Spell of Summoning

by Anna Abner

  Was he serious?

  Not so much as a twinkle of humor shone in his eyes.

  “You talk to your dead grandmother?”

  She couldn’t imagine a life spent seeing and hearing the spirits of the dead. Or how it would change a person. Her grandparents were gone. So was Jayden, a sweet Realtor who’d worked in her office before his diagnosis. Seeing them again, talking to them, sent shivers up and down her arms. Though she missed each of them, the dead should stay dead.

  It had taken a lot for Holden to admit his freakish gift. And a man who communicated with ghosts was probably difficult to surprise. But she’d give it a shot.

  “Things have happened,” Becca confessed. Things she’d tried to explain to her dad, but it had only encouraged him to hire every palm-reading cuckoo in the yellow pages. In alphabetical order. “Other people can see them, too. That’s how I know it’s not a brain tumor.”

  “What kinds of things?”

  She opened her mouth to elaborate when a car pulled up and blocked Holden’s Jeep. Who could possibly be here to see her now? Her home had never been so popular.

  A middle-aged man in a fiery red-and-orange Hawaiian shirt stepped out, waving. “Miss Powell?”

  “Oh, for crying out loud.” Becca had a sinking suspicion she was about to meet psychic number four. She unlocked the door but lingered on the landing and smiled her very professional—and very fake—smile at the man. “Good afternoon! Can I help you with anything?”

  He nearly tripped himself to reach around Holden and shake her hand. They exchanged business cards. His was bright purple with a hexagram in one corner and his name in old-fashioned italics across the middle. Becca took a leap and guessed this guy wasn’t a repairman or employed by the rental office.

  “I’m good. I’m good.” His eyes lit up with a nearly manic enthusiasm. “I’m Damian Arasmus.”

  Irritation and exhaustion overwhelmed her good manners. “Of course you are.”

  “Your father asked me to come by.”

  “Mmm.” All pretense of interest evaporated. Maybe Jessa was right. She needed sleep, not more psychics. “He shouldn’t have.” Becca opened her door. “I’m very busy. If you gentlemen will excuse me…”

  Holden stepped forward like he owned the place. “What do you do, Mr. Arasmus?” he asked.

  Becca’s eyebrows shot skyward. What in the world was he doing? She glanced at Buster for reinforcement and sent him an “Is this guy for real?” look. He whined at her and thumped his tail once.

  Damian perked up, perhaps sensing Holden was now his best bet at getting in the door. “I’m a spiritualist, sir.”

  “What does that mean?” Holden pressed.

  “Ever see Ghost Hunters?”

  “No.”

  She had, and she was losing confidence by the second.

  “I determine if hauntings are authentic, and then I guide the spirits on to their proper afterlife.” He passed Holden one of his cards. “A list of services and prices are on the back.”

  “I see.”

  Becca propped both hands on her hips, but Holden ignored her. Again.

  “Let’s do it. Can we start now?” He double-checked Buster’s leash, and then gestured for Damian to enter the apartment. Her apartment.

  Okay. Limit reached and surpassed. She blocked their way in her formerly perfect little blue skirt and cardigan. “Excuse me?” She leveled a very pissed-off look at Holden. He had no right inviting people into her apartment. Or following her home. Or luring her to a parking lot to tell her, oh by the way, she had a demon in her, or on her, or whatever it was. Who did he think he was?

  Unfazed, he eased nearer and whispered in her ear, “What if he knows more than we do?”

  That morning Becca had her entire life in order. Work was buzzing. Her apartment was clean and organized. The only weak point was this “haunting,” but she was confident that after her move to Raleigh things would settle down. Now, she was meeting magicians in comic book stores and letting strange psychics into her home.

  But lights don’t turn themselves on and off.

  “Five minutes,” she growled, staring daggers at Holden. “Come on in, Mr. Arasmus, was it?” She opened the door wider. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “No, thank you, ma’am.” From his back pocket, he produced a pen and a folded square of paper. “Can I look around for a few minutes?”

