Chapter 1 #2
A summoning circle and star painted are painted in deep red on the plush carpet floor.
The lines of it are slightly frayed because of how thick the rug is, but it’s definitely magical.
In plain view between me and the sweeping floor-to-ceiling windows that lead to the private upper deck, the circle takes up the whole space, big enough to lie down inside three times over.
A circle is only as big as the entity being summoned…
Thankfully, there’s nothing inside the circle except the star and the strange-looking sigils that I have no idea the meaning of, because although I’m the daughter of a witch, I only seem to have weak, dangerous gifts—gifts that have, so far, only appeared once.
A thin white powdery substance that doesn’t look like salt—maybe chalk—makes a second circle within the first, which is also strange. I always thought that kind of stuff was meant for protection, not summoning.
The Cyane Coven may have chosen this spot for its openness to the water and the moon.
Safely tucked within land owned by a witch of an allied coven, the lake house was sought after sometimes for their occasional ritual.
The nearest neighbors are several acres away and through thick woods on either side.
It’s a perfect place for privacy, natural ambiance, and access to resources.
But what’s on the floor from before isn’t a setup for a standard ritual, it’s a legit summoning circle, and, based on the red used in its creation, a demonic one.
Why water witches wanted to summon something demonic, I have no intention of asking.
All I know is that demons and demon magic are something to stay far, far away from…
Anything dark and unnatural is to be avoided.
I may know a thing or two about magic and rituals, but I’ve yet to find my coven or calling, if I even have one. I was offered a place within my mother’s coven, but I declined. I’ve never had an interest in moon magic, nor has it ever had an interest in me.
It’s part of the reason I’m so listless and eager to own a place of my own. That’s an accomplishment I could actually achieve.
Thoughts of the past start to arise, and I turn away before they’re able to form.
I take a calming breath and cringe again from the scent, wondering where the hell it’s coming from.
After making certain I’m, in fact, alone by checking the bedrooms, closets, and hallway behind me, I return to the master bedroom with narrowed eyes, ready to hunt down the source of the disgusting smell.
I approach the circle first, making certain not to touch it as I kneel to sniff the area, only finding more of the cloying sweetness. Either way, I head to the nearest windows and open them wide. With fresher air diluting the reek, I head to the master bathroom next.
Unlike the rest of the house, the bathroom is a complete mess.
One step into the once-luxurious space and I’m inside a morgue or a surgical chamber of some sort, with metal pliers, crushed powders, and even herbs of various colors all over the counters and along the jacuzzi tub.
The floor is marred with scuffs, dirt, and even…
Used condoms.
“Fuck.”
My worst nightmare.
So this was where they prepped.
I let out a loud sigh as I slip my fingers into my pocket to pull out my phone.
I have to call Mom with the terrible news of her bathroom’s defilement.
With Grand Funk Railroad’s “We’re An American Band,” fading into “Money For Nothing”—which makes me smile, despite having used condoms scattered around me—my gaze lands on a large open book that’s been left on the floor in the back.
Sidestepping the occult paraphernalia, I tuck my phone away again and pick it up, curious as to why, of all things, this was left behind.
Books are precious to witches and practitioners of magic.
Each one has the ability to be someone’s personal bible.
A book of spells and thoughts is deeply personal and often incredibly magical, hosting remnants of that person’s essence for much longer than other kinds of objects.
Writing down conscious thought is like putting a piece of your soul into words, and words have the potential to live forever.
I turn the thick, frail book over, finding no words on the cover or back. It’s bound like any old book from the back of those study rooms in a library. I open it, and as I do, a picture falls out. Pausing to pick it up, I discover there are three polaroids on the ground, not one.
I frown as I lift them, peering at the picture in the first one.
Grainy and dark, all I can make out is a bulky form and a canine’s grinning face.
Unsettled, I moved to the next one, only to find it as obscure as the first except there are two people in it in addition to the dog.
A middle-aged couple. The canine is looking at them.
I flip to the last picture and it’s the body of a fish, but without the upper half.
Only the tail, long, tapering to a slender end with two sweeping but crumpled fins, the black and white image just as uncanny as the other two.
Throwing the pictures in the garbage, I walk out of the bathroom with the book and head onto the upper deck to make sure there are no more surprises. Finding the area mostly untouched, I slip out my phone and finally text Mom.
You’re not going to like reading this, but…
I delete the message and start over, trying once more before deleting it again.
Staring at the screen, I scrape my teeth across my bottom lip, wondering what to do.
My parents are older than they used to be, and the house is still clean enough to have it done in a couple of hours.
There was nothing to indicate real dark magic happened, only an attempt, and the mess it left behind.
I don’t want to be stuck here all afternoon. I sigh up at the sky.