7. Destructive Blue Eyes
7
DESTRUCTIVE BLUE EYES
SAYAH
“ W hat about this spell you were saying we should do earlier?” I ask, setting my ‘Yes’ pile aside and taking a drink of my tea.
“Ah, yes,” Hilda says, setting her pictures down. “Safe passage spell, and a healing one for us.”
I walk to my spell cabinet and open it. “What do we need?”
“Three white candles,” Maggie answers, “quartz crystal and rose oil for the healing. For the safe passage, we need a piece of white cloth, bay leaves, sea salt, tiger's eye stone, white sage incense, white candles, and some dirt.”
I look at my aunt imploringly. “And you know this off the top of your head?”
“I've done it a time or two.” She sniggers, a knowing smile hiding behind the laugh.
“I've done a few myself and still need to check books for reference.” I laugh. “Okay, I think I have all the supplies. The bay leaves would be in the kitchen, though, in the spice's cabinet.”
Hilda grabs it while I gather the other things she needs for the spells, picking up Mama's wand for good measure. There's a power in it that I don't quite understand. It's light but heavy, if that makes any sense. The wood feels alive, like touching a live tree and feeling it breathe. There's a slight sound of high-pitched ringing every time I bring it near me, and it smells like earth, soil, and magick. The base of the wand is dark brown and ombres into a very light, almost blonde color.
When I return, we huddle in a circle in front of my altar by the window.
“Okay,” Maggie resumes, her face steadying in concentration. “First, set the candles out and put the picture of your folks in the middle. Now, hold the stones, and put all your energy into them, thinking with all you have for the safe passage of Fran and Dan and for us, healing from this pain. We'll pass the rocks around to each of us and do this.”
I take the quartz and hold it in my hand. Imagining the crystal's power has accumulated from all the world's wonders, I ask that power to help guide my mom's spirit into the next realm. The warmth of my hand is pressing into the rock, and I give it all the strength I have left. When it feels like all I am and will ever be drains into it, I pass it to Hilda, taking the tiger's eye stone in return from Maggie.
I do the same with this one.
“Now put the rocks next to the picture,” Hilda instructs after the crystals have been anointed with our magick.
I place them on the altar concentrically, next to the picture of my parents that I used in my spell last night.
“We shall now anoint the candles with the rose oil and light them,” Maggie says, twisting the top off the rose oil.
It's a tiny bottle. Mama had gotten it for my last birthday. It smells divine, like the most potent rose I've ever smelled, bottled up and sealed to preserve the heavenly nectar. I use it sparingly and only for significant life events. A new job. A spell for a friend to get pregnant. A death.
We each take a candle and anoint it with the rose oil from base to wick, the saccharine smell enveloping us with the decadent aroma. After rubbing the excess oil on my pulse points, I take the orange lighter and light the candle.
“As they burn,” Maggie adds, “take the white cloth and put the bay leaves, sea salt, and dirt in it?—”
I add the ingredients to the fabric in my hand.
“—and then light the incense.”
I twist the material so the ingredients are tucked neatly inside and set it on the altar. Hilda lights the incense with the fire from the candle and then holds out her hand for Maggie and I to take on each side.
Maggie sets her jaw.
“It is with love in our hearts that we call on all the forces we've come to know,” Hilda chants, “water, fire, earth, and air. Gods and Goddesses. Powers within we three. The power within Fran and Dan. Help them find their way to the light, peace, and garden of daffodils. Help us heal from this pain and help Sayah and Gauge find peace and move on. Protect them with our love even when we aren't near her. And protect us from missing our sister and her husband. This is our will, so mote it be.”
“So mote it be,” Maggie and I repeat in unison.
Letting go of my hand, Hilda dangles the cloth in the smoking incense. She holds it there for a few seconds, her lips mumbling inaudible incantations.
I watch as the smoke billows up and wraps around the satchel. The smoke is the intention, a palpable representation of our inner desires. The herbs inside the satchel are our wishes—what we want from the energy we manipulate. When the smoke binds to the satchel, our dreams and objectives collide, setting a force into the energy around us, a silent plea to the world to help us heal.
