by Lia Davis
My memories of Francois, once he harvested my soul in the duel, are faint, like clouds on a foggy river. I remember he had many bottles containing souls of the young. Every time he needed to extend his own life, he would consume another—oh, how the terrified screams would haunt me.
I had not yet been chosen when the great fire took the house, and when Ben plucked my bottle from the ashes, I maintained hope I would one day walk among mortals again.
Maybe that time is still coming.
If Francois doesn’t get to my Ophelia first.
* * *
Ophelia swept the casting circle clean at Gramma’s wishes, brushing east to west then south to north. The broom was not much more than a bundle of willow branches tied together and hung on the attic wall. Gramma said be sure to use it. Ophelia didn’t question why.
She had promised Gramma she’d do everything exactly as Gramma said, and that was enough. She’d do it. The dust swirled and sparkled in the air like glitter and she paused to watch it settle.
How many spells had Gramma cast here?
The circle had been on the floor a long time, and the boards around the outside of it were worn, like many people had walked around the loop over the years. She shivered. That’s exactly how the pattern had been worn into the floor. Not just Gramma’s generation, but the generations before…perhaps as long as Hemlock Grove had sat on the hill above the river.
Generations of witches had been where she stood now. She felt the residual power like skitters of electricity when near lightning in a thunderstorm. For the first time, Ophelia felt like she belonged to something larger than herself. She hung the broom onto its wall hook.
Yet, Ophelia wasn’t versed in the ways of white magic—she’d shunned any mention of it from the time she was a girl. Now, she felt a bit guilty.
Gramma had certainly tried to get her into it over the years, but had given up when Ophelia went off to the city to college. Ophelia leaned against the dusty attic walls.
Fate pulled her in two directions.
Had she been wrong to not listen to her family history and learn the ways? Or did she do the right thing and escape Savannah, Hemlock Grove, and all the old ways?
She hadn’t questioned her choices until this trip. Gramma had really pushed her. Gramma knew she was dying and was trying one last time to convince Ophelia that she was a witch.
“Maybe I am,” Ophelia whispered.
She scanned the attic for the first time realizing that everything was organized and orderly, not piled and in shambles like she thought when she first came upstairs. The attic was a sacred place. A place of magick.
Some things going on made no sense whatsoever, and yet the thrill of the unknown pushed Ophelia to continue to seek the truth.
The truth called to her. Begged her to search it out.
Especially the truth about the young duelist who’d supposedly been lost in a magickal duel over one hundred fifty years ago. She had one task that would try all her convictions and beliefs. She would try to bring Anatoli back.
Ophelia felt a bond to his lost soul. Could it be possible he was now wandering Hemlock Grove as a ghost?
Ophelia studied the setup in the center of the casting circle. She’d already changed the altar cloth to a crisp red silk scarf, and prepared fresh candles to light the area. She lit each, watching them flicker for a moment, swearing she could see faces in the flames.
Her gramma’s handwritten notes lay on the altar and she did her best to read them. She adjusted the position of the candles. If only Gramma wasn’t too weak to climb the stairs. But she was and this would be Ophelia’s ritual.
Her first.
What if she screwed it up? Could she condemn Anatoli to be forever lost? Could she handle all the pressure and do her gramma proud?
“I don’t know.” Her lone voice echoed through the attic. No response.
What had she expected? She stood back to look at the freshly swept circle. About six feet in diameter with a pentagram painted in white and touching the perimeter, the circle felt charged with its own power. She couldn’t deny it. When she stood inside, even just sweeping, the hairs on her arms stood and she felt stronger.
She looked at the list her gramma wrote. A few drops of witch hazel to finish cleaning the circle. She took the tincture from the shelf and dripped it around the circle. She set the dropper back on the shelf.
Done.
One by one, she continued to follow the instructions.
Set Anatoli’s bottle on the altar, along with a fresh apple to represent the fruit of patience and the promise of a seed-bearing fruit. A knife to cut any pain he might feel.
