by Laura Bickle
Anya looked in the bucket. She chose a piece of yellow chalk for east, violet chalk for north, blue chalk for west, and pink chalk for south. She tried to make the marks as unobtrusively as possible on the granite floor.
“What now?” Anya asked, sitting back on her heels.
Katie placed a white votive in a silver candleholder at each point on the compass. She anointed each candle with an oil that smelled like dish soap. “Well, the challenge is creating a magick circle without markers that will be visible to humans, but one that ghosts will be unable to cross.”
“How do we do that?”
Katie held up a glass perfume bottle full of the oil she used to anoint the candles. “Lavender oil. It will soak into the stone and be nearly invisible.” In her other hand, she held a bottle of white crystals. “And salt. In this mess, a bit of it will go unnoticed.” She dumped the contents of the bottle of salt into her hands, blew on it, and cast it across the floor. The salt blended in with the dust and fragments of broken glass, glittering against the granite. “The salt will purify the space.”
Katie got down on her hands and knees. She dipped her fingers in the lavender oil and drew a nine-foot circle on the floor around the glass display case, connecting Anya’s compass points. The oil began to seep into the granite almost immediately.
Anya stood back with Sparky. She stepped on his tail to keep him from interfering; she didn’t want a nosy salamander inadvertently locked inside the circle.
Katie struck a match, and the light played over her pixie features. She lowered the match to the candle in the eastern quadrant. “I dedicate this circle to the Old Ones, to the old gods and goddesses still roaming the earth, underworld, and heavens. To consecrate this circle, I summon the Guardian of the Watchtower of the East. May the power of air bless and strengthen this circle.”
She moved to the north, lit the candle. “I summon the Guardian of the Watchtower of the North. May the power of earth bless and strengthen this circle.”
Katie stepped to the next candle, and the next: “I summon the Guardian of the Watchtower of the West. May the power of water bless and strengthen this circle. I summon the Guardian of the Watchtower of the South. May the power of fire bless and strengthen this circle.” When Katie struck that match, fire leapt and sizzled.
Though Anya had no particular gift for ritual magick, she could still feel it: the thrum and flow of its pulse in the earth, like a living thing. She could smell the sharpness of it in the air, feel it in the hair lifting on the back of her neck.
Katie pulled her silver athame from her belt, aimed the dagger at the fading oil circle on the floor. She traced the circle clockwise once more. “May this circle remain strong and unbroken, protecting the treasures at its heart from plunder. Let no man or spirit tear it asunder.” Katie dropped a match to the oil circle, and it flamed to life, racing around the floor.
She raised her athame to the sky. “The circle is sealed. Blessings to the Old Ones and watchtowers. May they see to the protection of this place.”
The fire fizzled out, leaving no trace of its presence. Anya scanned the outline of what had once been fire. Katie walked clockwise along the circle, snuffing the candles.
“How do we know it worked?”
Katie shrugged. “Well, humans should be able to cross over.” Katie stepped over the invisible boundary to the glass case, pressed her hands to the glass. “Humans sensitive to magick will feel their skin crawl, and probably won’t linger.”
“And the spirits?”
“Let’s find out.” Katie looked past Anya, at the entrance to the exhibit. Anya followed her gaze, to see Gallus leaning in the doorway, behind the fire tape. His hand was poised on his wasp-waisted sword.
“Is it safe to come in?” Gallus asked. His nose twitched, and Anya could tell that he smelled the magick, too.
“Sure,” Katie told him. “The circle won’t hurt anyone. It’s just meant to keep ghosts away.”
Gallus crossed the room to the perimeter of the circle. He planed his hand in the air, as if feeling for its edges. “How does it work?”
Katie blushed and dug her toe uncertainly on the floor. “I’m not really sure what it will do. Not many spirits report back on how they interact with magickal barriers.”
Gallus puffed up like a rooster. “Can I test it?”
“Have at it.”
“Be careful,” Anya warned. She was sure that Katie sometimes didn’t know her magickal strength.
Gallus reached toward the barrier. It flashed blue, like lightning, and sparked against his hand. Gallus shook it, paced around it. “Interesting,” he said. He was still for a moment, then ripped his sword out of its sheath and lunged over the invisible line.
