2. The Spell
ELOISE
I’m one thousand percent sure I’m not comfortable with this. Once again, I peruse the items in the box Maeve gave me that morning, then pop the cork on some roséand drink straight from the bottle. When she’d asked me what I was willing to do to save Harcourt Manor, I’d assumed certain logical boundaries. No one was going to ask me to charge through a fur-packed wardrobe into the magical land of Narnia because that wasn’t real. It didn’t exist, right?
Never assume.
The spell Maeve told me to perform will conjure a supernatural advocate, a creature she claims will handle Tony and save my house. Only, the details about said advocate are rather nebulous, and the directions, clutched in my sweaty palm, are far crazier than I could have ever predicted.
Each tick of the grandfather clock reverberates in my head as the gold hands inch toward twelve. It has to be done at midnight, she explained, when the veil between the living and the dead is thinnest, and the ghosts of my ancestors can help amplify the spell. I take another nip from the bottle before setting it down on the triangular art deco end table beside me, careful to center it on a coaster. I remember a time when I wouldn’t have given the wood finish a second thought, but those carefree days are long behind me.
I’m in the front parlor of Harcourt Manor, perched on the edge of an ancient green velvet sofa. This room was decorated by my great-grandfather Henry Harcourt in the 1920s. He’d been a photographer who’d traveled the world before settling in Virginia, and this room is filled with the spoils of his adventures.
Tick. Tick. Tick.The antique clock in the corner won’t let me forget exactly what time it is. The ticking is annoying as hell, an audible accounting of the seconds of my life passing by. Ten minutes until showtime. Fuck.
I pace the room at the edge of the circular symbol I’ve drawn to Maeve’s specifications in chalk on the wood floor. Its diameter is as wide as I am tall, and it’s divided by a pentagram, the lines of which bear the shaky evidence of my trepidation concerning this plan. I hope to God its construction is good enough for the spell to work.
Opening the box again, I bring it nearer to the fire for a better look. Shadows dance across the contents. Inside, a dingy, yellowing candle stub stinks of beeswax, incense, and dust— the scent of an ancient church or maybe a tomb. Beside the candle is a knife, its bone handle giving way to a curved blade. Clutching the collar of my pink bathrobe tighter under my chin, I reread the instructions.
Light the candle.
Stand naked before the symbol.
Offer your blood.
“Why does there have to be cutting involved?” I place the box on the mantel and cross the room to take another swig of the wine. I’m afraid there’s not enough liquid courage in the world to make this easy.
Gong. The clock chimes. Midnight. I’m out of time.
I abandon the wine, rush back to the box, and position the candle at the head of the symbol. Grabbing matches off the mantel, I fumble for one and strike it against the gritty strip along the side of the box.
Gong.
When it doesn’t light, I steady my hands and strike again, relieved when I hear a chiff and the match head sparks to life. Bending carefully, I touch it to the wick, my heart thundering. The flame burns black.
“What the actual fuck?” I toss the match into the fireplace.
Gong.
Stand naked before the symbol. With a deep breath, I shrug out of my robe, letting the fluffy cotton pool around my ankles. I glance at the wall of windows behind me and the red oak whose gnarled branches wave in the breeze beyond. Harcourt Manor stands at the end of twenty acres of remote land and borders a cliff overlooking the Rappahannock River. No one will see me, but I can’t help feeling exposed.
Gong.
A chill snakes through the room, tightening my nipples to hard peaks. I thank my lucky stars Grams is a heavy sleeper. I’d die if she walked in right now. I snatch the blade from the box and extend my hand over the candle.
Gong.
What am I doing? Cutting myself? Fuck, this is messed up.
Gong.
I close my eyes. This is for Grams. For my parents’ memory. For the ancestors who are buried near the forest behind this house. I take a deep breath.
Gong.
I slice across the fleshy heel of my palm. Blood pools in the hollow. I turn my wrist and let it dribble onto the edge of the symbol.
Gong.
Everything tilts and the world takes on a dreamy quality, but I know I’m awake because my hand throbs. My eyes bulge as the chalk rises off the wood, the symbol twinkling like it’s constructed of tiny stars. The lamp on the end table flickers and goes dark.
Gong.
A bolt of lightning illuminates the yard outside the window. Is it even raining? I swear I see a figure standing next to the red oak tree— a decisively male silhouette, massive in stature. Someone is watching me.
Lightning strikes again and the figure is gone.
Gong.
With only the fire to light the room, I can’t trust my eyes as shadows gather in the corners— thick, smoky masses that tangle, then close in, bleeding into the symbol. The scent of dark spice overwhelms me. Gooseflesh marches up my arms. If the clock chimes again, I can’t hear it over the pounding of my heart.
