“These are not just books,” I scold teasingly. “These books are history.”
“Are you going to read to me, then?” She smiles and dimples show up in her cheeks. So fucking beautiful.
“I hadn’t planned on it.”
She crosses her legs instead, sitting up straighter. “What are we going to do with them?”
I answer in a single word, “Magic.”
Hazel doesn’t laugh as her eyes follow me. Perhaps she’s testing me. Wondering how serious I am. Truthfully I don’t know for certain how serious Hazel is with her craft. And how much she believes. But judging by her research and book selection. She’ll understand and enjoy all that I have planned.
If the tension in the air is accurate, she’s curious.
I gather my grimoire from one of the book stands, along with the single unlit candle in the room. I crave her touch so much it’s hard to keep my hands off her. It’s hard to put the books down and keep my focus on the spell.
Hazel folds her hands in her lap. Her gaze is even more palpable on my skin than the light touches from the spirits.
I wasn’t planning to cast the spell in front of her, but it won’t mean anything unless I do. Anyone else could’ve cast it, or it could be old magic that goes along with the building, and there’s nothing stronger in me than the need to kiss her. To show her who I am.
I don’t know why it’s happening tonight of all nights when I’ve held myself back for so long, but I couldn’t care less. I have to go with it. Nothing else would seem right. I’d be a coward if I didn’t. I’m lucky enough to know that turning away from this—hiding anything from her—would be creating unfinished business.
I can’t have that with Hazel.
As she watches, I light the last candle and begin the spell.
This one isn’t open-ended. It’s not asking the universe to do something for me, like shield me from harm or keep someone else from coming close.
This spell is about calling the spirits to return. Those who wish to be known. Those who are drawn to Hazel as I am. To impress her and please her. I can give her this gift when no one else can.
Books are the finest tools to call spirits back because the stories inside are made of the author’s being. Everything that made them who they were. Their souls sewn into the text of the pages. The candle flame acts as a timer. So long as it is lit, the spirit is welcome.
I finish the spell.
Hazel doesn’t say anything. Although her eyes hold so many questions.
She keeps her gaze on my hands as I set the candle aside.
“Now what?” she whispers.
“Touch one of them.” I dare her and my heart races. I’ve done this before. I was enraptured by the stories of ghosts from long ago. I could taste the tincture they took to heal. I could smell the burning of the fire they lit in the coldest nights. I could feel their presence.
“If you want to meet them,” I add.
Hazel reaches forward, hesitating for a second, then choosing the top book on the stack. I was careful about the books I chose. Only books I’ve read, spirits I’ve felt comfortable with in the past years.
She brings it close to her body, biting her lip.
I can feel the intention of the spell circling us and the books. The spirits aren’t always visible, but I hope they will be. Impress her. I plead with them.
Just this once, allow her to know what I do.
The hair on my nape stands up, and I brace for the magic to surround Hazel.
Nothing happens.
She lets out a breath. “Is there anything else I should do,” she asks, a note of disappointment in her voice.
“Try the next one.” I offer and make myself comfortable on the blanket around her. It takes time. Afterall, it’s only an offering. The ghosts must accept.