Hilda grasps my hand and sets the little package of magick into it. I close my fist around it and picture healing as a tangible thing, something you could pick up, put in your pocket, and save for later, drawing on it when you need to borrow some strength.
I will cradle my grief tenderly, letting this spell ease some of the burn while I get used to the way it settles into my bones.
I hold the satchel tightly and put it to my heart.
The energy in the room is peaceful, and the heaviness from the day lightens a bit. I watch the candles burn for a few minutes with my aunts doing the same. I picture my mom in that white dress, flowing through the field of flowers, touching them with her delicate hands. The light is backlighting her, setting her blonde wildly curly hair alight, beckoning her to come toward it. She looks in my direction, smiling like she is in the picture, light and full of happiness—no curses, no darkness, just light, love, and weightlessness. As the light gets brighter, Mama looks toward it, then back to me, and mouths, 'I love you,' then walks toward the blinding light. It becomes so bright I can't see anymore, and when I open my eyes, I'm shocked that it's dark. I expected the sun to be outdoors by how bright the vision got, but alas, it's night.
We're still standing before the candles, and my aunts are by my side, their eyes opening with a softness on their faces as though they, too, feel the peace.
H e's standing on the deck of a lake house overlooking the dark crystal water with his back to me. I know it's him because his black hair looks wind-kissed at the tips that curl around his ears, and the black jacket has the collar flicked up to mingle with the black tresses. His toxic beauty swirls around him, even from behind.
My heart is racing.It feels like a strange dream with the mist around us—which I know it is.
Why am I dreaming of him again?
My heart is pounding so hard he probably hears it because he senses that he's no longer alone and turns. My body quivers, and my knees shake.
As soon as I meet those crystal blue eyes, I won't be able to refuse him anything.
When his eyes meet mine, I freeze. My breath catches in my throat, tying knots around my ribs.There's a blackness about his aura, so dark it's like light itself has curled up to him and died.
I feel the terror radiating off him in waves, and it shivers in delight while his bright eyes illuminate even the most unforgiving dark.
I should run.
But where?
I'm surrounded by dense forest, its dark gnarled trees offering no escape. With no sense of direction, running seems futile—I could easily get lost in this labyrinth of shadows. Yet staying here is a guaranteed life sentence.
No matter how hard I try, I cannot lift my feet from the deck floor. They're so heavy. I can't move, let alone run.
His destructive blue eyes search my face, glittering with darkness, and he gives me a wistful smile that's laced with fatality. He's tall and spare and deadly elegant.
Something in his gait changes, his body softens, muscles relax, and as he enters my space, the terror I felt before slides off me and into the water below. I fall in love with him the moment he lets the terror ebb, like a tangible force he can wax and wane at his whim. I love him so much, and I don't know why. I don't even know who he is.
He walks toward me, and I steel myself, knowing the fire comes next. Anticipating the warmth that sweeps up my body when he gets too close, I clench my teeth to brace it.
He's almost upon me.
It's as though his lips were designed to unhinge me.
I want him to pick me up so I can run my fingers through his hair and feel that fire take over my body. I want him all over me—in any capacity.
In movements faster than I can see, he's in front of me, his hands on my neck, pulling me toward those lips. I want this more than the air to fill my lungs. There's a soothing reassurance in his eyes that speaks to the depths of my soul; something ancient and older than civilization floating between us.
When his lips meet mine, I forget how to breathe. He feels like the rush of jumping off a waterfall, invigorating and fatal, exhilaration and destruction colliding in the mist. His tongue enters my mouth, and I lick the darkness from him. He tastes like magick and shadows.
He gives a martyred sigh, his breath erratic; his darkness drinks from my light. He pulls back, and I miss his lips instantly; the features of his face cracking as though he's in pain like he knows what he's about to do and doesn't want to do it.
An otherworldly white leeches the blue from his irises, contracting them vertically as he opens his jaw wide with a growl. The fangs protrude, and panic hemorrhages from my skin, but I can't move; I'm captivated by the ferocious elegance of his fury.
I can't breathe; he's so beautiful in his darkest form. I don't care if the world burns down around us as long as I get to look at him while I burn.