A web of blue-white light flashed, knocking Gallus on his ass. He skidded backward on the slick floor, spinning like a toy in a pinball machine.
Anya rushed to his side. “Gallus! Are you all right?”
The cavalryman rubbed his head, grinning. His ephemeral body seemed to smoke. Sparky wiggled up to him and licked his chin.
“Gallus?”
The Roman was laughing so hard the feathers on his helmet shook and the segments on his armor rattled. “I can’t wait until Pluto hits that. This will be the best revenge I’ve had on that horse in two thousand years.”
Katie’s house was too quiet to sleep in.
Anya lay in the guest room, staring up at the ceiling. Katie’s house was too far from the freeway and the railroad tracks. Anya had grown accustomed to hearing the swish of cars on the freeway and the bleat of the night trains, and the silence unsettled her. All she could hear was the ticking of a clock in the living room and the clack of Fay’s and Vern’s claws on the hardwood floors as they patrolled the premises.
The bed was surrounded by debris of her attempts to get her life back in some semblance of working order: shopping bags full of clothes and toiletries, stacks of paper from the insurance company to sign off on. Small pathetic piles of material possessions, the sad sum total of her life at present. But Anya reminded herself that she’d started over after a fire once before. She could do it again. Maybe.
Anya rolled over, punching a lavender-scented pillow under her head. Sparky grumbled a bit in his sleep. He slept coiled around the newt transporter at the foot of the bed. In the darkness, the eggs glowed like coals, casting gold light from the interior of the bag. She knew that Katie’s house was the best place for the newts, that it would likely take Hope some time to figure out where she’d taken them. And Katie’s house was powerfully warded. Salt lines glittered on the windowsills, the lintels of doors and windows guarded by tiny pentacles made of woven willow branches. The perimeter of boxwood around the house had been fed on magickal plant food. Katie had even placed protective obsidian stones in the least obvious entry points to the house: around the main plumbing stack, the drains, and the attic. The dryer vent had even been stuffed with sage. The fireplace was blocked by a huge decorative arrangement of thistles and wreathed with garlic. Anya could even smell the everyday magick in the lemon floor polish. Vern and Fay were on watch, hopping up on the windowsills without disturbing the salt, chirping to each other in their feline language. For a witch, this place was a fortress.
But Anya couldn’t help but feel vulnerable. She’d seen what Hope could do.
Above Anya’s bed, a painting of the serene goddess Kwan Yin surveyed the darkness. She was rendered in watercolor and ink, soft and ethereal in pastel greens and pinks, holding a dove in her hands. Kwan Yin, goddess of kindness and compassion, the polar opposite of the black painting of Ishtar. Anya’s painting of Ishtar, saved from the fire, was propped up in a corner. There was something comforting about Ishtar’s thick gaze.
Anya chewed on her lip, thinking about what the crazy old man had said at the ghost party: “You have the eyes of Ishtar.” She wasn’t certain what that meant, but she certainly felt closer to that terrible goddess of war and ruined lovers than she did to the beatific Kwan Yin.
And
with the eyes of Ishtar… she saw Brian. She didn’t want what happened to Drake to happen to Brian. If she truly did have some affinity to the Babylonian goddess, how could she protect Brian, keep him partitioned away from that trick of destiny that had chased down Drake and killed him? Was she truly destined to lose everyone she loved?
Anya blinked tears into the pillow. What if… ? There were no answers that anyone seemed to be able to give.
Fay trotted into the room, growling, and Anya sat bolt upright in bed. The calico cat launched herself to the windowsill, fur fluffed and hissing. Somewhere in the back of the house, Vern yodeled. Sparky curled over his bag of eggs, clutching at them with his toes. In the darkness, the familiars’ eyes were dilated, round and black as the old man’s at the museum.
Anya crept to the window, pulled aside the sheer curtain. The tatter of something insubstantial flitted past, like an angelfish in an aquarium. Others joined it, pausing outside the window and pressing their hands to the glass.
