The Trouble With Magic
Page 15
In my mind, I concentrate on building a stone wall. Rock by rock, I piece the imaginary wall together, building a barrier between me and the spells that swirl around us. The wall protects me from the suffocating feeling of wrongness, of blood and death that must come from the Unseen’s dark magic. After a minute, I take another step. Then another.
I lose count of how many steps there are until my foot finally lands on concrete instead of wood. The end of the staircase. A dim light flickers, brightening when I step toward it.
The room I’m walking into slowly illuminates, though mist hangs in the air, making it difficult to see much more than I could when it was pitch black.
We’re in a basement. Peering around, I can make out shelves lining the walls. It smells damp and rancid, but the feeling that I’m choking on blood has gone.
Still, it’s shaken me. For a moment I consider not letting Xander’s hand go, but how would that look?
“You coming?” The old man’s voice comes from near the light source. He sounds amused.
“If you make it easier to see,” I snap.
A moment later, the mist clears. The Unseen is standing by a long wooden bench at the end of the room. A lamp beside him is the source of the light. Some of the bookshelves lining the room are filled with statues, bottles, jars, and trinkets. Most hold books. They must be dark magic books, because I’m fairly sure the unsettling energy that’s raising the hairs on the back of my neck is coming from them. Although I’d bet that none has as much power as the grimoire in my backpack.
In one corner an enormous stone statue looms. It’s a horned creature with a hideously deformed head and a sinuous, eight-legged body. The stuff of nightmares.
Somewhere in the corner, liquid is dripping. The sound reminds me of the drowning feeling, and I suppress a shiver.
The old man motions me closer, his small eyes gleaming. “Bring the grimoire here.”
Reluctantly, I pull it from my backpack. I don’t want to give it to the old man, but I need answers.
“Some kind of dog has ripped out three peoples’ hearts with its teeth,” I tell him. “There’s a spell in here that uses the beating heart of a witch as an ingredient. It won’t let me read the whole spell to find out what it does, so I need you to take a look.”
The Unseen takes the book eagerly, tugging it from my hands, and puts it on the table. Instead of opening it, he dips his fingers into a small, dark bowl full of ink. When he draws them out, his fingertips have turned red.
The substance in the bowl isn’t ink. It’s blood.
The book opens on its own and the pages rise to stroke the Unseen’s fingers, to lick the blood from his hand.
A chill crawls unpleasantly across my skin. Beside me, Xander draws in a sharp breath.
The Unseen turns his hand over to let the book lap every last drop of blood from his fingers. The slow, sensual way the pages move makes the act obscene. It’s hard to watch, especially when I notice the Unseen is missing the tip of his little finger. That makes it worse somehow, because with blood slicked over his stump, it looks as though the grimoire might have bitten his finger right off.
But when the book is done drinking, it opens for the Unseen like it’s offering itself to him, pages spread wide. The black mist rolls away and writing appears.
I crane my neck to read it, but the old man’s hand is in the way. He’s stroking the page as though he’s feeling the spell rather than reading it. And the book is responding, the paper lifting to meet his touch.
Xander moves his lips close to my ear. “Wish they’d get a room,” he mutters.
I hadn’t realized how on edge I am, but the joke makes the tightness in my muscles ease a little. “You can see that?” I whisper back, unnecessarily. Then I lean closer to the Unseen. “What does it say?” I ask him. A putrid smell comes from the old man’s body, like rotting fish.
“Consuming a living, beating heart can transfer the witch’s magic.” He murmurs the words as though talking to the book as much as to me.
“Eating the heart while it’s still beating?” I shudder.
“Yes.”
Grimacing, I peer at the spidery writing. There are tiny pictures among the words. Pictures that move, demonstrating things I don’t want to see.
“Somebody got a dog to eat people’s hearts so they could steal the soon-to-be-dead witch’s power?” I want to make sure I understand what he’s telling me. “But what use would that be? Nobody can control two different types of magic at once. They get tangled.”
