Chapter 16
Ijolt from my dream, my head pulsing with pain.
I close my eyes again and press my palm to my forehead, hoping the pressure will somehow dull the discomfort. No such luck. Glancing across at my phone on the bedside table, I tap the screen and groan at the time.
There’s no way I’m going back to sleep regardless of the early hour. I push the covers from my body, swing my legs over the side of the bed, and gingerly sit upright. My head protests the change of equilibrium with an intense throb.
Swallowing past the dryness in my mouth, I breathe slowly through the pain. This headache is too strong to pass on its own. I climb out of bed like an old man and shuffle towards the kitchen to grab some pain relief.
This time, the dream stays fresh in my mind. In the past, I’ve been unable to recall details, but since I’ve arrived in London—and especially since the beginning of this storm that has raged for weeks—I’ve gradually been able to retain more and more information.
There’s no doubt in my mind now that someone or something is showing me Cordelia Crawshanks’ memories. How or why, I can’t even begin to explain.
Grabbing a couple of paracetamol from the cupboard and filling a glass of water, I swallow them down. Even though my head hurts, I go through the motions of getting ready for my day like a zombie.
I’m tired and sluggish. No. I’m drained. Like my battery has run down. Usually with my magic pulsing through my veins, I have enough energy to power the Blackpool Illuminations, but honestly, right now? I’d rather crawl back into bed.
Which won’t do me any good. So, I shower and dress and style my hair, then finally perch on the edge of the chair and lean forward to lace my shoes.
I’d much rather stay in the flat today, all snuggled on the sofa in my pyjamas and Uggs and listening to the storm outside with a cup of tea in my hands.
But I can’t. Not only do I have two customers today, if they’re brave enough to try and navigate the flooding caused by the storm, but I also have to keep on researching the portals for Tristan.
Fortunately, the painkillers have taken the edge off. The throbbing is down to a dull ache encompassing my whole skull. Even my eyes hurt.
I force myself to eat some toast although it’s like trying to choke down cardboard. But by the time I arrive downstairs in the shop and flick the lights on, I have a cup of soothing camomile tea in one hand and I’m feeling marginally human again.
It’s a bit early, but I unlock the front door anyway. Mr Franklin is my first customer due, and I don’t want to get distracted in the back room and forget to open up. If he does decide to brave the weather, I also wouldn’t want to leave him standing out in the rain.
Taking a sip of my tea, I set my cup down on the workbench in the back room, the door open so I can hear if anyone enters the shop. Then I start pulling books down from the shelf above and searching through them.
I keep thinking about the dream I had of when Cordelia retrieved her book of magic.
She’d stepped through a solid wall into a space that shouldn’t have existed.
At least, not in reality. One of the things I’ve managed to get my hands on are the blueprints from when the house was first built.
Beyond the parlour had been a kitchen, separated by a thick brick supporting wall.
Yet the room Cordelia had stepped into was huge.
It had felt like a cavern even though it had been dark, and I—she couldn’t see beyond her candle’s light and the light of the rift.
Yet that room doesn’t exist on the blueprints.
Tristan has described something similar a few times when he was talking about the space where the portal to the spirit world is, the one guarded by the former rugby-playing spirit named Bruce.
An in-between place, he calls it. Something that exists outside our normal rules of reality.
What if the portal started out as this rip in the air, the one Cordelia hid her precious book in?
If Death is correct—I still can’t quite believe that I can say or rather think that with absolute sincerity and not like it’s the punchline to a joke. If Death is correct and that portal can be used by dangerous creatures as a conduit into our world, then it needs to be closed.
But how?
It has to have been brought into existence by magic. There’s no way it’s a naturally occurring phenomenon. Logically, if magic opened it, it should be able to close it too. The problem is, I have no idea where to start trying to put together a spell of that magnitude.
My phone pings, and I glance down at the screen, giving it a little swipe to open up the message that’s just arrived. It’s from Mr Franklin. He’s not coming after all and has asked that I send his order instead.
I don’t really blame him. This storm is relentless. It’s overrun sections of the city that still utilise the old Victorian sewer systems and has caused serious flooding as well as played absolute havoc with public transport.