  Becca shot Holden another look. Let him snoop around her house? “Why not.”

  Damian slipped down the narrow hallway to her bedroom.

  The apartment was a postage stamp. A living room and kitchen with a dining nook up front. One bedroom. One bathroom. That was it. The only furniture was discount superstore pieces. Her real furniture, the things she loved and had chosen with great care, was in storage, waiting to be moved at the end of the month.

  Not sure what to do with her hands, she pulled out her cell phone and texted Jessa, asking, “Everything okay at work?”

  “Enjoy your vacation,” she texted back.

  Damn it. Not nice.

  “Since you’ve invited a stranger into my home, we might as well have that talk.” Rebecca grabbed Holden’s forearm in a death grip and steered him into the tiny kitchen. “Now.”

  Holden went ghost white. With trembling hands, he pried her fingers off his arm and moved into the very center of the room. There, he seemed to breathe again.

  She’d normally think this was part of his shtick, but he didn’t look like a con man. He looked scared shitless.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “Fine.”

  “Do you—”

  “I’m fine. This is about you, not me.” His voice vibrated with anger, but he wouldn’t make eye contact, and she knew he wasn’t mad. Embarrassed, maybe.

  “Okay.” Becca crossed her arms and leaned against the sink. He didn’t want to tell her? Fine. She probably didn’t want to know. Back to the crisis at hand. “I need a little more explanation about what the hell happened back there.”

  Holden took a deep breath. “Cole had a boundary spell around his storeroom. It’s like a protection spell against other forms of magic.” He shrugged. “Your demon tripped it.”

  “I did that? The shaking thing.” Her eyes hazed over. “That was real.” Just like the picture frames, the doors, and the lights…

  “What is in me?” She was proud her voice didn’t quiver at all, though her insides jiggled like gelatin.

  “A spell.”

  God, did she have to wrestle the information out of him? “Can you please elaborate?”

  Holden bowed his head. “We live in the human world.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  He gave her a look of annoyance.

  “Sorry. Go ahead.” Becca mimed zipping her lip.

  “There is also a spirit realm where most spirits go after death.”

  She was itching to ask what happened to the other ghosts, the ones who didn’t go to the spirit realm, but she’d promised to shut up. So she clenched her jaw and nodded.

  “Angels exist in a higher plane,” he continued. “Demons exist in another. It’s a really difficult, complicated spell, but every once in a while a necromancer casts a demon into a person in our world.”

  She couldn’t be quiet anymore. “How?”

  “It’s not meant to happen. All the forces of heaven are behind this never happening. But with enough borrowed power a necromancer can pull it off. Temporarily.”

  “That’s what’s happening to me? That’s what you think?” And how did one reverse a possession? A Catholic priest? Herbs? A bubbling cauldron?

  “I don’t think it’s happening. It is. I can see it.”

  Becca’s ears rang. “See what?”

  “The spell. The demon.”

  “What does it look like?”

  Holden squinted at the air around her head. “I see the shadow of a demon hovering over your shoulders. And red spell marks.” He pointed with his finger. “Three of
them.”

  “Why can’t I see it?”

  “Ms. Powell?” Damian marched into the room, still scribbling notes. “I found something.”

  Chapter Three

  Becca followed Damian down the hall, Holden right behind her.

  “There is a definite presence in this room.” Damian bounced on his toes near the bed, just a sad mattress set on a no-frills metal frame. The pillows and Egyptian cotton sheets, though, were lush and expensive. She couldn’t forego every luxury.

  “There’s no doubt I can help you.” Damian smiled reassuringly. “Can I ask you some questions?”

  She leaned against the doorjamb while Holden situated himself in the center of the room. “Go ahead.”

  “Your father told me furniture moved by itself?” Damian made notes on his folded square of paper.

  “At my old house. Yes.”

  Damian looked confused. Maybe he’d never heard of a haunting that moved right along with the victim. Becca certainly hadn’t. Until it happened to her.

  “For now, let’s talk about this location.”