Then for the circle: a dish of water, a flower, a sliver of clear glass, and a red lit candle in the four cardinal directions. Water, earth, air and fire. One thing to represent each and to help keep the circle free from evil. Ophelia read the last instructions and then placed Gramma’s notes on the altar inside the circle.
The last preparatory thing. The final purification before the ritual.
Salt.
Gramma had specified which salt to use, among the many types on the shelf. Ophelia looked through the shelves of glass jars and found the one marked “casting salt.” A pale green, the bottle was small to hold something so important. She grabbed the bottle, then stopped cold.
Written in the dust on the shelf below, the words Beware of Ben stared back at her.
What the hell?
Who had been in the attic? Who could’ve written the words and what could they mean? A ghostly hand caressed her neck and she closed her eyes. So much had happened in the last few days. She’d never expected her trip back to Hemlock Grove would be filled with her gramma’s magick talk and wishing that a lost-passed man was real. And alive.
And now a warning against a man she’d known all her life. A good man.
What could explain everything that was happening, other than magick? She shrugged. She’d promised Gramma she’d do the ritual and cast the spell to see if it would help Anatoli. And that’s what she’d do. She’d tell Gramma about the message written in dust—maybe she would understand or know who could have written it.
Why would anyone fear Ben? He was one of the nicest men she’d ever met. Sure, he was a little kooky, but Ophelia was beginning to think everyone in Savannah was a little crazy.
Or maybe she was the crazy one.
She pulled the cork from the salt bottle and took a deep breath. The salt smelled of nights on the beach, the air full of the mysteries of the universe. A deep and ageless smell, the salt was precious. The bottle warmed in her hand. Careful not to spill it, she moved to the casting circle.
She’d called the coven leader earlier and the woman was going to gather everyone for the ritual to rid the town of the evil warlock tomorrow. But today, Ophelia was on her own.
She sprinkled the salt around the circle in a clockwise movement, chanting the words to seal out evil and hold good.
“Cast the circle thrice about, to keep the evil spirits out." Three times, she walked the outside of the circle and on the third time, she stepped inside, sealing her entry spot with a fresh dash of salt. She set the bottle on the altar.
Gramma had said they couldn’t risk evil slipping into Anatoli when he was vulnerable and that the salt would keep out any entities who might try to take advantage of his weakened position if he appeared. With some peace of mind, Ophelia relaxed, sealed inside the protective circle of white magick. Now that Ophelia was in the circle, she couldn’t break it while she was doing the ritual, otherwise she risked herself and Anatoli.
Everything was ready. I can do this.
How would she know Anatoli was in the circle or even nearby? Faith was her only beacon. Hopefully, he would follow the bottle and be present.
If he was even a thing. She smiled. His touch certainly felt real. More real than any touch she’d felt from any man in years.
She knelt in front of the altar and closed her eyes, folding her hands on her lap.
Clearing her mind of all excess thoughts, she waited and meditated. After a few minutes, she was ready to proceed. Power welled inside her.
The silence of the attic enveloped her like a consciousness of pure light. She focused on the words to call Anatoli.
Darkness aside, newly restore,
Return Anatoli as before.
Reunite his spirit and call him home,
His body to this plane, now as one…
Ophelia repeated the lines three times then opened her eyes. Nothing. A beam of sunlight from the lone window slanted across the attic floor, cutting a rectangle of gold in the center of the circle.
A low hum filled the air.
Then, a waver in the air like light shimmering on a lake surface appeared before her. She watched, her heart hammering. What was happening? The candles flickered and then a man appeared in front of her, his arms outstretched to her.
Anatoli!
Tall, maybe six feet, the first thing she noticed was his deep blue eyes. Brown hair pulled back and clothing from another time. It was him. She felt it with every bit of her being. She rose to rush into his arms.
