This Wicked Magic

by Michele Hauf

  All of a sudden, a flurry of brightness wafted up from the soul bringer’s chest. The corpse lights danced as if dandelion kites on the breeze.

  “Souls,” CJ said in wonder.

  “Yes.” Vika stood over the soul bringer. “I don’t know why they’re coming out of him, but I’ve got to catch them. Save them for him.”

  She held out her arms and lifted her chest to receive the fluttery souls. A few wobbled toward her.

  “Vika?” CJ tried. He shouldn’t, but—there were so many. And how many times would they be granted such opportunity?

  “Oh, yes! Xum!” She swept her hand toward him and blasted him with air magic, catching a corpse light in the path.

  The force of impact slammed CJ against the wall. He cried out as the brightness moved through him and he felt a demon exit his soul. Chaos, surely. “Another?” she said, and again sent a soul through him.

  “Vika, I’m not sure,” Libby started. “Reichardt could be in pain. He won’t come to!”

  Vika blasted CJ with two more souls. Protection and another demon were sucked to Daemonia. He grasped for hold against the wall but slipped down, landing on the floor, and his head wobbled forward. “No more,” he muttered. “Enough.” Heaving, he panted at the exertion the exorcism had required.

  “Now, to make sure I don’t lose any of them.” Vika moved about the kitchen, pursuing the phosphorescent lights, both the ones straight from Reichardt and those she’d moved through CJ.

  Libby pulled up one of Reichardt’s eyelids. “He’s in there. I don’t think he’s dead. This is so weird.”

  “I think I have them all,” Vika declared.

  CJ observed, because he could not move, so taxed were his muscles. Vika’s skirts swept over his boot-tips, and a trail of tiny yellow roses scattered in her wake as she went to kneel by her sister.

  “Let’s get the poor guy off the floor. Carry him into the living room and lay him on the couch. CJ?”

  “I’ll be right there.” He pushed to stand but fell forward onto his palms. The muscles in his arms trembled as if he’d been lifting weights for hours. Damn, that had taken a lot out of him. “Give me a minute.”

  “We can do this. Libby, take his feet. I’ve got his shoulders.” Together they recited, “Atollo” for lift, and the prone man’s body was made lighter.

  The sisters carried the soul bringer through the swinging kitchen doors, while CJ pulled himself up by the counter. A smile overtook him. He’d lost another three demons. Unfortunately, one had been Protection. Despite whatever had happened to the soul bringer, it had been remarkable timing. Still didn’t excuse him from telling Vika his secret.

  “When I’m more able,” he whispered. Whew! Felt as though he’d run a marathon. Staggering through the swinging doors, he wandered into the living room, where the women had arranged the motionless soul bringer on the couch.

  Libby was frantic. “Maybe he hit his head? He could be in a coma!”

  “He’s not bleeding.”

  “Do soul bringer’s bleed?”

  They both looked to CJ, but all he could do was shrug. “I don’t know. Don’t angels have blue blood? But he’s not really angel now, he’s more...I don’t know.” He steadied himself against the wall from a wave of dizziness. “Whew! That exorcism took a lot out of me. I need to lie down. Vika, can we talk later?”

  “Of course, you were going to tell me something. You feel all right?”

  “Weak but elated.” He kissed her. “Thank you for having the mind to think of me just now. Three more gone.”

  “Glad to do it. Yes, you go home and rest. I’m going to help Libby figure out what’s up with Reichardt. Can I come over later?”

  “I’ll be waiting for you.”

  “I hope not. Get some rest, because I’ll have plans for you when I get there.”

  “That’s my wicked witch.”

  * * *

  On the way home, CJ got a text from his brother, Thoroughly. When he arrived at home, TJ stood by his door, arms crossed and hair pulled away from his face with a leather strap that queued down his back. His twin and he were identical, though TJ was more stylish and tended toward extroversion. But adventure was all CJ’s mien.

  “You don’t look so good, brother,” TJ said as they entered the loft.

  “Just had a bunch of demons blasted out of me. Takes a lot out of a guy.”

  “You found someone to exorcise the demons?” TJ slapped him on the back. “Good going!”

