“All right, dear. I’ll keep my eye out for it,” Mom responds. “Just like your dad’s package.” She hums.
“Cool, talk to you soon then.”
“Thanks again, dear. Bye.”
I slip my phone into my pocket, then haul the bag of bottles out of the trash container and tie it up. I set the bag down inside the laundry room and by the side door leading out to the garage where the outer cans are kept. The garbage bag clinks andthunksas it settles on the floor, so I prop it upright again until I’m certain it’ll remain in place and nothing will leak.
My parents don’t live here during tourist season. Instead, they have a much smaller house in the next town over to dwell in during the busiest months and rent out the lake house—and my childhood home—to strangers for extra money they use to fund their traveling. Despite my parents being well-off, they’re also notoriously cheap, even refusing to spend money on things like professional maid service. Mom typically does the cleaning herself, with either Dad’s or my help on occasion.
Ditching the laundry room, I waste no time opening the back windows and turning on the speakers to blast music. Ready to get elbows deep in grease, I jog up the stairs to check the upstairs rooms. If it’s anything like downstairs, I’ll be in and out of here in a couple of hours and back in my apartment by dinner.
A sickeningly sweet scent hits me outside the master bedroom. Pausing outside the partially shut door, my body lurches with hesitation as I wrinkle my face in disgust. It’s not a chocolate chip sweet, but a cloying, sappy scent. It’s unwelcomeand unusual and nothing like what I’d expect from water witches.
My stomach clenches as I hover outside the door, momentarily wondering that someone might still be in the house if it smells this bad—that maybe one of the witches had remained…
My ears prick as I listen for any untoward noise, frustrated by Tom Petty’s voice from the speakers downstairs. Not only am I bored, prospectless, and cynical about life these days, apparently I’m dumb now too, blaring music before checking the whole house to make sure the renters have left first.
Giving up, I cover my nose with my hand and push open the door to the room.
The smell doesn’t impact me as badly as I thought it would but as my eyes rove over the freshly made king-sized bed with its blue quilt, tables with nothing on them except pictures of birds over water, random decorations, and walls, my brief moment of relief sputters out.
My body jerks as my heart coils into a ball, dropping to my gut. I try to make sense of what I’m seeing, pouring through a litany of excuses and reasons, before I’m able to take a second breath.
A summoning circle and star painted are painted in deep red on the plush carpet floor. The lines of it are slightly frayed because of how thick the rug is, but it’s definitely magical. In plain view between me and the sweeping floor-to-ceiling windows that lead to the private upper deck, the circle takes up the whole space, big enough to lie down inside three times over.
A circle is only as big as the entity being summoned…
Thankfully, there’s nothing inside the circle except the star and the strange-looking sigils that I have no idea the meaning of, because although I’m the daughter of a witch, I only seemto have weak, dangerous gifts—gifts that have, so far, only appeared once.
A thin white powdery substance that doesn’t look like salt—maybe chalk—makes a second circle within the first, which is also strange. I always thought that kind of stuff was meant for protection, not summoning.
The Cyane Coven may have chosen this spot for its openness to the water and the moon. Safely tucked within land owned by a witch of an allied coven, the lake house was sought after sometimes for their occasional ritual. The nearest neighbors are several acres away and through thick woods on either side. It’s a perfect place for privacy, natural ambiance, and access to resources.
But what’s on the floor from before isn’t a setup for a standard ritual, it’s a legit summoning circle, and, based on the red used in its creation, a demonic one. Why water witches wanted to summon something demonic, I have no intention of asking. All I know is that demons and demon magic are something to stay far, far away from… Anything dark and unnatural is to be avoided.
I may know a thing or two about magic and rituals, but I’ve yet to find my coven or calling, if I even have one. I was offered a place within my mother’s coven, but I declined. I’ve never had an interest in moon magic, nor has it ever had an interest in me.
It’s part of the reason I’m so listless and eager to own a place of my own. That’s an accomplishment I could actually achieve.
Thoughts of the past start to arise, and I turn away before they’re able to form.
I take a calming breath and cringe again from the scent, wondering where the hell it’s coming from. After making certain I’m, in fact, alone by checking the bedrooms, closets, and hallway behind me, I return to the master bedroom withnarrowed eyes, ready to hunt down the source of the disgusting smell.
I approach the circle first, making certain not to touch it as I kneel to sniff the area, only finding more of the cloying sweetness. Either way, I head to the nearest windows and open them wide. With fresher air diluting the reek, I head to the master bathroom next.
Unlike the rest of the house, the bathroom is a complete mess. One step into the once-luxurious space and I’m inside a morgue or a surgical chamber of some sort, with metal pliers, crushed powders, and even herbs of various colors all over the counters and along the jacuzzi tub. The floor is marred with scuffs, dirt, and even…
Used condoms.
“Fuck.”
My worst nightmare.
So this was where they prepped.
I let out a loud sigh as I slip my fingers into my pocket to pull out my phone. I have to call Mom with the terrible news of her bathroom’s defilement. With Grand Funk Railroad’s “We’re An American Band,” fading into “Money For Nothing”—which makes me smile, despite having used condoms scattered around me—my gaze lands on a large open book that’s been left on the floor in the back.
Sidestepping the occult paraphernalia, I tuck my phone away again and pick it up, curious as to why, of all things, this was left behind. Books are precious to witches and practitioners of magic. Each one has the ability to be someone’s personal bible. A book of spells and thoughts is deeply personal and often incredibly magical, hosting remnants of that person’s essence for much longer than other kinds of objects. Writing down conscious thought is like putting a piece of your soul into words, and words have the potential to live forever.
