“‘To See Light,’” we say in unison.
Behind us, a picture frame clatters onto the counter. We jump.
Cristina and I exchange a worrisome glance before turning back to the book. I read the description: “A spell for someone to open their eyes.”
Cristina continues where I left off: “To grant the recipient clarity of perception, allowing them to see that which lies beneath, beyond, or within. Often used to perceive magical auras, ley lines, or truth-bound illusions.”
This is it! If I can get Stone to see the ley lines, then my problem is solved! He’ll realize I’m right, he’s wrong, and he’ll fix the materials.
All will be well in the world!
Cristina’s eyes sparkle with delight. “Co, this is full blown, like an orgasmic-level bomb that just dropped in our laps.”
It is. It’s like the book knew I needed someone to see ley lines and it delivered the goods. But I will temper my excitement. “Let’s read the rest.”
She keeps going. “Pierces all mental veils—internal and external—to reveal hidden truths. Ingredients: garlic, eggs, vinegar.”
“Apple cider or white?”
She shrugs. “Doesn’t say, but I’d go with apple cider and make sure you put some of the cloudy mother in it. Oh, wait. There’s also glow grass.”
“What’s that?”
“I think it’s what Rowe has. She can make her grass glow by lying in it and moving her arms up and down.”
I clap cheerfully. “Yes! I’ve heard of that.”
“It’s in the backyard.” She hunches over the book, still reading. “We also need something of the person who you’re casting the spell on.”
I pull a dollar bill from my bag. “This was his.”
“How’d you get that?”
I wave her off. “Never mind.”
My blood is zinging. This is real. This is happening. All we have to do is get the ingredients and cast the spell.
“Wait,” she says, and my hopes crash and burn to the ground. “There’s a warning.”
“Another one?”
Cristina points to small script at the bottom of the page, and I read aloud: “Spell should not be used on individuals not possessing magical signatures. Ingestion of glow grass may result in identity instability, temporal disorientation, or full cognitive reset.”
“Hmm. That is a problem,” I muse. “So maybe we just use a pinch of glow grass?”
She nods. “Agreed. Hell, we don’t even know if this spell’s going to work. The book is old, and neither of us are witches.”
I laugh uneasily. “Exactly. Okay, let’s gather the ingredients and do some casting.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re eagerly watching a pot atop the stove bubble happily with water, garlic, egg whites, and vinegar. The kitchen smells like we’re brewing up a mean all-purpose cleaner.
“Now we need a drop of your blood,” Cristina says.
I frown. “Is this blood magic? I don’t think that’s good. Isn’t that, like, frowned on in every witchy movie ever?”
“It’s just one drop, and that’s what the spell calls for.”
“Okay.” I get a knife from the drawer and position it over my finger. “Should I jab or slice? Wait. I might faint. I can’t slice my own finger. Can you do it?”
