Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Gus
RIFLING THROUGH THE CABINET IN MY basement that housed spellcasting ingredients, I dug out what I needed and deposited them into the large wooden bowl I was cradling.
Some were from a locating spell Russ taught me, others I’d added myself.
Like wild rose roots, unearthed along sandy shores where they beat out other plant life and sprawled through every inch of viable soil in their tangled, twisted will to survive.
Their hardiness would lend my magic strength to travel longer distances, echoing in wider and wider ripples—like a stone tossed into still water—from the city through the province, and even further.
Pinkish shards of thin fibrous mordenite crystals interlocked like the fragile relationships people had to one another, easily shattered unless attentively cared for, Russ said.
Symbolizing a link between the missing and those who missed them, they acted as a conduit of emotion, narrowing down a person’s position.
Smooth grey serviceberry bark because over the centuries, serviceberry trees had served as an indicator the ground was thawed enough to bury the dead. As much as I’d rather not consider it, if I was looking for bodies, the bark would help the spell connect in the absence of emotion to latch onto.
And finally, I grabbed a jar of dogberry jelly to stick everything together and keep the magic spun up tight.
The comb I collected from Ted’s nightstand and a hair brush I’d found knocked over beside Mary-Alice’s vanity sat on my kitchen table next to a stack of maps, from Halifax city streets to different towns throughout Nova Scotia, and one of the whole province.
If they’d gotten further than the border, I’d catch echoes of them in the spell, and I might be able to widen the search.
Back upstairs, I dumped the contents of the bowl onto the table, lining the items up from left to right, the first ingredient to be added to the last. Tracking spells came in different incarnations, but they all had common threads, and they all ended the same way.
One by one the maps would flutter to the floor until the proper one rose above the bowl, the paper glowing in a tight blue circle around the location sought.
If it went wrong instead, if there was something blocking me, I was prepared for that. If the ingredients started smoking, dousing them with a bowl of charmed water would dispel the magic before it caught fire.
With everything set to start, I took a deep, calming breath, resting my palms on the table and let my head drop forward.
The image of Kit looking so lost and bone-deep tired in the tidied-up entryway of the Lovelies’ house as I left tonight came to me.
Hope had ignited in his gaze when I reminded him I was going to give this a shot.
Hot on the heels of that memory, a dozen others followed of Kit looking at me like that.
Like I could make everything better for him, help him stop hurting.
I’d craved being the person he turned to. Turned out I still did.
Trying not to fidget or overthink, I stood straight and shook sudden nerves out of my hands. I’d done this spell hundreds of times. I could do it in my sleep.
“It’ll be a piece of cake,” I said with confidence I didn’t really have. Then I got to work.
Magic in my chest tingled as I reached for the mordenite shards.
Sweeping them off the table with one hand into my other palm, power flowed through my veins in time with my pulse, from my buzzing chest to my fingertips, infusing the crystals as I deposited them in the bowl.
My voice rang out rhythmic and clear, a melody, not words, but magic understood the meaning, growing, and rising in response.
Next came the wild rose roots. My fingertips grazed them and stems shot up, flowers blooming as I settled them beside the crystals.
Then serviceberry bark, the edges crisping and blackening at my touch.
I held it over the bowl until it crumbled in my hands, bits raining down over the roses and mordenite.
Last, dogberry jelly. Digging two fingers into the half empty jar, I coaxed a generous blob on top of everything else.
As the spell peaked, my body lightened, muscles loosening and relaxing.
Spreading the jelly through the other ingredients to coat them, the magic coalesced and glowed brighter and brighter until I withdrew my hand.
I’d done my part. My breathing stalled as I waited to see whether the spell would take. A flutter of wind rippled through the room, gently caressing my hair, and a gratified grin snuck across my face.
Then smoke wafted from the bowl.
“Ah, fuck!”
I made a grab for the charmed water. With a whoosh, the stack of maps burst into flame, and I flinched back as black smoke flooded the room.
Fire crackled, licking up the curved wood of the bowl.
I coughed, eyes stinging, and dumped the charmed water over it, relieved as the flames guttered and fizzled, ingredients floating harmlessly in the steaming pool.
It should’ve cut any link between my magic and the maps, killed that fire too.
Only it didn’t.
Panicking, I stared helplessly as the papers shrivelled and burned.
I’d never seen this before, had no clue how to douse the magic before it torched my table and who knew what else.
If I used the charmed water full of spell debris to try and put it out, it might do more harm than good.
On the other hand, if I used plain water from the tap, it would be like pouring water on a grease fire; it’d only splatter and spread the flames faster.
The fire showed no sign of stopping, though it hadn’t caught along the wooden table beyond the papers’ reach. That had to be a good sign.
Shrugging out of my jacket, I used it to cover my mouth and nose, then rushed to open the kitchen window and the back door. At least fresh air would help the smoke clear.
By the time I got back to the table the fire was dimming, dimming. With the last scrap of a map fluttering into a curled white wisp of ash, it finally died.
“Jesus jumping Christ.”
In the sudden quiet and calm, both clarity and disappointment hit me. Failure stank. And this… this was a kind of failure I’d never encountered. So I had to call Russ and ask him what the fuck I’d done wrong.
Beyond my own mortification lurked the heartbroken expression that would flash across Kit’s face when I told him I didn’t have good news.
Even if I wouldn’t see it over the telephone, those sad green eyes would drop to stare at the ground in front of him.
His parted, pink lips would tremble before he pressed them tight to hide their shake.
The vision was as vivid as the last time I’d disappointed him this badly.
My throat ached. And it wasn’t from coughing.