Ghosts. In the churning darkness, Anya could see their writhing forms, searching for entry into the house. They flitted up over the roof, around the foundation, poking at the electrical mast on top of the house and at the gas meter. Anya clutched the windowsill with white knuckles. She heard Katie’s footsteps behind her, turned to see her standing in her nightgown. In her right hand, she held a candle that smelled like bayberries. In her left, she held a silver ceremonial sword.
Something rattled in the living room, and Anya heard the sound of silt spitting in the chimney. Vern growled.
“They can’t come past the closed flue,” Katie said. “It’s sealed with seven pentacles.”
Anya turned back to the window. She swallowed—hard—when she saw a familiar face twitching through the darkness: Leslie.
Leslie drifted before the window. Her face paused before the glass, and her breath against it fogged the pane. With a finger, she traced the words “Help us” in the condensation. Beyond the edge of the yard, Anya saw a compost bin catching fire. Its lurid glow gleamed through the breath on the window.
Anya reached toward the window sash.
“No.” Katie set the candle in the sash and snatched her wrist. The candlelight seemed to drive the ghost away. “Don’t let her in. It’s a trick.”
Anya wrapped her arms around her body. She returned to the bed to sit next to Sparky. A low growl rumbled through his chest, so low that it made the bed vibrate.
She was torn. Torn between the desire to help the spirits banging against the house like moths on a lantern, and wanting to rip them to pieces for threatening Sparky’s eggs. She felt the black hole opening in her chest, the twitch in her fingers. If any of them got past Katie’s wards, no matter if it was Bernie or Leslie, she’d chew them up. She had no choice in it. But she prayed that Katie’s preparations would be enough.
“What now?”
Katie knelt down on the floor, leaning the sword against her shoulder. With her unbound hair and white nightdress, she looked like she’d stepped out of one of Dante Rossetti’s Pre-Raphaelite paintings, a vision of Beatrice. “We do nothing. We wait until morning, or until they give up.”
Anya looked up at the picture of Kwan Yin.
Katie was right; this was no time for compassion.
This was time for war.
HOPE’S GHOSTS HAD GIVEN UP by dawn. They gave up rattling in the chimney, though they managed to dislodge an old birds’ nest (much to the cats’ delight as they shredded it all over the floor). They gave up pinging in the pipes and scratching around the attic. And they gave up trying to enter the house through the floor drains in the basement, though their breath sounded like the wind blowing across bottles. The rattles and shakes became fainter and fainter until they faded. The fire in the compost pile burned out, leaving the smell of burned coffee grounds that permeated the house.
Katie figured that they’d worn themselves out; that even spirits such as these would need to rest before another attempt. Still, Anya left Katie’s stronghold cautiously, and well-armed. Katie had taken the dragon’s blood dye and marked Anya’s skin with a protective rune she called Algiz—it resembled a capital Y with an additional line struck through the upper tines, to resemble a pitchfork. She painted it on Anya’s back with the red dye, warning her that the dye was like henna: It would seep into her skin and remain for many days. When Anya was dressing, she kept glimpsing it in the mirror from the corner of her eye, and had to resist the visceral urge to swat a bug that she imagined there. But it really wasn’t so ugly, compared to the scars of the ghosts she’d devoured, pink on her chest. Her new clothes felt scratchy and unfamiliar against her skin.
Katie had tucked sprigs of holly in the newt transporter, explaining that holly was a sacred protective plant to the druids. The smell reminded Anya too much of Christmas, of terrible fires and losses that came with it. She steeled herself, resisting the urge to pluck the sprigs out of the mass of pulsing balls of amber light tucked under her arm.
Sparky went outside first, sniffing the dawn air. His tongue flicked out, tasting for some ghostly presence as Anya slipped out and locked the door. Anya didn’t sense the presence of spirits around the house, but she was relieved to put the Dart in gear and be on the move toward work. She didn’t know how long Hope’s minions would take to recharge, but she intended to make the most of the time they were gone.
This early in the morning, Anya’s office at DFD headquarters was quiet. She passed the drowsy guards in the lobby, and saw no one else as she took the elevator to the basement. She was still jumpy, starting when the fluorescent light took a moment to flicker on overhead. She picked up several yellow envelopes of interoffice mail and white postal mail that had been shoved under her door.
