Rolling my eyes at myself, I go downstairs and get something to eat, reading through Jac’s notes once again. After leaving work, I went to the hardware store for paint, and then paid Lyra a visit, getting everything she had that could help me break a curse.
Lyra, who owns a New Age shop in town, is your stereotypical modern-day witch. She knows her shit as well as any modern witch can, might be able to work a few minor spells but lacks real power. Unlike me, whose power comes from within, Lyra or any other modern witch would have to tap into something to power a spell. Herbs and crystals only get you so far.
Luckily, Lyra isn’t the type of person to go dark, and she has a wealth of information on the other witches in the surrounding area. She knows enough to question why I was buying everything she had for sale that could repel negativity, and I told her a variation of the truth. Let’s face it: even for someone like Lyra, hearing the full truth would be hard to believe.
I inherited a house, stepped inside, and lifted a thousand-year-old sleeping spell, waking four men who were cursed to be gargoyles, blamed for a murder they didn’t commit. Oh, and the murder victim is my distant relative, who put a love spell on one of the guys who is cursed. And I’m sleeping with all four of them.
Hah.
So instead, I told her I was worried about the negativity I come into in my line of work and felt like I easily piss off a lot of not-so-nice people. As I was paying she gave me some advice, including watching a YouTube channel made by her favorite “witch vlogger.” I didn’t know that was even a thing, though I shouldn’t be surprised in this day and age. People are willing to put anything and everything onto the internet. Privacy is a thing of the past when it comes to getting likes and comments.
I’m honestly curious to watch the channel and decide what’s bullshit or not. I’m sure there are a handful of people out there who have had real experiences, and I know there are other witches like me. And I’m positive we’re not going to try and gain social media fame. I don’t want people to know I have powers—real powers. People fear what they don’t understand, and when something other than money can make you powerful in this country, well…it wouldn’t go over well for us with active powers.
Finished with my food, I put my plate in the sink and go upstairs, grumbling to myself about being overly ambitious for starting this stupid project. I stand in the middle of my bedroom, trying to decide which wall to paint first. There’s one with no windows or doors, and it has one ugly photo hanging up that was here when I moved in. I take it down, scoot the dresser out, and then start taping off the molding.
On any house design show I’ve ever seen, people rave about crown molding. Those people must have never had to tape it off for paint, because this is a pain in the ass. When I finally get one wall taped off, I change into old clothes, spread the tarp on the ground, and get to work. I got expensive paint after being promised I wouldn’t need to do two coats even though the gold is a bit dark.
I start rolling it on, doubting the fact I can get away with one coat. Starting to sweat, I pull my old shirt off and, wearing just a sports bra and running shorts, open a window. The weather is random at the end of May here in Philly, and one day it can be bright, sunny, and warm and the next we can wake and need our coats again. Today’s a mix in between with a nice breeze that feels so good blowing through the open windows. This house doesn’t have central air and I know that’ll be an issue here soon enough.
It takes a while, but when the first wall is done I step back and nod at it approvingly. I think one coat will do the trick, and I’m pleased with the color I went with. Setting the paint roller down, I pick up the tape and move onto the next wall, needing to tape around the doorframes of both the closet and master bathroom. My mind wanders as I press the blue tape on the wooden frames, thinking about ghosts.
I saw something, obviously. It might not actually be my mother, but it wassomething. I did a spell and it worked, and I know I can do it again. I meant it when I promised Thomas I wouldn’t try it on my own. I’m not stupid and I don’t want to risk opening a rift again. I’m lucky nothing terrible happened, and that it went away on its own.
You don’t get lucky like that twice.
Once I get everything taped off, I move some more furniture and get back to painting. I get around the bathroom door, thinking this isn’t too bad. Then by the time I’m done with this fucking wall I’m cursing myself for starting.
Needing a break, I sit on my bed, eyeballing the bullshit book about spirit communication on the dresser. I’m not going to cast a spell. I’m not even going tothinkabout spells. But I didn’t get very far and, dammit, I’m curious. Stacking my pillows against the headboard, I lean back and leaf through the book, skimming more than reading. Starting to feel tired, I yawn and put the book down, telling myself I’m just going to close my eyes for a few seconds.
A few seconds turns into a few minutes, and I’m dozing off. My eyes flutter open when I hear voices coming from downstairs. At first I think it’s the guys, but it’s not dark enough yet. I sit up, straining to listen.
Maybe it was just a dream? I was in that weird first stage of sleep where I wasn’t quite asleep yet but not fully awake. I run my hands over my face and slowly get out of bed, not making a sound. My bare feet hit the wooden floor beneath me, and I hear it again.
Someone is talking, and the voice is low and deep. I grab my gun and slink into the hallway, moving without a sound. The bedroom opens up onto the catwalk, giving me a good view into both the living room and down into the entryway.
I move my finger near—but not over—the trigger and take another step. I don’t see anyone in the house, and I can tell from up here the front door is still closed and locked. Quickly, I dart across the catwalk and lean against the wall near the stairwell, pausing again to listen.
This time I hear a woman crying. It’s so soft it’s hard to hear, and her sobs are muffled as if her face is pressed into a pillow. I can only recall a handful of times when I heard my mother cry—really cry—and I know right away this isn’t her. She was an emotional person, my total opposite, and would get teary eyed from TV commercials or sappy love scenes on the silly soap operas she liked to watch.
My bare feet don’t make a sound as I pad down the stairs, gun by my side. My fingers start to tingle and spark, and I shake out my left hand, switching the gun to it. I have no idea how hot the magical fire burns around my fingers. The last thing I need is my bullets combusting inside the gun. That’ll be a hard one to explain at work.
The upstairs heats up more than the first level, for obvious reasons, but it’s a noticeable difference. It’s not just cooler downstairs, it’scold.Mom, if that’s you…give me a sign that won’t make me jump and pull the trigger please.
I inch toward the library, going slow so I don’t make a sound and give myself away. If someone is in my house, I’m going to be fucking pissed. But there’s not someonein my house and I know it.
It’s something.
I move through the living room and the smell of sulfur hits me hard. I stop dead in my tracks, turning my head into my shoulder. The smell is suffocating, making me want to gag. It came on as a shock, and I made the mistake of breathing in through my nose. I’ve been to enough crime scenes with not-so-fresh bodies to be used to breathing in nasty smells, but the scent of sulfur will forever take me back to the day my parents were murdered.
A bad feeling starts to form in the pit of my stomach. It’s making me want to turn around and leave the house, to keep walking until the entire frame is out of sight. What the hell? I’m not one to run away. My flight-or-fight response is broken to fight or fight harder. I know when to retreat, when to pull back and come again with a bigger gun, backup, or a better plan.
But I don’t run in fear.
My fingers start to spark and glow red, and I tuck my gun under my arm, not wanting to risk it heating up to a dangerous level. I take another few steps toward the library. Suddenly, the floor creaks behind me. I whirl around. Flames erupt all along my right hand.
Nothing is behind me, and I madly scan the foyer. The floor creaks in the dining room. It’s a bit annoying, but I’ve actually liked the tell-tale sign of someone walking through that particular room since the day I officially moved in. I know which floors creak. I know where to step. But someone unfamiliar with the house won’t, and one foot out of line will get them caught.
I look from the foyer to my hand, blinking from the bright light of the fire. My eyes aren’t quite focused yet, and I bring my hand down, holding it out to the side to keep the flames from hitting me in the face. I’m not sure what would happen if the flames did catch my hair. They’re burning around my hand right now and I don’t feel any pain at all. My skin doesn’t char or burn. I think the rest of me is the same, but I’m a little worried about trying it.
