde.”
Dismissing the throb of desire that pulses between my thighs—why, yes, I will be adding this hot-for-teacher seductive soundtrack to the on-demand orgasm-manifesting buzz bank later—I take a deep breath and try to follow his instruction.
Nothing.
Try again.
Nada.
He must sense my frustration, or see it on my scrunched-up face, because he shifts a bit closer, his warm breath stirring the hair at the top of my hairline, and says softly, “Just relax. You can do this. Clear your mind again, release the tension in your shoulders, and just… come to me.”
Oh, god. Not helping, Dr. Sexy. Not at all.
But, because I’m nothing if not an absolute praise whore, I re-focus my energies on completing this assignment with flying colors. Deep breaths, a full-body un-clench, reaching out with my intuition, and…
It washes over me then, soft and gentle, but solid.
A warmth, a sense of protection. Images flicker behind my eyes, too fast to perceive beyond the barest flashes—a room overflowing with books.
A laugh shared with a couple of random guys.
Friends? Other demons? I can’t hold on to them long enough to guess.
The smell of liquor. A flirtatious smile on a blurred face.
Female, that one. For sure. The image spins, and a new one blurs into view.
Bookshelves. A library, a soft green lamp, a stack of notebooks filled with scribbles and diagrams. Then it shifts again, morphing into a dark room.
A study, a home. Alone in the dim space, the scent of leather and old books, a profound sense of relief…
I swallow hard. A single word echoes in my mind, as if spoken by the breeze a long time ago and held like a breath for all these centuries, waiting for me to arrive so it could deliver the message.
Safe.
His scribbling stops, and in the silence that falls between us, I realize I said the word out loud.
When I finally open my eyes, he’s closer than I even realized, peering down at me with his strange and quiet intensity.
I know I should feel embarrassed, should turn away or giggle or make a snarky comment to break this tension, but I don’t.
I let it simmer and work into my skin, heating me all the way through.
It’s a spell, and we’ve both fallen under it.
“Remarkable,” he whispers, reaching for me, fingertips nearly brushing my jawline again, an ache of desire blooming in those warm brown eyes, and in that moment, I know only one thing for sure.
Dr. Sutherland is going to kiss me.