I can’t say that a part of me isn’t glad he won’t be stopping by. While he’s a pleasant enough man, he does tend to broadcast his feelings very intensely, and with my lingering headache and lack of sleep, I’m not sure I could cope with it this morning.
Sending out a prayer of thanks to the goddess, I shift in my seat, leaning across to grab his order, which is already wrapped thoroughly in brown paper.
It doesn’t take long to print out an address label, book it in with a courier, and add the additional cost to his account.
Once it’s all done, I send him a message and return to perusing my books.
I’ve spent days researching portals, astral planes, alternate dimensions, and nothing.
Just a lot of folktales and new age conjecture.
Nothing solid to work with. With my frustration rising, my gaze falls on the intriguing black cloth-bound volume.
One that I still haven’t yet been able to ascertain how it came to be in my possession.
The Path of the Witch, by Elias Black.
Hmm, I wonder. I pluck it down off the shelf and begin to leaf through the pages. There’s really nothing there that pertains to portals or gateways, but something else entirely catches my eye.
How to travel by witch smoke.
I skim the passage avidly and then read it more thoroughly once more before sitting back in my seat.
This Elias person describes travelling instantaneously from one place to another using something he calls witch smoke and the process he describes in great detail—the swirling smoke, the rich purple colour—is very familiar.
It’s exactly what I saw when Cordelia escaped from the house.
Holy shit.
This Elias is the real deal. He’s a witch. And not just any witch, he’s a powerful one if he can travel the same way Cordelia can. I flip back to the first page.
Printed 1876.
That’s only twenty-six years after Cordelia was freed from the asylum.
I wonder if Elias Black knew her? Or the family?
I don’t know what happened to Cordelia; I can’t find any official information about her after her release from Crowscroft Asylum, and I’ve been unable to find a death certificate for her so far.
My phone pings again, and when I read the message, it’s to find my second customer has asked if her appointment can be rescheduled.
After sending her a reply to let her know that’s fine and making a quick note in my diary for the following week, I breathe a sigh of relief.
At least I won’t have to deal with people today.
The throbbing in my head is worsening again, which means the painkillers must be wearing off. Maybe a soak in the bath and a nap will help. Then I can spend the rest of the day in the flat continuing my research.
Suddenly, I hear the shop’s door open and close, a brief howl of the storm coming through before it’s muted again. A moment later, I hear the familiar ping of the bell on the counter.
With a sigh of resignation for the imminent derailment of my plans, I rise from the workbench and make my way into the shop.
And stop.
My stomach tightens nervously, and I swallow. There’s Sam once again soaked to the skin, not that it seems to bother him much. He rakes a hand through his inky black hair, pushing it back from that gorgeous and interesting face.
“Morning, Prickles,” he greets in that rumbly northern burr that I’m really beginning to enjoy. His eyes narrow and he looks closer. “You don’t look well. Are you okay?”
I clear my throat. “I’m-I’m fine. What can I do for you, Sam?”
“I come bearing gifts.” He lifts a hand, and I see something small and rectangular in a paper bag.
“Okay.” I release a slow breath. I really don’t have the energy to fight or banter or whatever the hell it is we do.
Edging around the desk, I lock the door, then lower the blinds. When I turn back to Sam, he has one brow raised questioningly and a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“My two customers for today cancelled thanks to the weather, and I doubt I’ll get anymore walk-ins,” I say tiredly. “Do you want a cup of tea? Or perhaps a coffee? I have a kettle out back.”
“I’d like that.” He follows me around the counter into the back room and whistles when he sees a black metal safe about the size of a wardrobe. “That’s a pretty big safe.”
“It’s got some pretty dangerous items in it.
” I cross the room to fill the kettle. There’s a decent-sized sink in the corner and beside it is a small refrigerator.
On top of that is a tray with coffee, a selection of teas, and sugar.
“I’m having a green tea, what would you like?
I have several different flavours. Or coffee? ”
“Coffee would be great. White with one, please.”
I busy myself with preparing our drinks while he studies all the items organised neatly around the room. His gaze drops to the floor where a huge pentagram is painted.