In a mesmerizing tempered fury, he pushes my head to the side and bites my neck. Along with the crunching sound of my skin breaking open, the fire engulfs me again.
He falls back into the night, his darkness. I watch him through a ferociously burning veil, contorted with a saddened fury, as I burn alive in front of him once again.
T he following day, when I open my eyes, the cut-out holes shaped like stars make my dark curtains look like a constellation, morning light lancing through them like they're glowing.
The color of the drapes is reminiscent of the fathomless blue of his eyes.
I jolt up.
Touching my fingers to my lips, the impression of him still burns there. If I press hard enough, I can almost feel him there again when I close my eyes.I yearn for him, feeling my core light up when I think of him draping over me on this bed, licking at his darkness as he laps at mine.
Fuck.
Why can't he be real?
Swinging my feet to the side of the bed, they dangle in the air a few seconds before I hop down and throw on some sweats and a tank top.
As I descend the stairs, I twirl my long hair into a messy bun, careful not to trip on my black cat, who is always lurking in the shadows.
Nox rushes past me as I enter the kitchen and perches on the table. He meows as I scratch behind his ears.
“Good morning, handsome boy,” I say as he purrs. I kiss him on the top of his head.
The dream still dangles in my vision as I try to focus on making coffee, thinking about that sexy vampire haunting my dreams.
He's addicting.
As I sit at the table, drinking my coffee, I look through one of the old grimoires from the box, losing myself in the magickal words and enchantments within it.
The book is old and fragile, the pages crisp and yellow with age. A delicate cloisonné decorates the front.My grandmother's elegant script is mesmerizing; instead of reading what the words are saying, I'm paying more attention to the loops of her Gs and the swirl of her Ts.
I am so lost in thought, it's not until I hear the floorboards creak that I realize my aunts are up and coming into the room behind me.
“Oh, wow,” Hilda coos, peeking over my shoulder at the grimoire, “I haven't seen that in ages.”
“There's a bunch of them in that box. Some of Mama's, some of Grandma's,” I say.
Hilda and Maggie each pick a book. They each slide into a chair around me and open their own journals to explore.
The brittle sound of old pages crinkling as they turn, weathered to sepia, and the smell of ancient trees and magick spells taunts the air as I'm pulled into a fleeting memory: My mother, seated at the kitchen table, surrounded by flickering candles, engrossed in one of these books.
“This is interesting,” says Hilda, pulling me out of the memory.
I lean over and peek.
There are old drawings of magickal herbs and plants, notes and spells marking the margins.
“What is that about?” I ask, absorbing the colors of the beautiful illustrations.
“Some writings on plants and their uses,” Hilda says, glasses poised delicately on the bridge of her nose.
“And that?” I say, pointing to a word that looks like vampire .
“It says, One of the most potent magickal herbs known to witches and warlocks alike is Nightshade. Along with its sister plant, Latana, Vetana, or Nightshade, they are sacred plants used in several ancient civilizations, including ancient Egypt . It goes on and on.”
Why was Grandma so obsessed with this herb?
“There's more,” she continues. “ Nightshade can be used for protection against demons, vampires, sirens, and fae . Then, in the margin, she wrote, Does not work against formweavers or grimspawns .”
My nose wrinkles in confusion. “What the hell is a grimspawn?”
“Someone controlled by death magick,” Maggie says, not looking up from the book she's studying. “Reanimated dead people and whatnot.”
“Um . . . what?” I hedge, letting out an uncomfortable laugh. “That's not real, right?”
Maggie looks at me pointedly. She sets the book down, switching the glasses to her head. “Well, like any myth, I guess there may be little truth to it. We'll never know for sure.”
“Mmm-hmm,” I say sarcastically, and I get the feeling she knows more than she will admit.
Her resolve is steel; she pulls the glasses back down to her nose and lifts the book.
Returning to my own, I see an entry my grandma made next to a color-pencil drawing of a beautiful woman with purple eyes.
“Oh, listen to this,” I exclaim after reading a few lines. “It says, I saw her again. This time, she spoke to me. I knew she was not a ghost, but she was something not of this world we know. I wasn't supposed to see her, though, and that is why she spoke to me. I thought she was a vampire or something . . . maybe fae. But she was not. She was of the sea .”
