Zero Probability Event #3
“Sarah’s been giving me the ingredients all along.” I laugh, but it’s self-deprecating. “The chance that I’d ever have been able to recreate the conditions of that first spell to find that specific fold in the fabric of time is…”
“Zilch,” Rowan states.
I nod. “Accurate.”
“Delilah would call it a zero probability event.”
I tilt my head quizzically—I don’t speak math. “Yeah, that. So, I’d still need the basics: crystal and candles, et cetera. Thyme is easy, as is the mirror… I’d forgotten about that. It was just there against the wall. And I didn’t think…”
I pause to give a shaky exhale, then whisper.
“I cast within my own reflection. That’s why it doesn’t appear in the lake in the dream.”
All the blood drains from my face, and I suddenly feel a little queasy.
“Yer going to have to loop me in here, Milo. I don’t understand what yer referencing, or the risk any of this poses. I do my job better when I know where the threat is coming from.”
“A lot of witches don’t like mirrors anywhere near them when they cast; it’s a really divisive topic.
At best, they can direct intentional energy, at worst it can trap that energy.
When I cast the spell, I had the intention of keeping Ethel safe and protected in a bubble forever…
and that intention was never fulfilled, because in that regard, the spell failed. ”
Rowan gives a low and frustrated growl. “What does that mean in werewolf, Milo?”
I hold his golden gaze.
“That I…” My face falls while I place my thoughts in the right order. “That I can’t do Sarah’s spell until I release that energy.”
Oh, but, but, but… I straighten with a rush of renewed vitality. “That’s why she refused to talk in the dream, and why she always led me to the water! So I would know my energy is trapped and I’m powerless without it. Goddess, Rowan, she’s an incredible witch!”
“Mhm, incredible indeed.” He tilts his head and looks me up and down with an expression that suggests… Yeah, no. I can’t read that one.
Rowan claps his hands together, then stands to face the paper. “Is it hard? To get your energy back from a mirror?”
I shake my head by way of answer, an unusual warmth coiling in my stomach. “Nah. That’s surprisingly easy, really.” Feeling more like myself again, I hold his gaze and deadpan, “Unless a demon—or something—from another dimension steps through before you finish.”
Rowan’s whole body stiffens, and his eyes dart around the room. That protective factor he oozes is off the charts.
“Yeah, mirror magic can be tricky. But if that doesn’t happen, then it’s easy.”
He narrows his eyes, and to hide my smile, I turn to face the paper pinned to the wall. “The hairbrush, though…”
Rowan, still primed but acquiescing to the flow of the conversation, steps beside me and indicates the list with an up nod.
“Ye wrote ‘taglock’ at the end there, what’s that mean?”
“In my dreamscapade—”
“In yer what?”
“My dreamscapade.”
“That’s not a word.”
I fold my arms and pout. Rowan’s eyes bounce between my lips and my torso before cutting back to the words.
“That’s what Ray said,” I sulk. “But it makes sense, so I’m keeping it.”
“Ray again,” he mumbles.
“What?”
“Nothing. So… taglock?”
I stare hard at the side of Rowan’s face, but he doesn’t budge.
“What Sarah’s trying to communicate is a scrying spell. Basic stuff. But there’s a need for some powerful amplifiers to handle the fact that we’re moving through time, not space. A taglock is an item that belongs to the person you’re trying to find.”
“Like a scent item?”
“A what?”
“What ye’d give a rescue dog to help them find someone who’s lost.”
I chew on my bottom lip as I think that over. Nodding, I add, “Yeah, that. But a hairbrush?”
“Maybe she wants ye to find a genetic link? Someone with shared DNA?”
I open my mouth in a combination of thought explosion and, embarrassingly, a burp. To seal the mortification in place, my tummy then rumbles. Loudly.
Embarrassed, and immediately a fetching shade of pink, I dip my head and fight my phone out of my tight jeans pocket to search the internet. “Are there any living descendants of the Lost Colony of Roanoke?”
Because he’s a gentleman—gentlewolf?—Rowan doesn’t comment on my stomach’s outburst.
I try my best to style it out by reading the results. “It says here it’s possible that some descendants still live in Robeson County.”
“How far?”
“Three, maybe four hours’ drive.”
Rowan pulls the papers from the wall and folds them away. “Right. Here’s the plan: ye’ll get your witchy crystals and things…” I raise my eyebrow at that and pocket my phone. “On the way, ye can use my laptop to narrow that possibility down to an actual person, and their address.”
“And we’ll drive to this person’s house and just what? Knock on the door and ask to borrow their hairbrush?”
“I mean, ye can, but I generally find people call the police when they encounter unsettling situations.”
“So what? We break into their house and steal a hairbrush?”
Rowan nods. “Aye.”
And before I can answer, he puts both hands on my shoulders and steers me through to the kitchen. “But first… lunch.”