  Beelining for the kitchen, CJ poured himself a glass of water from the tap and drank the whole thing before asking his brother why he was there.

  “I had a visit from Ian Grim.”

  CJ set the glass down hard. “Why would that bastard go to you?”

  “Apparently, he doesn’t know your new address. You’ve warded the hell out of this place. A Russian spy satellite couldn’t find it.”

  CJ glanced to the bone whistle lying on the counter, shielded from his brother’s eyes. Spy satellites, indeed. And thinking of Russians... He’d hated leaving Vika so quickly, and with the problem of the soul bringer, but she and her sister could manage it.

  “So you decided to come over here and show Grim the way?”

  “I’m not stupid,” TJ said. “I cloaked my steps. But you, brother, have some explaining to do. Seems Grim is upset over something you took from Daemonia. Something he wants.”

  Pacing beneath the glitter of chandeliers, CJ winced. He hadn’t opportunity to tell Vika, so the universe was forcing it out of him now, one way or another. He splayed out his hands. “I couldn’t let Grim get it. You know we’ve been rivals for ages.”

  “So this is some sort of power play? What did you take, CJ? And is it going to threaten the world as we know it?”

  CJ shrugged. “A small portion of it, I’m sure. But I’d never use the thing. I wanted it out of Grim’s hands. You know.”

  “To show up Grim. Hell, Certainly Amadeus Jones, you can never seem to get beyond the selfish streak forged like tarnished brass through your blood. What is it?”

  With a sigh, CJ shoved his hands in his pockets and confessed, “The call to the Nacht März.”

  Thoroughly’s expression dropped to a cold gape of awe, and the witch invoked a deity he did not subscribe to. “God help us.”

  Chapter 17

  Vika handed Libby a cup of chamomile tea, which was steeped with fennel the way she preferred it. Her sister sipped yet held her vigil positioned on the couch arm, above Reichardt’s thick crop of midnight hair. She stroked her fingers down his cheek and over his goateed chin.

  Nothing wrong with unrequited love, Vika figured. As long as Libby didn’t abandon all hope for other men. Real men whose hearts beat and were not made of glass. Men who could return her love with open arms and kisses.

  She sighed, and Libby followed suit with a bigger sigh.

  “He’s going to be okay,” Libby said, though her tone belied such belief. “Do we still have the compendium of the paranormal breeds?”

  “Possibly. You want me to find it? Yes, I will. It’ll give you something to do while you’re sitting shiva over the guy.”

  “Vika, he’s not dead, and we’re not Jewish.”

  “His heart isn’t beating.”

  “It’s glass. It can’t beat.”

  “Uh-huh.” Vika rose and wandered into the spell room. She located the book, which was thin but folio-size so it was an awkward carry, and laid it on the coffee table for Libby. “I was going to head over to CJ’s, but if you need me here?”

  “No, there’s nothing you can do. I’ve got him covered. I mean, you know.”

  “I know.” She kissed her sister’s forehead. “See you later. And if he wakes, give me a call. I’d like to know how he’s feeling when he comes to, and the reason he’s here.”

  * * *

  Vika took the stairs in CJ’s building up. Her heart dropped when she tried the light switch and it didn’t flicker on. It was afternoon—outside the sun s
hone—but the stairway was shadowed with no windows or other light sources.

  “Doesn’t mean anything,” she said. “He’s up in his loft. Safe under the light.”

  And then she heard the wretched sobbing echoing like a death mourn from deep within a freshly dug grave. Tugging up her long skirt, she hastened up two flights of stairs, along the way avoiding the broken glass from the shattered lightbulbs. She stumbled onto CJ’s prone form. He clasped her arms and pulled her down, clinging.

  Falling into his embrace, she nuzzled her head against his hair, preparing to face whatever it was within him that had control of her lover. He hadn’t lashed out at her and wasn’t growling, so this one might not be such a trial.

  “You are her,” he said with a sniffle. “The one his wretched heart needs so desperately. But it is not to be. This one can never have happiness. Such mirth is only for dreamers and the bold.”

  “Oh, my dark one. Who are you?” she whispered.