  “Okay.” Her gaze flickered over Holden. Something in his very blue eyes mesmerized her, and she didn’t look away as she answered Damian. “The lights go on and off by themselves. Doors open and close.” If Holden was really going to help her, he needed to know everything.

  “Mmmm. Any physical symptoms?”

  She kept eye contact with Holden. “Headaches. Bad headaches. I almost passed out today.”

  “Ahhh. Anything else?”

  “Nightmares,” she said. Holden nodded once in support, and the small kindness only messed with her already-unstable emotions. “Every night I’m being chased by an undead creature—a woman—a giant who wants to, uh.” Devour her. Inch by agonizing inch. “Anyway, they’re scary.”

  Lots of scribbling. “Anyone die on the property?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “I’ll do a search of crimes in the neighborhood. Sometimes the strangest things pop up.” Damian stood, pocketing his paper. “There is a bad feeling in this room. I won’t downplay it. Because I think you already know that.”

  Becca clasped her hands, her fingers strangling each other. “Yes.” It wasn’t a brain tumor. It was magic. And real.

  “I’d love to come back in a day or two with my equipment and try to contact the spirit. It won’t cause any fuss for you, but it’ll sweep the apartment.”

  She cleared her throat and repeated what she’d said to the first two psychics to knock on her door. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”

  “Actually,” Holden spoke up. “Let’s do it. As soon as possible. When are you free?”

  Up went her eyebrows again.

  “Wednesday night. Nine thirty. Will that work?” Damian asked.

  “No, Wednesday night—” Her shoulders slumped. Of course. Her one night off. “Fine.”

  Damian shot Becca a sympathetic look. “Your husband is smart to be concerned.”

  Husband. What a strange concept. She imagined a potential future with Holden Clark—sharing a sofa with him late at night, her feet curled up under an afghan and his strong, warm fingers kneading the back of her neck. Despite it being so far out of reality her fantasy might as well come with complimentary 3-D glasses, it sent a twang of regret through her.

  “He’s not my husband.” Her voice emerged a monotone. “We met today.”

  “Oh.” Damian blushed the color of pasta sauce and stuttered, “Excuse me, ma’am. Will Wednesday night be all right with you? Because we—”

  “It’s fine.” She moved toward the bedroom door. Today was Monday. That gave her two days to, most likely, call and cancel. “I’ll walk you out.”

  Becca said good-bye, closed the front door behind Damian, and then leaned against it.

  Holden appeared in the hallway.

  How had a complete stranger talked his way into her home? She was slipping up lately—forgetting conversations, dropping things, letting potential mental patients into her apartment.

  “Look me in the eyes,” she said, “and promise me you’re not a con man.”

  Holden didn’t answer right away, but when he did he sounded amazingly sincere. “I’m telling you the truth. You felt the summoning spell. I know you did.”

  “Then what does Damian Arasmus have to do with anything? Are you two working together?”

  “No. But maybe it’s not a coincidence he showed up today claiming to know all about your problem.”

  Becca straightened. “You think he’s trying to possess me?”

  “Maybe. It’s my best lead right now.”

  Ridiculous. “My dad hired him. You heard. He hired two others exactly like him.”

  “Then I need you to write down their names for me. Just in case.”

  “Sure.” With no shame, Becca examined Holden from his Converse shoes to his light brown hair in need of a trim. “And what are you again?”

  “A necromancer. I see spirits. And communicate with them.”

  She scanned the poorly decorated room from the frayed sofa to the plastic, potted ficus in the corner, unable to fathom it full of hazy ghosts, demons, and angels.

  “Like your grandmother?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why aren’t you performing the séance?”

  “I’m not a very good necromancer.” He added, “I don’t have magic, myself, but I’ve been touched by the other side, and I can—I don’t even want to say control because that’s not what it is—I can call spirits and borrow their power to do spells. If I wanted to, I could pull off a mending spell or a locator spell. Maybe.”

  “Have you done one of those before?”

  “No.”

