Esme nods, waiting for me to start and mentally tucking that information away for later.
It’s not the best set up. Typically, the salt would create a barrier between me and the spirit. However, I don’t have the mental willpower to perform that kind of seance right now. Not after two months of my magic slowly draining out of me from being around Nestor and the effects of the curse.
Summoning the actual spirit is a lot more energy than simply communicating with a ghost. Not to mention, it works best with some sort of vessel for the spirit to use as a tool rather than appearing in whatever form they take in the afterlife. Usually similar to Nestor’s ghostly state, but more defined and corporeal.
The only way for the board to work is if we are all touching it, and I would rather take the chance of us being locked in with something than letting it out in the world.
I briefly wonder why Esme wasn’t with her typical partner-in-crime, Clover, but I’m grateful she found us alone tonight.
Clover is the most wary of these things. It doesn’t grate at me the way my sisters’ fear did. Clover doesn’t make me feel like I’m some sort of magical mutation—she genuinely does not fuck with ghosts, deadwalkers, or anything else tied to the spirit realms.
Clementine’s eager interest makes me wary of sharing too much information with her—though a little chaotic magic like her young, raw powers wouldn’t be a bad addition. I could siphon that in the same way, but could hone it to my intentions.
Esme does her best to match her circle to mine by pouring right over my line, and it doesn’t look too uneven. It’s better to equally mix the salts together, but we’re all ready to get answers——and avoid the wrath of Rowyn when she sees the nonsense the three of us have created together. Nodding, I turn back to Sybil and give her a curious look.
“Let’s do this,” I say. “Before the hour hits four would be preferable.”
We each take our seats and begin lighting the various candles.
“What do I do?” Sybil asks.
“Just be here and keep your walls down,” I say. It’s as simple as it sounds. Holding up the small heart-shaped indicator, I add, “We’ll lay our fingers on the planchette and open yourself and your magic to the spirits. It’s pretty much what you would expect.”
“And you can find Barrett?” she asks.
With a laugh, Esme shakes her head. “Spirits are finicky. If Barrett wants to talk to us, he will. His presence is all around the inn, so it shouldn’t be hard to connect. Who else would talk if he doesn’t?”
Sybil swallows and slowly moves her eyes to me, looking for more answers. I thought she would know more about what to expect since she had so much confidence when she asked. To be fair, I don’t know anything about advanced divination powers—outside of what I’ve learned about dreamwalking.
“Most likely, whoever it is will have a connection to the Dreaming Willow Inn, and have answers. It might not be Barrett, but it could be.”
She nods with more certainty.
Placing my two pointer fingers on the planchette, I wait for her and Esme to follow.
With a deep breath, I close my eyes and lean my head back. Settling into the moment, I open the mental gate holding the spirits at bay. They’re always there to guide me, but I’ve learned how to stay in control rather than be consumed by them.
“We welcome the spirits of the Dreaming Willow Inn with good intentions. The Blackthorns, Vexleys, Aguados, and all the other families who have been a part of the history here,” I say. My voice is low and quiet, but confident. “Tonight, we—the descendants of the last coven—open our hearts and magic to you. If anyone is there and would like to guide us through this curse, please help us.”
The room rapidly drops in temperature, and all the candles outside of the salt circle go out. Looking around, I notice the flame of the fireplace flickering in and out, fighting to stay alive against whatever entity has cloaked the room.
The spirits twirl around us in the air, teasing my consciousness with the possibility of making that connection. None of them do.
Closing my eyes again, I take a deep breath and mentally look around for someone—anyone.
“Barrett,” I quietly beg. Then decide to throw in other coven members, “Cassia, please, tell us what happened to you. Isadora, where did you go? Rhiannon? Anyone?”
A sharp force flows through me, and my consciousness is only halfway in the room now. The other part of it is residing where the spirits do. I can’t see it—only the dead can—but I can feel it.
Slowly, the planchette moves along the board. The glass circle stops right aboveHello.
“Hi,” I breathe out, staring at the board but my gaze is unfocused. “Thank you for being here. Will you answer our questions?”
The spirit moves the planchette in slow, small circles, thinking. Then it quickly passes over the alphabet and lands onNo.
Frustration rings through me. I try to tamp it down, not wanting to piss off whoever we’re talking to.
Once the black starts to creep into the edges of my vision, I know exactly who we are dealing with.