Poor Sparky was exhausted. As she booted up her computer and plugged in the coffeepot, he curled up under her desk around the newt transporter. Anya tucked her feet around him and began to rifle through the mail.
She tore into a yellow envelope from the crime lab. It contained several photocopied images of fingerprints and NCIC numbers. Apparently, the lab had gotten itself mopped up and running again. The cover memo from Jenna stated that they’d found some interesting prints at DIA—fingerprints that belonged to Jasper Bernard.
Anya leaned back in her squeaky chair. Poor Bernie was among the ghosts that Hope had sent to claim Pandora’s Jar. The information was consistent with Anya’s theory that Hope was controlling ghosts she’d imprisoned, but provided nothing whatsoever that would allow her to get a warrant.
The memo also indicated there had been no traces of accelerants or exotic chemicals found in samples that Gina had taken from the guards’ bodies. Just the same residue of silicates that had been found on Bernie’s remains.
A thick FedEx envelope bore a return address of Miracles for the Masses. Anya frowned, tore it open. Hope had sent last year’s financial report in response to her request for financial records. Nothing but drivel and mission statements, punctuated by a few simplistic tables that showed Hope had received an impressive two million dollars in revenue last year.
“Bitch,” Anya muttered.
She glanced over at her computer screen. Instead of her familiar desktop icons, a black screen with a white cursor confronted her. The cursor tapped out: Hello, Anya.
Anya edged toward the screen, turned on the webcam perched on top. “ALANN? Is that you?”
Yes. How are you this morning?
“Great, but… how are you here? This is a secure network.”
Brian was concerned about you. He wanted me to check to make sure you and Sparky were all right.
Anya frowned. She’d forgotten to check in with Brian. If he’d come by the house, who knew what he’d thought? She self-consciously powered up the iPhone he’d given her. There were three voice mails. She wasn’t used to being in a relationship, and hadn’t been minding the rules… whatever they were. With all that destruction that seemed to follow her, it seemed best to keep Brian at arm’s length. “We’re fin
e. The newts were under attack, so I’m still staying over at Katie’s. Her house is a fortress. Hope’s ghosts can’t get in.” She didn’t mention how hard they’d tried; she didn’t want to cause Brian additional worry.
Brian says he’s relieved. The cursor blinked. We have something to show you. Brian’s been working on that surveillance project.
Anya chewed her lip. “Great, but… I don’t think this is a secure computer. Anything on it can be recorded.” Anya had never seen the information technology gnomes who serviced the fire department, but she knew that they were there. And they were probably reading everyone’s e-mail.
Rest assured, we have a secure connection.
“Okay. What’ve you got?”
The screen flickered, and a new window opened up on the lower right-hand corner. It showed a black-and-white still image of a city street and the tail end of a black BMW. Anya recognized the street corner as the one outside the Miracles for the Masses headquarters.
Detroit, like many cities, uses automatic number plate recognition to catch offenders who run red lights at intersections. Automatic License Plate Reader uses optical character recognition technology to identify license plates.
“So… I take it that there’s one of these cameras perched outside the Miracles for the Masses headquarters?”
There is. Additionally, DPD patrol cars have recently installed automatic license plate recognition cameras in patrol cars to screen for stolen cars and fugitives while they are on patrol.
“How does that work?”
The automatic license plate recognition cameras scan traffic using OCR, and register a hit when stolen plates are scanned, allowing the officer to react and stop the offending vehicle.
Anya rested her chin in her hand. “That’s kind of creepy.”
That’s one of the criticisms. In any event, Brian and I were able to tap into the DPD system and the traffic control system to search for vehicles registered to Hope Solomon and her aliases.
A flurry of pictures flashed upon the screen: the black BMW waiting in traffic outside a shopping mall; the same car driving along the freeway; the car stopped beside a parking meter. Each image was time- and date-stamped. Anya’s attention lingered on an image time-stamped for last night, seeing the BMW parked outside Hope’s office. Lights were on inside. The bitch had been too busy cooking up the attack to go home.