Then it hits me.
The spell he’s describing must be what whoever murdered my mother was attempting to use. But it only half worked. He released my mother’s magic when he killed her, but I’m the one who absorbed her magic, not him.
Why did the spell go wrong? Perhaps because I was nearby at the time?
“It’s possible to utilize different types of magic at once.” The Unseen’s breathing has quickened, like he’s excited. “But it takes great strength.”
“Who’d have that kind of strength?”
The old man gives me a horrible gap-toothed, yellow smile. “A practitioner,” he says with relish. The word is a euphemism for a witch who practices dark magic.
“I only know one of those,” I say, giving him a meaningful look.
His smile grows wider. “An unproven allegation.”
Beside me, Xander stiffens. He may not understand everything we’re talking about, but he’s obviously figured out that I’ve just accused the Unseen of killing my parents, Sylvia, and Mireya.
Not that I seriously think it was the Unseen who killed them. If it were, I doubt he’d be standing here, answering my questions about the grimoire.
The Unseen’s hand stills on the book’s page, and he cocks his head as though listening to something I can’t hear. When he speaks, there’s a longing in his voice that makes me deeply regret coming here. “If a practitioner absorbed every type of magic and was strong enough to control them, he’d become more powerful than you can imagine.”
The implication dawns on me right away. I’d assumed the killer was targeting council members because of their position, but that may not be the reason. Each of the eight types of magic has a representative on the council.
“That’s what the killer’s doing? Going after each type of magic?” I frown, my mind spinning. “The first witch he killed was my mother, but he didn’t get her magic. Something went wrong and it created an explosion that killed my father and knocked me out.” I’m thinking it through as I speak. “But the killer did nothing after that for several years. Why not?”
Xander speaks up for the first time, nodding toward the grimoire. “Perhaps he couldn’t do anything until he found that book at your cousin’s house. It showed him how to get the spell right.”
“Maybe. Nobody but me could have taken the grimoire out of her athenaeum, but I’ve been wondering how the spell could have been cast in there with Sylvia’s wards active.”
“Cast by a dark witch with great power,” suggests the Unseen.
“Whoever it was took Sylvia’s archival magic. And Mireya’s plant magic.”
“How many types of magic are there?” Xander asks. Seems he really has accepted that magic exists, and all it took was watching a horrible grimoire sucking the blood off a creepy practitioner’s fingers. Go figure.
“Eight.” I count them off on my fingers. “Earth. Air. Fire. Water. Animal. Plant. Truth. And the archivists. That’s why there are eight council members. They’re the strongest witches with each kind of magic.”
With his head down, fondling the grimoire’s pages, the Unseen looks like he’s talking to the book. “There are nine types of magic.”
“What?” I frown. Surely I didn’t hear that right.
“Once enough hearts have been consumed, the practitioner’s power will be immense,” says the Unseen. “But to gain that power, the witch must perform the spell themselves. They must consume the heart. Not a dog.”
“A rotting dog?” The Unseen’s face jerks up, his gaze sharpening. “There’s a demon that’s said to have that smell. If a demon possessed a witch, that witch would have great power.“
“Not the hairy demon that Mireya showed us?” asks Xander. “What was its name? Something to do with jackals.”
The Unseen lets out a loud breath and the stench of week-old fish fills my nose. “Jeqabeel,” he breathes. The word sounds reverent. Then his eyes widen and his gaze jerks back down to the grimoire. “Could it be?” He dips his hand back into his bowl of blood. This time, when he strokes the pages they turn themselves to the flyleaf at the very front of the book. The name of the witch who wrote the grimoire is inscribed in letters that have an ominous red glow. The Unseen lets out a long sigh, his face going slack. He looks awed. “I didn’t dare to hope,” he whispers. “A treasure beyond imagining.”
“Who is that?” I ask, tilting my head to try to read the name. “Does it say Zavier Cross? No, that’s a G. Zavier Gross?”