“Help me.” His voice, firm and masculine, sent shivers through her. She never imagined it would be so deep.
She reached for him, and he disappeared.
What happened? She scanned the attic, not seeing him anywhere. She was alone again, no sign of Anatoli or anyone. She didn’t even feel his presence around her. Tears formed and she closed her eyes. Had she failed her gramma? Or was everything merely a figment of her imagination? Or had she doomed him forever with her half-cocked spell-casting ability?
One thing was certain. His spirit was in the house and she would find a way to bring him to her. Whatever it took.
Her witch powers simply weren’t strong enough. That’s all it was. When the coven arrived the next evening, the combined power would bring him into the light.
Exhaustion settled in her gut like a boulder. So tired.
She had to open the circle the correct way, she remembered how important her gramma said that was. She couldn’t simply step out. The words were on the paper on the altar.
She moved to the altar. A pair of dueling pistols lay on the red silk cloth in their open wooden box, a brass lock off to the side, unlocked. They weren’t on the altar before.
Anatoli had left them.
But for what purpose? How could two old pistols help her help him? Or help her rid Hemlock Grove of Francois’s presence? Every time one question was answered, a dozen more sprang up.
She closed the box and latched it, then tucked it under her arm. She spoke the words to break the circle, then pushed the salt away and stepped out. The attic darkened.
Right now, she had to tell Gramma what she’d seen—that Anatoli had appeared for a moment. Tell her about the words inscribed in dust on the shelf. And most importantly, show her the pistols.
Gramma would know what needed to happen next.
Chapter 9
Joy! For I have become whole, if only for a moment. I remember what it feels like to walk among the mortals. To truly be whole.
My witch brought me back for a short time and now I long to be out of the world of shadows forever.
What a glorious thing life is!
Will my witch command enough power to make it happen? She doesn’t know her power and she isn’t listening to her grandmother. What if it’s too late?
I’m torn between this feeling of happiness and the knowledge that Francois is out there, lurking. Tomorrow is All Hallow’s Eve and with it comes so much magick. Both good and evil. With Francois near, will the darkness win?
Hemlock Grove is drawing magick. I feel it. The river flows outside, black in the darkness, mirroring the magick in the house.
Ophelia must feel it too. She has to sense that things are not right. That things are worsening.
Tomorrow will be fifty years since Francois’s house fire. I fear his revenge.
He will be swift and brutal.
We must stop him. Together.
* * *
“You are the one who must stop him, Ophelia. You will lead the others.” Gramma held a handkerchief to her nose, dabbing it to her mottled face. “Francois is strong. You must be ready.”
“Gramma, I don’t know if I can do this. I’m not sure I believe.” Ophelia paced. “I’m trying but it’s so much information. So many things that can’t be explained.”
“I know, my dear. That doesn’t change the fact you have to defeat him. He seeks revenge on our family for the burning of his house. He will take that vengeance out on you. You have to be ready.”
“I’m scared.”
A fire crackled in the fireplace, sending a yellow glow around the living room. Gramma was on the couch, a quilt over her legs. Her wheelchair was near, and stacks of papers covered the coffee table. Would they ever get through all her affairs? So much left to take care of, and time seemed to be growing short. Add in the whole mess with Francois and witches and spells, and Ophelia was exhausted. She fell into the easy chair.
“Anyone would be scared, facing this powerful demon. He’s grown even more powerful than he was fifty years ago. I’m scared, too.” Gramma shook her head, her hands quivering. “You must believe or the spells won’t work. That much, I know. Your mother was the same way. She didn’t want to accept her powers either.”
“You rarely speak of my mother.”
“It’s still a tragic subject and it makes me sad.” Gramma sniffled. “Her early death was hard on all of us. You never know when an accident can simply take away the ones you love in less than a heartbeat.”