  “Grief,” the demonic voice wailed out, burying his face against Vika’s shoulder.

  How to deal with grief? On the scale of emotions, Vika could relate to many, save this one. She’d never lost anyone close, nor had she experienced true tragedy. Her grandmother’s nail hummed against her skin, reminding of her family’s grief.

  Perhaps she did know it.

  “He’s so dark, isn’t he?” CJ muttered. “Darkness is better. Though, nothing is better, is it? It’s all tragedy and misery. Where we belong. Not out there in the light. It’s stifling there. Too bright. We’ve lost the light. We don’t deserve it.”

  Certainly’s body heaved, and he sighed a sigh for the worlds. Grieving his loss of the light, even while the demon thrived in the darkness.

  “He’s pined for the closeness you hold before him as if a tease. When he returned to this realm with us, he abandoned his hermit ways and began to seek more. Something beyond his own selfish interests. Foolish witch. More will only result in sacrifice, and ultimately loss.”

  She wouldn’t listen to what the demon said. It was forged from a deep emotion she couldn’t imagine affecting Certainly. Yet the mention of loss frightened her. A sense of foreboding nodded its head.

  The safflower petal reading had suggested a warlock had entered her life. Could it be Certainly? She hadn’t opportunity to ask him, and still he had wanted to tell her something. She could not have a relationship with a witch who had broken the witch’s rede. No matter how much she felt she knew CJ, if that were his confession, the game would be changed.

  Best not to raise the subject until Grief was gone. Right now she had to get him into the light. The electricity wasn’t out. The lobby had been lit. Someone—likely some demon—had knocked out all the bulbs. Four more flights to go.

  “Walk with me,” she said, surprised when CJ slid his arm into hers and did so. “Tell me your sorrows.”

  “I have so many.”

  They took the stairs, a funeral march to Vika’s heart.

  “I have seen it all. Death. Violence. Rage. Annihilation.”

  “I imagine so.”

  “You cannot imagine Daemonia, red witch.”

  “No, and I never wish to.” The final staircase remained.

  CJ paused. “If you wish to avoid grief you will walk away from us.”

  She kissed CJ and led him upward. “Never. He means too much to me. I love him.”

  “You shouldn’t. You’re a foolish witch.”

  “I happen to think I’m lucky.” His front door was open, thank the goddess.

  But before she could lead him over the threshold, CJ clutched her arm and shoved her against the wall. Taking her in, he swept his red eyes over her face, down her body. She didn’t struggle because he was not rough, merely needy. She would give him what she could.

  “I am made of him,” CJ said. “I cannot exist without Certainly Jones.”

  An exhale spilled out Vika’s sudden dread. “You mean you couldn’t have hitched a ride in CJ without having already existed within him?”

  “Exactly.”

  “But what has he to grieve?”

  “Life. His family. Lost his parents long ago. Very violent that. They’d taken what he now possesses. Foolish witches.”

  “I didn’t know,” she said on a hush. “What does he possess?”

  “Oh, no, witch, you won’t get that from me. I cannot exist if he tells you his truth and shares his grief.”

  “Then you are good for him. You give his grief voice.”

  At that statement, CJ tilted his head in wonder. And Vika used the moment to catch him unawares and tug him across the threshold. She closed the door behind them and flicked on the lights. A blast of prismatic light swept the room, and CJ yelped as the demon retreated to the darkness of his soul. Stumbling against the wall, he slid down, his legs sprawling across the hardwood floor.

  “That was misery,” he muttered, gripping his hair and pulling. “Hell.” His body shaking, he wrapped his arms across his chest, drawing up his legs. “I’m not sure I can fight them much longer. It’s draining me.”

  Vika’s heart went out to him. Never had she seen him so vulnerable. And yet Grief had voiced his heartache. She drew him into her arms and kissed his head. “It will be better, cushlamocree.”

  “That word. You said it to me once before. What does it mean?”

  “I think it’s Irish. My mother used it when we sisters were sad or frightened. It calmed us.”

  He nodded. “I could feel my soul crumbling every moment the demon held reign. My parents...they were tortured by a mistake they made. I can’t explain it completely. Yet you led me toward the light. Thank you.”