  “What have you done?”

  “Not much.”

  Becca’s confidence in Mr. Clark nose-dived. “So, you’re all potential.” Like a foreclosed fixer-upper. She sighed. “What is your plan?”

  “Cole gave me the number of a witch in Springfield.”

  “And a witch is different than a necromancer?”

  “She was born with her own power.” Holden explained. “She doesn’t have to borrow anything. It’s all hers.”

  That sounded promising. “Can she see spirits, too?”

  “No. But, if we’re lucky, she’ll cast a spell to find who’s doing this.”

  For the first time, a tiny wisp of hope flared that this nightmare may end, even if Holden was a rookie. Becca checked her watch. 4:00 p.m. on a Monday.

  “Call her. Right now. I want to hear.”

  “Okay.” He fished out a number and dialed it into his cell phone.

  “Speaker, please.”

  He hit a button and held the phone in the air between them.

  “Happy Trails. This is Dani.”

  “Uh, hi. My name is Holden Clark.” A baby cried in the background. “Cole at The Repository gave me your number.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been expecting your call. Can you meet me tomorrow?”

  “Sure.”

  “Ten-thirty tomorrow morning. That’s nap time.” She gave them an address in Springfield and hung up.

  “Well, this day has exceeded all expectations.” Becca opened the door wide, letting in a slice of early evening sunlight. Buster barked a happy hello and tested the knot at his tether. “I assume I’ll see you in the morning. Let’s say nine thirty?”

  “Is a Wednesday night séance not good for you?” Holden asked. “I just think we should speed this along.”

  “Wednesday nights are wine nights.” She shrugged. “My friends and I hang out and drink wine at each other’s houses. It’s fine. I can miss one week.”

  “That sounds nice.”

  “It is.” She caught sight of her ruined cardigan and folded her arms to hide it. “I need this to all be finished by Saturday night. That’s my deadline.” If he was going to do something, then he should get on with it.

  “Why? What’s Saturday night?”

  “The Chamber of Commer
ce fundraiser.” Holden gave her a confused shake of his head. Becca explained, “It’s a big deal. All the city’s business owners will be there. Plus the mayor and his people. The sheriff and her people. Some bigwigs from Camp Lejeune and their wives.”

  “You want to go.”

  “I have to go. It’s a really important event in our community. And it’s good for my business.” Becca smiled half-heartedly. “And it’s casino night.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Well. See you tomorrow.”

  Holden produced a pen from his back pocket and reached for her hand. She hesitated before offering. He turned it palm up, his roughened fingers raising goose bumps along her forearm, and wrote his phone number on her wrist in bold, black print.

  * * *

  The Prince—that’s what he was calling himself now—had been kneeling on the cold concrete floor so long his lower legs were numb, but he stayed there within his spell circle and chanted the same strength-sapping spell he’d been casting for three months.

  Way back when he’d first started, his spell circle had been a pencil outline surrounded by candles from Walmart. Eventually he’d drawn over it with crayon. Now it was a combination of blood and Sharpie and his candles were blessed by a witch in his cabal. And with each upgrade, his potential multiplied and his spells packed more punch.

  His spirit companion, Robert, an older African American man dressed in a fancy suit and tie from the roaring twenties, didn’t have a lot of power. His visage flickered, though they’d only been at it for two hours.

  The Prince stopped chanting. “Robert, you can’t wimp out on me already.”

  Robert scowled. “I’m giving you everything I have. Make do is what I say.”

  He’d been making do for months. It was time to finish the spell already. He couldn’t keep this up. He’d go insane. And his target, the uppity Miss Powell, was moving out of range soon. He’d have to choose another target and start all over if he couldn’t close the deal by May 1.

  “Fucking try harder!” he snapped.

  Robert disliked cursing. He vanished, taking his power with him and leaving the Prince kneeling on the floor alone and powerless.

  He pushed himself to his feet, and as the blood rushed back into his limbs they screamed with pain. He grabbed the wall for support and waited out the sting until he could move again.