Chapter Twenty-Six
Shadows wriggled in a house, eerie and sharp. Sounds from the past wormed their way to me—tile floors creaked like wooden panels, the dry bathroom sink made dripping noises. Cold drafts seemed to chase me everywhere as I wandered through the house. My mind drifted between my body and Railey's slippery presence. Never before was our bond so strong as when she drew strength from me.
“Railey?”
She formed next to me in the dust caught by a beam of a night light, her pigtails ruffled with spider webs.
“I'm not having any better luck.”
“Are you sure it's not a bogart or wisp?”
For each tick of the grandfather clock, I had been hopeful that the spirit would decide to come see us, but so far nothing. We had tried rearranging the rooms and burning sage, and received a response, one that seemed scripted by a spell. Too stereotypical of what people thought ghosts said or did.
“It is a boy. Nothing else.”
“Are there any spells on the place?”
“There's something cold coming from that room." She pointed to a door, and I checked it. Nothing fancy, a white panel door with a knob that opened by twisting. It was locked.
“Railey, is there any way the boy ghost will come talk to us?”
She closed her eyes and glowed a little, then the glow left with a breeze. “Maybe.”
I worked on pulling the battery out of my phone, thinking that any spells inside the door might take the charge from the battery. The last thing I needed was to supercharge a ward while I was breaking in. “Railey, get that door.”
I saw her pass into it, making it glow with soft blue. I felt breath on the back of my neck, rotting meat wafting over my nose.
Shrieks and hisses came from Railey's door just before her voice echoed in my ear, “Wards are gone.”
Railey cracked the door open for me. I slipped in. I flicked the light switch. Not working. Rubbing the amber pendant about my neck created illumination as strong as any flash light, though I could not see the entire room at once.
“The walls!” called Railey. I turned the light onto the writing, reading slowly as ever the spells inscribed there.
Fear gripped me from the gut to my every limb. I wanted to curl up in a corner and hide under blankets until morning came. I recognized the impulse. Terror spell. I'd encountered many of them in the past, hauntings to torment someone who did not know of magic. Focusing was difficult. I resisted looking over my shoulder.
“Skip ahead to here.” Railey tapped on the wall at a place where the symbols were different from the rest. She said, “They're colonial-era demonic. This spirit we've been chasing, it isn't a spirit, or not a spirit alone. It is a spell, a spell guided by spirits trapped in it.”
I squinted, but couldn't make out the symbols, as though they were words on a sign passing by too quickly. I raised the amber pendant up to the wall. The symbols wriggled before my gaze, disguising themselves. I tried to not look directly at them. That helped.
“There are nine spirits woven into the spell,” said Railey. “They need four more. A spirit, a creature, a human, and a 'life-life' person.”
She hesitated over the last one, as though she did not understand it. I didn't, either. Never heard the term before. “Zombie? Reincarnation?”
Railey shrugged. “Doesn't say 'death-life' or 'rebirth'.”
That was a puzzle, then.
An ebony desk with a leather bound spell book caught my gaze, and I walked over to it, mindful not to step into the magic circle drawn on the floor. The book title read Le Morte de Morgain, and a string of lacquered phalanges served as a bookmark; I opened the book, feeling a chilled finger trace down my neck.
I dare not take the book; not only was there a risk of tripping spells, but these books tainted their caretakers, made them go mad, made them do the dark thoughts in their soul. This page marked three-quarters completion of a spell, and I couldn't stop my fingers from backtracking, from looking at the previous steps.
I paused, seeing a drawing of ceremonial bones carved with ash painted into them, trapping the souls so another could draw off their energy over extended periods of time. Unlike ordinary books, magic books would make room in the text for their users to record their spell making, becoming a series of journals as well as an educational text. It was signed Coal at the bottom of several entries. Coal kept very detailed records, and had a surprisingly crafted hand at drawing.
“Railey. That's the house.”
The house she died at. The house where I lost my magic. And the date…the date was the day we went there.
“Fera,” whispered Railey, though it should have been a scream. “Run.”
I didn't. I wasn't going to let her slip away in this place, of all places. Fistful by fistful, I yanked out pages, tearing and maiming as many as I could. A ghost hand reached about my throat and squeezed, an uncomfortable sensation but nothing more. Screams and wails buzzed my ears, clouding my hearing so I did not know anyone was near until the door exploded in flying slivers, embedding in my back. A man stood where the door used to be.
The man was lean with an almost awkward head and hawk like nose. He wore sorcerer's robes and was as tall as a hanged skeleton.
Gregor Cole raised a wand and I screamed as white filled my vision.
Feral Magic: An Urban Fantasy Romance-Thriller Page 41