A knot formed in Ophelia’s throat. Gramma seldom talked about the car accident that had taken her parents’ lives. Since that moment, her gramma had devoted herself to raising Ophelia as her own. “I love you, Gramma.”
“I love you, too, sweetie. More than you can know. That’s why I’m trying so hard to get you to understand your heritage before it’s too late. I don’t have much time left and my duty is to make sure you are as prepared for life as possible.”
“You’ve done everything for me.”
“I’ve done my best. Now tell me what happened in the attic. Did you follow all the instructions?”
“Yes. Every one.”
Ophelia had set the box containing the pistols on top of the papers on the coffee table. If Gramma could help unravel that mystery, maybe Ophelia had a chance at defeating the warlock-turned-demon.
“And did Anatoli appear?”
“He materialized for a few moments. At least, I think he did. Right now, I’m not sure if I imagined it or if it really happened.” She leaned back and rubbed her temples. A low-grade headache throbbed in her temples. All she wanted was to go to bed and forget about all the stresses, at least for a few hours.
“It was him. I’m so proud you tried. Your magick just isn’t strong enough yet, but it will grow quickly if you believe.”
“Yes, Gramma.” Ophelia tugged at the band holding her long hair back, freeing her tresses in an effort to ease her headache. “He appeared for a moment. He said, ‘help me,’ then he was gone. I want to be stronger. Show me how. Please.”
“When the coven is here, their combined power will help you bring Anatoli back. I’m sure of it. I should’ve never had you try it on your own. After all, it was your first time intentionally using magick, and honestly, now that I think about it, I’m surprised he appeared at all. That tells me you have a lot of power inside you. We just need to harness it.” Gramma began coughing, holding the handkerchief to her mouth. Her entire body shook with every cough and her face paled.
“Are you all right?” Ophelia sat straight. “Do you need medicine? A glass of water?”
Gramma took a deep breath and the coughing subsided. “I’m okay. Don’t fret over me like a mother hen. My time is near, that’s all. The coughing is stronger, and I’m growing weaker.”
“Please don’t say that.”
“We need to hurry wit
h your training. I fear I will leave this plane without giving you everything you need to defeat Francois.” Gramma’s eyes shined with unshed tears. “I know you can do it, I feel it in here.” She held her hand to her heart.
“I will try.” What else could she say? That she wouldn’t try? That she sometimes thought all of this was made-up fantasy, and sometimes believed every word? Even though she’d seen Anatoli with her own eyes, she still doubted.
Yet she had to give the spells everything she had. She owed it to her grandmother.
“The fact that the coven agreed to come on the biggest night of the year should tell you something. You must understand they wouldn’t give up a special night like Halloween unless they thought this was extremely important. Halloween is the fiftieth anniversary of the fire they helped me set. Like me, they thought we’d killed Francois. Now we know that isn’t true. After he gets revenge on me, there’s a risk he’ll go for their families too.”
“I’m scared.”
“Come sit by me, Ophelia.” Gramma patted the couch. “Let me tell you what you need to know. The coven will help with everything else when it’s time. With their power, and your trust, you will end All Hallow’s Eve with Anatoli in your arms and Francois gone.”
* * *
Ophelia poured a glass of milk. She put the jug back into the fridge and leaned on the counter. Gramma was waiting in the living room to be taken to bed, and thankfully she hadn’t had any more coughing fits. The night had been so full, and Gramma was tired. Ophelia yawned. Everyone was tired.
“So much to remember,” Ophelia whispered. She picked up the glass of milk and took a drink.
Gramma had gone over everything that needed to be done and Ophelia had written notes. Would she be able to handle it all? There were so many details. Thank goodness, she’d have help from the coven. If only she could get Gramma into the attic, she’d make sure nothing was missed, but that was impossible.
She sipped the milk and set the empty glass in the sink. Time for bed. Tomorrow would be a challenging day spent preparing, and the evening would be crazy with the coven around and hopefully Anatoli. Taking out Francois was going to be hard.