Hilda and Maggie exchange looks.
Hilda starts picking at her fingernail.“When was that written?”
“Nineteen thirty-four,” I say.
“Before we were born,” Maggie states.
“What does it mean, do you think?” I say, trying to press them. “Of the sea?”
“A siren, probably,” Hilda admits, though her voice is unreliable.
“A siren?” I repeat. “Like, a mermaid?”
“Well, yes.” Hilda rises and moves over to the coffee pot, getting herself a cup from the cupboard. “Probably not what you imagine a mermaid to look like, though. These are magickal, immortal beings doomed to the sea to lure sailors to their deaths and drink their blood.”
Oh, so grandma was a little coo-coo then?
“She did have a vivid imagination,” Hilda counters, as though my inner thoughts crawled out of my brain and crept into hers.
“Yeah, she did,” Maggie agrees, winking at me with a suspicious grin. “I wonder if this was for a book she was working on.”
“Does it say anything else?” Hilda asks, returning to the table with her coffee. “About that woman she saw?”
“No, the page is torn out where there should be more to the entry,” I reply sadly, touching the frayed edges sticking out from the crevice. “I want to know more.”
“I'll look through the other boxes at home,” Hilda says, opening another book. “Maybe the other page is in there. We have a lot of her old journals.”
“Yeah, that would be great, Hilda, thanks,” I say, returning to the page about mermaids.
After a few slow moments of only the pages turning, making the only sound, I chew on the inside of my cheek hesitantly. “What do you guys know of vampires?” I say timidly.
Maggie looks up from her book, her wild hair backlit by the morning sun steeping in through the window. “They're said to have powers to compel you to do what they want you to without speaking.”
“I've heard that in movies before,” I agree.
“Yes, but it is ancient knowledge, too,” Hilda says. “Everyone knows they are strong and fast; that sunlight, stakes, garlic, and silver kills them.”
“They're also said to have individual powers, too,” says Maggie, the look she gets when she’s about to drop her useless knowledge on us sweeping over her face. “Like their own special power depending on the person who turned them, their blood type, and the time of year they were born into vampirism. Things of that sort.”
I glance at her sideways. “Well, don't you know a lot about vampires.”
“Oh, Maggie was obsessed with them back in the day,” Hilda replies almost condescendingly. “She did papers on them in college.”
Maggie tends to go overboard with things she gets fascinated with. She often bores Hilda to tears when she has random eruptions of her knowledge, wringing eye rolls and harsh sighs from Hilda every time she brings up a topic.
That’s why there’s a teenage-level wall in their bedroom with a collage of the Moodiest Blues band she ‘toured’ with in college, or why she claims she knows Italian and is fascinated by Italy but has never set foot there yet talks like she has.
It’s funny listening to the two of them banter. They still fight like siblings even in their seventies.
I almost spill my dream of the mysterious vampire who has been haunting me, but then I think better of it and shut my mouth.
I’ll keep him as my dirty little secret.
For now.
“Why are you interested in vampires all of a sudden?” Hilda queries, as though she senses my impure thoughts of ungodly creatures.
“Oh, I don't know,” I lie, trying to tighten my voice. “Maybe because of Twilight . ”
A chuckle ripples through us before we settle back into our quiet.
Flipping through the pages nonchalantly, I keep looking for more words to tell me anything about vampires.
Why would grandma have a book that mentioned herbs that could kill them if she didn't know more about them?
I'm going crazy. They're not real. Why am I obsessing about this?
Letting it go for now, I continue to read through the pages for the beauty of the writing and the magick within them.
There are so many spells within the book. Spells for prosperity, wealth, love, a new job, mourning a loved one, recovering from a divorce, and so on. Each has its own set of ingredients and magickal instructions on how to carry out the spell.
I have my own spell books. I've made them look oddly like a few of these, as though a self-help guide of How to be a Witch was passed down through my DNA. It's as though the ancestors before us lit a trail of magick in our veins for us to follow back to the craft long after they're gone.
It doesn't feel like I just chose to go down this path.
It's as though I'm being led there.