I groan out loud as soon as I bite into my food.
Rune said they were feeding him okay. Did he mean that or was he putting on a brave face? He has so much damn pride, it’s impossible to know with him. I smile to myself as I chew the savory meat and walk through the market in search of the offering I came here for. Rune is more than just prideful, he was downright arrogant when I met him in person. Aware of his power and cocky with a sense of invulnerability. It shouldn’t have been endearing, but for some reason it was.
Even fully awake, I still feel a vague awareness of him, like we’re connected somehow. It must have something to do with the magic woven into the pages of his journal. I can’t think of any other explanation for it. A niggle of guilt fills the back of my mind. I should have been honest when he asked me if I knew why I’d dreamed about him in the first place, but it felt too weird and creepy to admit that I’ve been reading his journal.
I finish my kebab just as my gaze lands on what I came here for, a vendor with an array of fruits, including a large basket filled to the brim with fresh, ruby red pomegranates. I approach and point to the basket, trying to work out how to ask the price for the whole thing. I’m about to resort to an embarrassing round of charades when the tingle in my chest and fingers intensifies and the words pop into my head in Rune’s voice.
“Nar sepetinin tamami ne kadar?” My accent leaves something to be desired, but the woman seems to understandjust fine. She rattles off a price, and again, I reach into my pocket to conjure the amount, then thank her in Turkish. “Tesekkürler.”
Fortunately, I spot a bottle of honey that will work as an additional offering, and the vendor simply gives it to me; a gift for buying so much of her wares. I thank her again and continue my journey.
Since when do I know Turkish? Did Auri add in a new perk without telling us? On-the-spot language translation instead of an end-of-year bonus? I’ll have to ask the guys if they’ve suddenly found themselves speaking a language they don’t know. I’m not going to worry about it right now though. The important thing is that I got the offering for Kallis, and now I’m going to get some answers.
I slip into the alcove of a doorway so I’m out of sight, then close my eyes and venture into the void again. The spot on my palm where Meravis scrawled with his fingertips tingles and pulses, guiding me to where I can find her.
I step out of the void to find myself in the middle of a metropolitan North American city. It’s too generic for me to bother trying to figure out which one, and it doesn’t really matter. Tall buildings, foot traffic, lots of buses—none of it is what I came here for anyway. I turn on the spot for a minute, looking for any clues as to where I can find the witch. If Meravis’s information was right, she can’t be far.
Then my gaze lands on a sign on the sidewalk in front of a small brick building sandwiched between two much larger ones. There’s a picture of an eye in the middle of a palm and a list of services: palm reading, tarot, spirit guide communication, custom spell work, and more…
The shop name is generic, but that has to be it.
I hurry across the street and into the shop. A little bell over the door chimes as I step inside, and the strong smell of incense and magic tickles my nose. If it weren’t for the distinct scent,this place could be mistaken for any run-of-the-mill, tourist-centric spiritualist shop. There are shelves full of tarot decks for sale, bundles of sage, candles with cards explaining what each color is for, and all the books you would expect to find in any store catering to humans interested in Wicca. I wonder if Kallis’s customers know she’s a true, born witch.
“Hello?” I call out. There’s a soft rustle of fabric as a curtain behind the counter is pulled back, and a woman steps out.
I’ve met enough witches in my life to know that it doesn’t do any good to stereotype. They come in all races, ages, and genders, they all have their own style, and no two are alike. But Kallislookslike a witch in the most classic sense. Her gray hair is pulled up into a bun with a few tendrils framing her face, her nose is long and slightly crooked like it’s been broken before and never set properly, and her blue eyes have a cloudy film over them. She looks me up and down suspiciously, her thin lips puckering, creating deeper wrinkles around her mouth.
“How can I help you?” she asks, but her tone is a lot more “get the fuck out” than a genuine offer to assist.
“Are you Kallis?”
She narrows her eyes.
“That depends on who’s asking.”
She pulls her floral cardigan more tightly around herself and glances at the basket of pomegranates and the honey I’m holding. I thrust them towards her.
“These are for you. Offerings for the goddesses Persephone and Hecate.”
She stares at me a second longer, cocking her head slightly like she’s listening to someone I can’t see. Then, she croaks out a laugh that’s anything but jovial.
“What kind of help could a gargoyle possibly need?” She snatches the basket and the honey and disappears back behind the curtain.
Am I supposed to follow her?
I look around helplessly for a second, as if one of the books is going to jump off the shelf and instruct me on proper etiquette when seeking help from a hostile witch.
“What are you waiting for?” she calls out.
I guess that answers that. I hurry around the counter and through the heavy velvet curtains.
RUNE
Maybe it’sthe fact that I’ve finally had a decent meal, but I’m feeling slightly less helpless than I have been for the past week. There aren’t any clocks in here, but I’ve been paying attention to the shadows cast by the slivers of sun through the tiny, high window so I know when to expect Elvira.
I might not have access to my magic, but I’m Rune motherfucking Delaport, the most powerful mage of the century, and magic is more than the energy we learn how to harness and conduct inside our bodies, it’s all around us. Even in a dank, lifeless prison like this, where all the energy is stagnant and refuses to flow, it’s still there.
Kneeling on the small patch of concrete between my bed and the bars, I keep my ears pricked for any sound of footsteps while I use my finger to make a circle in the dust and dirt. In my mind’s eye, I can picture the page in my most well-used tome with the drawing of a proper snare. I close my eyes and use my finger to draw the symbols at the four points, murmuring the incantation under my breath. I can feel the weak stir of the magic in my veins, fizzling and useless. But I have to trust that the symbols have power of their own, even when my magic is impotent. Inside the circle, I scrawl the Latin words of the spell, pushing every last bit of flickering magic I have into them. Whenthe circle works properly, any living thing that means to harm you will be captured as soon as it steps inside, unable to move until the circle is broken. The trick is going to be getting her to step inside of it. Once I have her, I’ll have a bargaining chip, then maybe my captor will show their face, and we can have a proper chat about what the fuck they want from me.
