Her expression hardened as she replied. “Hmm.”
With that, Romy left, locking the door from the outside to stop me from escaping on another escapade like last night. The silence in her wake was deafening, but not as all-consuming as the single thought roaring through me.
I had the means to scry and locate Father Tomin now. Because beneath my nails was the flesh and dried blood of his son.
Locked door or no, by sundown, I would rip the snake’s head off and leave the Witch Hunters squirming without their leader. But for that I needed a few items, and then this would all be over.
6
HECTOR
My bedroom had become a shrine to the occult. Once white-painted walls were covered in torn pages from non-fiction books about witchcraft. Some posters I’d drawn myself, including an enlarged, and very helpful, guide to runes and their meanings.
The windows were shut, and the black-out curtains drawn. I took a deep inhale, the air thick with the incense I’d burned. Frankincense, sandalwood and white sage smoke merged into a rather pleasant scent like grey serpents.
Romy didn’t mind that I’d ruined her uncle’s furniture with the sheer number of candles that took up almost every surface. At first, I’d used plates beneath them to catch the wax, but the clean-up became an issue. The pillars melted freely now, coating oak-wood sideboards, desks and mantles, making the room look entirely covered in thick films of wax in an array of colours.
Red for passion, black for protection, white for clarification amongst other things. Candle magic was a rather new practice, or at least my research suggested that it had come into use after the witch trials of old. But for the sake of what I needed to achieve, I made sure I wasn’t cutting any corners.
I wanted, no—I needed success.
I’d made myself an altar in the heart of the bedroom. I sat myself down on a worn eclectic rug, the wool itching beneath my hands as I tried to find a comfortable position to sit on. Before me was the overturned shoebox covered in a black velvet sheet. How very ‘Nancy fromThe Craft’ of me.
Whenever I tapped into the old magic, a rush of excitement flooded my body. Something that had been forgotten for so long, and since I’d partaken in the Witch Trials, I’d become rather in tune with the practice.
With a swift hand motion, whilst picturing the elemental sign for fire in my mind’s eye, the room erupted in light. In a wave of heat, every single candle lit with a proud flame. The kiss of fire across my skin reminded me of Arwyn, so much so that I was distracted for a split second.
I allowed myself a few moments to close my eyes, lean my head to the side and imagine Arwyn’s hands upon my neck, soft searching fingers roaming over my skin. I could still feel his imprint from our encounter. Perhaps I should’ve showered, washed him off and forgotten about him, but deep down it was the last thing I wanted to do.
Once the pleasant memory faded to disgust, I focused back on my task at hand.
I reached for the small plate of salt, running my fingers through it whilst picturing the element for earth.
I begin to chant.
“Spirits of earth, Watchtower in the North, I call upon you, ground me in my craft, and strengthen my intentions.”
As soon as I finished speaking, my body grew heavy as if weights had been put beneath my skin. It was a strange feeling, but a sign that the old magic was working.
I shifted my focus to the single white feather to the right side of my altar. I didn’t need a mirror to know my eyes were glowing. Air was my element and I belonged to it, as it belonged to me inequal measure. A rush of euphoria speared through me, swelling my lungs and making me lightheaded in a ‘let’s smoke some weed’ kind of way.
I could do with a spliff. A nice thick one.
Later, Hector. Get this over with.
“Spirits of air, Watchtower in the East, fill me, lift my words to your highest peak, hear my plea, amplify it and heed me.”
The feather rose, pulled skywards on an unseen breeze.
“Spirits of fire,” I continued. “Watchtower in the South, burn with my passion, charge my words with energy, burn any trepidation that lingers in my soul and beyond.”
A bundle of sage gathered by red twine sparked at the charred ends without the need for me to bring a naked flame towards it. All it took was picturing the element for fire, and it burned, bringing a fresh and potent smell of sage.
The final element was always the hardest for me to call. This was why witches once worked in covens of four, one to represent each element to help with calling the quarters before big spell work. But alas, the old magic was mostly dead to witches of our generations and I was the only one practicing. That was not entirely true. If Romy was home she’d be spell-casting with me. But she had little time to dabble as her focus was in trying to regain some control of the Coven, not re-learning ways long forgotten to modern witches.
I took a deep breath in, picturing every molecule of liquid in my body to help hone my focus. “Spirits of water, Watchtower in the West, cleanse my desires, guide me upon your welcoming surface to success, hear my vow and see the purity of my needs.”
The brass bowl of water was still. I repeated my call, focusing as hard as I could on the element for water. It was like a child was drawing the symbol in my mind, making the lines wonky and misplaced. After a third attempt, the bowl chimed as though tapped with a gong.