  “You thank me far too much, witch. Just doing what had to be done. I can’t begin to understand what you’re going through, but if I can soften the pain, I will.”

  “You do.”

  “Let’s get up and make you some tea.”

  “Just give me a moment to enact a spell.” He reached to his left biceps and tapped one of the tattooed boxes, muttering the Latin spell for—Vika recognized it—peace and relaxation. Sort of like an aspirin spell. With a sigh, he propped his elbows on his bent knees. “Better.”

  “How many left inside you?”

  “As far as I can determine? War, Grief and Pain.”

  “Now that’s a festive bunch.”

  He laughed and took her offered hand and stood. “How’s your sister and the comatose soul bringer?”

  “Holding vigil. I figured I could slip out for a bit. You had something you were going to tell me?”

  “I do. And now that Grief has brought it up, I can no longer avoid the confession. Let’s brew some peppermint tea for an open mind and truth.”

  * * *

  The soul bringer suddenly sat upright. Libby scrambled up from the floor, where she’d been perusing the compendium. “Reichardt? Are you okay?”

  “O...kay?” He nodded, looking around, taking in the living room surroundings, from the gleaming crystal chandelier to the white leather sofa and glass coffee table adorned with fresh daisies from the garden. “I landed here?”

  “Yes, in our kitchen, actually. You freaked me out because you fell from out of nowhere. What happened?”

  “Where is Viktorie St. Charles?”

  “She’s with CJ. Why? What’s wrong? I don’t understand what happened, Reichardt.”

  She wanted to pull him into a hug and smother him with kisses. He was back! But, much as her fingers slid closer to his hand, Libby knew better than to press the man with effusive displays of affection.

  Reichardt rubbed his brow. His jaw muscle pulsed in a sexy way that caught her eye. “I was expelled from Above by His Most Highest.”

  “What? The Guy?”

  “Yes.” He cast his gaze about the room and to his lap, turning his hands over, as if he were still orienting himself. “Here?”

  “You’re still wondering why you landed here? Maybe you went the one place you most wanted to be?” she said with hope.


  He nodded. It wasn’t exactly an agreement. “During the expulsion I was only thinking to land someplace safe. Interesting.”

  “So why were you expelled?”

  His kaleidoscope eyes fixed to hers, and Libby gasped as if fixed in the sight of a pistol. “Apparently, I’ve been ferrying tainted souls Above. I had no idea they were tainted. But now I understand. It is Viktorie’s fault.”

  “What? No, she—” Libby closed her mouth.

  Her sister had been using the souls to chase demons from CJ. And then she’d catch them and give them to Reichardt. Souls tainted by demon exorcism. Oh, great goddess, she could not let Reichardt find Vika.

  “You want a cookie?”

  * * *

  Vika sipped the peppermint tea and then resumed the shoulder massage she’d insisted on giving CJ. He didn’t protest overmuch, and it had been an excuse for him to remove his shirt. Not that she needed an excuse. But also, she wanted to relax him so they could talk. It had seemed he’d something dire to tell her out in the garden earlier. And Grief had intrigued her with hints of the secret. She wanted to make it easy for him now.

  Sliding her hands down his back where the largest sak yant tattoo held court, she was surprised to find so much tension knotted in his muscles. And then she was not. While normally a witch was ultra-aware of his or her body, she assumed harboring demons would put any person’s muscles—and soul—into a twist.

  “I wish I could have exorcised Grief for you,” she said.

  He slid a hand over hers. “It’ll happen. Come here.” He pulled her onto his lap and kissed her. “I was fully present with Grief. I let it speak for me.”

  “You...? Certainly?” She touched his cheek, so warm and stubbly. “Do you want to talk about your parents?”

  “There’s not much to tell that you probably can’t guess. Witch hunters got them early in the twentieth century. My brother and sister and I watched in horror as their bodies burned at the stake.”

  “Goddess,” she whispered, pressing her cheek aside his bare shoulder and wrapping her arm across his chest.

  “But not before they committed a grave crime against the Light by summoning something...evil.”