“One of the greatest witches who ever lived.” The Unseen runs his fingers reverently over the name. “He found a way to drop the veil and bring one of the most powerful demons into this world.”
“He’s the one who let Jeqabeel loose?” My voice rises with horror. “And he wrote this book?”
“I was told the Council had destroyed this grimoire.” The Unseen’s face twists, somehow becoming even more ugly, though I’d have bet everything I owned that wasn’t possible. “After they trapped Jeqabeel, they executed Zavier Gross and his entire family, and burned his house to the ground.”
“Why would this Gross guy want to set a dangerous demon free in the first place?” asks Xander.
“Power has rewards, mundane, but it’s something you could never understand. You could no more imagine that type of power than a cockroach can understand how it feels for an eagle to fly.”
“But Jeqabeel’s essence is trapped in his bone. The bone is still in Mom’s safe. Her wards are secure...” The Unseen’s gleeful stare makes my voice trail away.
Shit. After drugging me and dragging me in front of the Veritas, I told my uncle he wasn’t welcome in my home. He hasn’t checked the safe, or any of Mom’s artifacts.
“I saw the bone in the safe,” I say stubbornly. “And I’m sure the wards are intact.”
The old man shakes his head, his eyes gleaming. “Poor little broken witch, so easily deceived. With a little power and cunning, a thief could replace the bone with another. How would the broken witch know, when her magic is chained?”
I hate to admit it, but he has a point.
Nineteen
“Aren’t we jumping to conclusions?” Xander scowls at the Unseen, probably still sore from being called a cockroach. “Just because this book was written by that Gross guy, doesn’t mean for sure that we’re dealing with Jeqabeel. Didn’t Mireya suggest other possibilities? There was one with a golden worm, I remember that much. I like the sound of a worm demon better.”
“Jeqabeel has a stench like you described,” says the Unseen. “It can possess and control the minds of witches. It will compel a witch to do whatever it takes to bring the demon fully into our world.”
“It can control people from inside the bone?” I shake my head. “That can’t be right. The bone was in my basement. In a locked and warded safe, but still. Not exactly the safest place for an evil killing machine with mind control powers.”
“To influence a mind, the vessel needs to be touched. And it feeds off magic. In a mundane’s hands, the bone would be powerless.”
“The bone’s in a protective casing, so nobody can touch it.”
Xander shakes his head. “I don’t believe that ugly demon from Mireya’s drawing could be walking around free.”
“Not walking. Not yet.” The Unseen licks his lips, but it looks like an eager gesture rather than a nervous one. “Not enough death for the demon to be free. Not even close.”
“Okay,” says Xander. “That’s good then, right?”
“Someone’s trying to set it free?” I swallow. “If one of my parents accidentally touched the bone, could the demon have killed them?”
“If one of them touched the bone, the demon would have possessed their mind. It needs a conduit. A slave to do its work.”
“So this witch-slave, whoever it is, killed my parents and the others in order to steal their magic and get strong enough to release the demon into our world.”
“I don’t get it,” says Xander. “If the demon is eating hearts with its own jackal teeth, it must already be here.”
“If it were free on this plane you’d be dead.” The Unseen’s voice is sharp. Certain. “When Jeqabeel achieves its corporeal form, it will be unstoppable. All will pay homage, or die.” The Unseen’s lips curl back, revealing his horrible sharpened teeth. Is the old man smiling? Surely not. It must be a grimace.
“Tell us how to stop it,” Xander demands.
The Unseen stares at him a moment, then gives a sneering laugh. “You wish to stop it, mundane? You have as much chance of stopping the moon from rising.” His gaze goes to me. “And you, little broken witch. Jeqabeel will turn you into dust.”
I’m over the whole ‘broken witch’ label, but I grit my teeth. “Just tell us what we need to do.”
