Chapter 5 #3
“Huh,” she’d said when she saw my face fall. A shaky smile had crossed her lips. “I guess one of our ancestors had a tiny drop of elemental blood.” She’d run her fingers through my curls, but that odd furrow between her brow had stayed the rest of the evening.
A small subset of elemental witches could use high magic, but those were so rare I’d never run into one. The only other supernaturals to use high magic were those no one spoke about: demons and angels, none of whom lived around here.
I closed my eyes, snapped my fingers, and sent will into the etched lines and runes of the circle.
All other sound popped out, leaving only the hiss and sizzling noise of the incense brick.
I opened my eyes to see a massive man in golden armor looming above, a severe frown on his handsome face.
“Hello, Michael,” I said in Enochian, the language making my tongue feel thick and heavy.
The language of the angels had felt impossible to learn, and I only knew a few words, just enough to complete the ritual and greet the angel standing before me.
Switching to English so I wouldn’t do something stupid like insult his father, I spoke once more. “I’ve brought you an offering.”
I would never stop being afraid when the terrifying visage of the Archangel Michael appeared before me. One would be a fool to be complacent in the face of someone who could flatten you with a simple word.
“Show me,” he commanded, his English heavily accented.
I picked up the small amber bottle and held it up to him, slowly rising to my feet as I did so.
Michael frowned but didn’t dismiss the gift out of hand. As Archangels went, he was more reasonable than many I’d dealt with, and while I should never relax in his presence, he made me feel a little more settled than the others.
He unscrewed the cap and held it up to his sharp, patrician nose, inhaling deeply. A flash of something appeared over his face before he smoothed his expression. “Your offering is acceptable, Alexandria.”
Michael was the only one who used my full name. The others called me girl or witch or nothing at all. Alexandria had been a mouthful for a toddler trying to learn how to write her name, thus the shortening to Alex. I held in my wince and dipped my head in acknowledgment.
His ancient gaze flicked up from the bottle and studied me. “Nasty energy today.”
I nodded. “Run-in with a vampire.”
Michael inclined his head. “Not all vampires have such evil souls, Alexandria. Keep this in mind for the future.”
Weird tip, but okay. “I will.”
The cord-cutting ritual was one of the simplest spells of high magic, used before going into any ritual when contacting angels or other beings on higher planes.
Or, if you were a particularly stupid high magic practitioner, one could even call demons.
Those beings preferred purity in all things and greeting them with any energy other than your own on your skin or in your mind could cause things to go awry in a heartbeat.
Simply put, the ritual “cut” the cords of energy and potential entities clinging to one’s aura so the practitioner stepped into a circle free of anything with the potential to influence or warp the outcome of a spell.
Witches, with only a few exceptions, including me, did not use high magic.
A warm bath and a quick sage were enough for any circle work.
Higher beings were pickier about how others approached them, though.
Since I, either because of genetics or my mixed magic, seemed more susceptible to energy transfers and a little more resistant to the normal methods a witch used for cleansing energy, the cord-cutting ritual helped far more than a bath and some sage smoke.
Michael waved his hand and the bottle disappeared. “Take your place in the circle and keep your eyes shut for the entirety. Gazing upon the true visage of an Archangel is inadvisable and could alter you in unpleasant ways.”
Same spiel, different day. “Of course.” I sat back down and pulled the wool blanket around me once more. I’d heard stories of foolish witches opening their eyes during a dealing with an angel. The lucky ones went blind. The unlucky ones disappeared without a trace. Most just went mad.
“This will take longer than normal. This vampire…” The Archangel sighed. Legitimately sighed. I almost cracked an eye open in curiosity. “What is the creature’s name?” he asked.
“Erm.” This was not the normal way a cord ritual went. “He said his name was Beckett.”
Michael grunted. “His energy is off.” Another sigh. “You were wise to come to me. Eyes closed, Alexandria.”
Since we were chatting… “Umm. Is there any way you can call me Alex?”
Michael clicked his tongue. “No. Stop speaking.”
Alrighty then. At least I tried.
Heat rose inside the circle’s bubble.
Agony began.
After a massive glass of water and a larger-than-normal dose of pain medicine, I was able to catch up on all the orders. Michael had left me with a warning to stay clear of Beckett, cautioning me about his strange energy.
Even stranger was the calling card he’d left me to contact him if I ever met any other vampire with the same energy. I’d locked the card in the cabinet with the mead before dinner but couldn’t shake it from my thoughts.
Edmund had no clue what I did in the spelling room, though he knew I could work with high magic.
He sensed it on me the first time I summoned Michael for the ritual and had a ton of questions, few that I could answer.
Some ancient magic unfamiliar to either of us blocked him from the basement and rendered him unable to enter.
Not my magic. I had nothing to do with whatever spell he was affected by, but I wasn’t looking a gift horse in the mouth.
All it would take was a distraction at a critical time during a ritual, and boom, I would be in pieces all over my pretty Persian rug.
The basement was my one true private space away from Edmund and anyone else. Other places in the house—my bedroom and all the bathrooms—were off limits by tacit agreement, one Edmund occasionally tried to breach. His ideas of an emergency were far different than my own.
Once I threatened to cut the Wi-Fi completely and go back to dial-up, he realized I was serious.
A massive pile of packages lay stacked neatly on my dining room table. Most contained harmless gray spells—glamours for influencers, birth control spells for human women, several chlamydia cures, and one for syphilis, all of them purchased by men.
I was considered a gray witch for a reason, and men were terrible at covering their tracks. If my senses were tingling, I’d type their shipping address and email into a search engine. People had no idea how much this seemingly inconsequential information could reveal.
If those men had a partner and they’d bought only one cure, I would send an unaddressed and untraceable postcard to their partner, notifying them that someone in their household had tested positive for an STD. To my knowledge, I’d been responsible for over fifty breakups.
And also, fifty extra spells sold.
It was cheaper to hire me than it was to use insurance, and many of my customers had realized a green witch could do a lot more than a normal doctor could.
Next came the tricky part of my business. Mailing everything without triggering an audit.
An acquaintance of mine handled this part. I couldn’t call her a friend. We’d never met.
But Cat never let me down, took only two percent of the purchase price for the haul, and her couriers were discreet and fast. I sorted the packages and took them out to the mudroom for tomorrow’s pickup. The couriers would start arriving every hour, beginning at twelve, ending at three p.m.
Once the couriers were finished, the packages were dropped off at their designated posts offices at least one town over.
Rinse and repeat until eternity.
After I locked the door, I trudged right upstairs and collapsed face-first into bed. Every time I went through the cord-cutting ritual, I always slept for twelve to fifteen hours. All my limbs felt heavy and achy, and even with the pain meds I’d taken, a headache still pounded behind my eyes.
But Beckett’s greasy presence was gone.
For now, at least.