Three times. The final repetition came out steady, almost aggressive. Like a dare.
Nothing happened.
Ramona sat there on her floor, surrounded by candles that smelled like a sad beige catalog, feeling ridiculous. Of course nothing happened. This was a spell from a donation-bin grimoire donated alongside someone’s turkey sandwich. What had she expected? A lightning bolt? A choir of angels? A fucking sign from the universe that her life wasn’t a complete?—
The candles went out.
All of them. All at once.
No wind. No reason. Just sudden darkness.
The temperature in the room dropped so fast, Ramona could feel it bite at her throat as she breathed. Her heart kicked against her ribs. The air smelled like sulfur and something else — expensive perfume. Bergamot and something darker, heavier. Oud, perhaps. Like smoke and crushed flowers.
The shadows in the corners of her room seemed to deepen, to move, to coalesce into something solid. Something with weight and presence and intention.
And then there was a silhouette.
Standing in the center of her salt circle, backlit by the streetlight coming through her window. Tall. Broad-shouldered. The outline of a person, maybe, but the edges seemed wrong somehow. Too sharp. Too still. Like someone had cut a hole in reality and something had stepped through.
Ramona’s heart was trying to exit her body through her throat. Her hands were frozen on her knees. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think beyond the single, screaming thought:Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.
The figure shifted, and then…
A long-suffering sigh. A whispered, “Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
A woman’s voice. Low and rough with an accent that seemed from somewhere far away, with a quality that made Ramona’s bones vibrate. Not loud, but everywhere at once, like it was coming from inside her own skull.
The streetlight caught the edge of a face. Sharp cheekbones. A jaw that could cut glass. Eyes that reflected the dim light like an animal’s.
And Ramona, drunk and terrified and so far past the point of rational thought, could only think one thing:
The spell actually fucking worked.
CHAPTER THREE
Ramona’s first thought was:I’m going to die in an oversized T-shirt that saysWitch Happens.
Her second thought was: That voice is really attractive, which is inappropriate given the circumstances.
Her third thought was: Run, idiot.
She scrambled backward, her back hitting the bed frame hard enough to bruise. The grimoire fell from her lap with a thud that sounded too loud in the sudden silence.
“Stay there.” Ramona’s voice came out steadier than she expected or felt. “Don’t move.”
The figure in the darkness tilted its head. The movement was slow, deliberate. Predatory.
“Or what?”
Two words. Just two words, but they made Ramona’s bones vibrate like a tuning fork. Her heart kicked against her ribs.
“Or…” Ramona looked around. The candles were out. All of them. The salt circle was intact, the white line still perfect on her floor. That should hold. Basic magical theory, the first thing they taught at Thornwood. Even if she’d never actually successfully completed a summoning before. Even if she was drunk and thiswas clearly going sideways. “The salt will hold you,” Ramona said. “You can’t cross it.”
There was a pause. The silence stretched. Then a sound that might have been a laugh. Low and dark.
“Is that right?”
The figure took a step forward.