He’s still stroking the pages of Sylvia’s book and when he glances down at it, his eyes glint with avarice. “You ask for more help? It’s time to make payment.”
“What do you want?” I ask, though I already know.
“The grimoire.”
I shake my head. “No. Never. What else?”
“The grimoire,” he repeats more insistently.
“Forget it. The book is warded. Now Sylvia’s dead, it belongs to me, and if you try to take it by force, Sylvia’s wards will activate and blow your house up.” I have no idea whether that’s true, but my cousin was a powerful archivist and she’d be sure to cover a grimoire like this with protection spells. It’s likely something bad would happen to anyone who tried to steal it.
“You must pay what you owe.” The Unseen’s jaw tightens and his hand goes to the bowl of blood on his desk, as though he’s itching to cast a spell. His longing for the grimoire is written in every line of his face.
My fists clench and I raise them in front of me as though I’m ready to fight him for the book. If only it were that easy. Physically, he’s no match for either Xander or me, but his magic could flatten us both.
His gaze flicks down to my fists. His eyes widen and he stares at my hands. No, at my mother’s ring. his expression changes to one of speculation. Then he gets a calculating look I don’t like at all.
“I’ll take your ring as payment,” he says.
I drop my fists, and my other hand reaches to cover my ring. “You can’t have that either.”
“The grimoire or the ring.” His expression is set and his tone final. “You must choose, or I’ll take the mundane instead.”
Xander steps forward, his back stiff. “You think you can threaten me?”
“You’re not having the mundane,” I keep my tone even.
“And you’re not giving him the book.” Xander states flatly.
I have to agree. I’ve been wondering what other terrible spells are detailed in the grimoire, and how bad it would be if the Unseen got his hands on them.
Xander knows the ring I wear is my mother’s and I’m sure he guesses how much it means to me. He doesn’t know it contains my mother’s blood, and even if he did, he wouldn’t understand why that’s a big deal.
Every choice the Unseen has given me is unthinkable. But after watching him stroke the book’s pages and seeing the mist-shrouded paper respond like a fawning puppy, I can’t stomach letting him have
the grimoire. Whatever secrets it holds are too dangerous to leave in his hands.
“What do you want with my mother’s ring?” I demand.
“That’s none of your business.”
Even knowing I’ll have to give it to him, I still hesitate. Blood is power. Once he has my mother’s blood, he may be able to use it to gain some power over me.
But what choice do I have?
Reluctantly, I pull the ring off my finger, squeezing it over my knuckle. I place it in the disgusting yellowed palm of the Unseen, regretting it even as his fingers close over it. His triumphant expression makes me want to wrestle it straight back from him.
“Tell us how to stop the demon,” demands Xander, his voice rough.
“Jeqabeel’s essence is trapped in the bone. The power it requires to escape it and regain its own form is immense. It must absorb more magic than you can imagine, and bathe in a river of blood.”
“How do we stop it before it gets that much blood?” I ask.
“Find Jeqabeel’s disciple.”
“You mean the witch that’s doing the killing for it?” asks Xander.
“It needs magic,” says the Unseen. “It has already feasted and will be eager for more.”
“Maybe we can catch the killer in the act.” Xander tugs his notebook and pen out of his pocket. Probably his police notebook, because as he flips to a clean page, I glimpse other notes describing cases. “It’s targeting council members because they have the strongest magic, right? Who are they?”
“The remaining magic types are air, fire, earth, water, and the Veritas,” I say. “And animal magic, seeing as he didn’t manage to get that from my mother.”
“The Veritas are few,” says the Unseen. “Their line is dying.”
“I met a Veritas the other day. A young girl. I didn’t like her.”
“You were tested? And you survived?” The Unseen narrows his bloodshot eyes at me. “But your magic is bound, correct?”
“That’s right.”
“And you defeated a Veritas?”
I shake my head. “I didn’t defeat her. She wanted me to admit to the murders, but I’m innocent. I wouldn’t confess to something I didn’t do.”