All that darkness coalesces into a great, black, beastly form with demonic horns, wings, and a barbed tail. But as the thick smoke becomes corporeal, something else takes shape. A pair of leather shoes. Black slacks straining over thick thighs. Tapered hips. A narrow waist that widens into a broad chest. Heavily muscled shoulders. Corded arms. He is dressed in a loose white shirt, ordinary enough, but there is nothing ordinary about the face that forms from the ether. He is stunning. A black-haired angel. A marble sculpture brought to life.
This is the advocate? God, the man is huge, six-four, if I had to guess, and built like he chops wood for a living. Menace bleeds off him, even before I see his scowl. And when he turns brilliant silver eyes on me that seem to glow in the dim light, I almost wet myself.
My throat gives a loud reflexive gulp.
I offer my cut hand, trembling hard enough to cause the blood to spill, and force out a raspy plea. “I need your help.”
He takes a step toward me, his mouth bending into a look of disgust as he scans me from head to toe. “You are no Gowdie witch.”
His voice reminds me of the sound of the struck match.
My chest rises and falls too quickly, and I attempt to slow my breathing so I can speak. Maeve prepared me for this. In a strong voice, I declare, “I perform this spell by the power of Maeve Gowdie.”
He sneers, studying me. My pulse races under his scrutiny, my breath coming fast again. This man of shadows, this advocate, whatever he is, an aura of intensity surrounds him. Undeniably beautiful, there’s a shrewdness in his eyes and a hollowness to his cheeks that make him look… hungry, wanting. The way he studies me makes me want to run.
“Your heart is fluttering like a sparrow’s,” he says, staring at my neck. I feel his gaze like cool fingers pressed to my pulse. “Maeve should know better than to allow little birds to call on me.”
“I’m not?—”
“What is it you need, little bird?” His face is suddenly close, and I make out the glistening tips of two pearly white fangs peeking from below a full upper lip. My breath catches. Oh my God. I glance down at the blood dripping from my hand, still hovering over the black flame of the candle. Has Maeve given me a spell to call a...
“Are you a vampire?” I blurt the question even as a new, prickling chill coasts over my skin.
He draws back, lids narrowing. “Are you a human? Is this why you called me? To talk about what we are and what we aren’t? Do you want pictures of my coffin?” He rolls his eyes. “I hate to disappoint you. I don’t sleep in one. Now take that candle and return it to Miss Gowdie and remind her that I am only bound to serve her direct bloodline.”
The edges of his elbows start to blur. Shit! He’s leaving! I fist my hands and find my voice, even as my heart threatens to break through my ribcage. “Please! I’m sorry if I offended you. I don’t care what you are or who you are bound to serve. I need your help, and if we could come to an arrangement...” I thrust my bloody hand toward him again.
His smoky outline solidifies. Nostrils flaring, his gaze darts to my hand. “Hmmm, the sparrow is willing to make a deal with the serpent in her tree?” His laugh is grit and cinder. “You’re either brave or a fool.”
“Neither,” I blurt, flustered. “I’m desperate. Maeve lent me the candle because my ex-husband… well, my husband still, I suppose… we’re going through a divorce. He’s abusive. Physically and emotionally abusive.” My God, it’s like talking to a statue. He stares down a blade straight nose at me, an impenetrable scowl on his face. At least he isn’t leaving. I take that as a sign to keep going. “After he hit me the second time?—”
“What is your name?”
“Eloise. Eloise Harcourt.”
“Are you asking me to exact vengeance against this man for abusing you while you sleep in his house and eat his food?” He glances around the room, seeming puzzled by a set of Egyptian boxes stacked in the corner.
“No. This is my house. I left him and moved here where I care for my grandmother, who is ill… dying.”
He takes a step closer, those shrewd eyes on me again. “You are free of this abuser, safe and warm in your own home?”
“He’s using a technicality of human law to try to steal this house from me. He’s trying to cast me and my dying grandmother out. This is where I grew up. It’s where my family is buried. And if I don’t do something, he’s going to take it from me. I don’t care about vengeance. I need your help saving my house.” A tear falls and I wipe it away.
The creature creeps closer until his toes are at the border of the symbol. “What do you offer me in exchange for solving this problem for you?”
I dart a glance toward my cut hand. “Uh… don’t you want my blood?”
Fast as a serpent strike, cool fingers wrap around my blood-tinged ones, and his tongue lashes out to lick across my wound. I gasp at the feel of it, warm and wet. Intimate. How could it not be? Naked in the dark with a man’s tongue on my flesh. I swallow again, not entirely out of fear this time.
“Does that mean you’ll help me?”
Those brilliant silver eyes lock on mine. Now that he is closer, I can see they are actually winter blue. The blue of ice. The blue of December twilight.
“Oh, my little bird. That was only me tasting what you have to offer.”