Hervé gave me an inquisitive look but didn’t ask anything further.
“I appreciate your trying, Hervé,” I said. “What can I do to help?”
“You could draw a circle.”
I started to bring supplies out of my backpack: my mason jar full of brew, my Apache tears and tiger’s-eye stones, one clear quartz crystal, one small amethyst. One small purple pouch full of cemetery dirt, and five lavender tea lights.
Hervé sat on the floor in a corner clear of debris, evidence tags, or any signs of struggle. I started to chant as I poured a very slender stream of brew in a circle around him, invoking my guiding spirit to open the portals, to allow the spirits to cross through the veil but only into the protection of the circle.
Just as before, my magic felt... rusty. I had cast this spell a thousand times, knew every word, every movement by heart. Why was the energy resisting me? Could I have done something to offend my guiding spirit, the Ashen Witch?
I tried to focus. To call for grace through humility.
“Angels, guardians, spirits, receive my eternal gratitude for the guidance you provide. I bid you allow the spirits to pass through the veil, to speak through this man, this conduit. Speak to him through his third eye, and I will listen with a sharper ear, and I will see with a sharper eye. Speak to us, we beseech you. With this brew, with this fire, with our presence, so mote it be.”
I went back over the circle, widdershins, in salt.
Then, continuing to repeat my charm, I placed the stones at the four directions, north, south, east, west. Then I lit the candles and placed them at the five points of the pentacle: spirit, head, heart, earth, fire.
While I chanted, Hervé arranged himself, sitting cross-legged, breathing deeply and relaxing into meditation. His broad hands rested, palms up, on his knees to receive the energies.
His head fell back almost immediately upon my completion of the pentacle within the circle, and his eyes rolled up. Just like that, Hervé was no longer present. He was a conduit.
When I was focused on a magical spell or incantation, I often went into a trancelike state, but watching Sailor or Hervé at work reminded me that I didn’t know what a true trance was. They seemed to actually leave their body, somehow, allowing the spirits or words from afar to channel through them. It was equal parts spooky and fascinating.
I sat silently, watching Hervé. His features suddenly shifted, his eyes flew open, and he stared at me.
“Lily Ivory.” Hervé’s voice sounded strangely hollow, and he spoke with Tristan’s odd inflection.
“Tristan?” I tried to quell the queasy feeling of a spirit speaking through a friend’s body. “Can you tell me what happened to you?”
“Your boyfriend.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Did he say anything?”
“No. He entered the room and began to strike.”
“Do you have any other enemies, near or far?”
Silence.
“Come on, Tristan. Surely you have other enemies.”
If Tristan had enemies, he wasn’t going to admit it. The silence continued.
“What did you want from me?”
“Fire. Time.Teher... tears. The tears of the daughter.”
“What does that mean? I think perhaps what you want is in this box.” I held it up. “What is it you’re looking for, exactly?”
“Beag.”
“Can you be more specific?”
