by C. K. Brooke
Although it’s Miracle’s store, she isn’t the High Priestess. An old woman in her early seventies, named Maxine—her magickal name is Ragana, but we’re never allowed to call her that outside of ritual—has been spearheading Blue Star Coven since the ’80s. I’ve been told it’s changed names, locations, and members numerous times over the decades, but Maxine has remained a constant, and has served as a mentor to all the women here. They meet monthly on whatever Saturday falls closest to the full moon, and gather with the rest of the pagan community in the northern Ohio area for the Major Sabbats.
I’m supposed to be focusing my energy into the circle, casting out any unwelcome energies and meditating on ‘Perfect Love and Perfect Trust.’ But instead, I’m only wondering if that’s Mason’s hand getting sweaty or mine. It kind of feels like his, and for some reason, that makes me want to laugh.
After the elements have been summoned, each participant is invited to invoke his or her patron deity. Blue Star doesn’t really follow any particular Wiccan Tradition, as Maxine keeps it fairly eclectic. They work with a mixture of pantheons and practices. Contrary to what one might think about modern witches, most of them seldom cast spells. And if they do, it’s only for things like strength in adversity or good health, or blessings for their loved ones. In other words, the same things Christians pray for.
When Amethyst, in her smoker’s voice, invokes Hecate and forgets to pronounce the e as a third syllable, Mason and I glance at each other. We immediately have to look away so we don’t bust out laughing. It’s not even that funny, but I think what tickles me is that Mason gets it. Because most people don’t.
When they come to me, I pass, opting not to invoke anyone. I don’t really practice Wicca lately; it’s always been more of my mom’s thing. But I’m so glad I decided to show up tonight, mainly for the guy standing next to me, our hands joined.
Mason passes, too, and we turn to Maxine, who calls upon The Morrígan.
My attention drifts in and out as Maxine recites a list of affirmations, then invites us to take a slip of paper from the box on the altar and write down our heart’s desires. I glance over my shoulder as Mason leans beside me, scribbling something, and I burn to know what he’s writing.
Knowing I should mind my own business, I return to my scrap of paper and jot down Answers before tossing it facedown into the cauldron. We watch our desires go up in smoke, to reach the realm of Spirit on their journey to manifestation.
After five minutes of silent meditation, the rite concludes, and out come the “cakes and ale.” The lights are turned up and so is the music as we pass around the chalice and snack on Persephone’s macadamia cookies and an addictive homemade Chex Mix Amethyst brought.
I park myself on one of the sofas, out of the mingling women’s way, and am glad when Mason takes a seat beside me. “So, you like him?”
My face must’ve gone blank, because he indicates my T-shirt. He means H.I.M., the band I’m so proudly advertising across my chest. “I was obsessed when I was fifteen,” I confess. “My dad gave me his shirt from a concert he went to.”
Mason leans forward, elbows on his knees. “They were my jam for a while, too.”
“Which album’s your favorite?”
“Deep Shadows and Brilliant Highlights.”
“Not a bad answer.” I grin. “Although I’m more of a Razorblade Romance gal myself.”
“You don’t say.” He fiddles with the lace on his boot. “So, uh, my mom says you work from home?”
“Well, considering how much I love to drive, and all…”
He chuckles. “How do you like it?”
“It’s not a living.” This time, I join in when he laughs. “How’s it going with you?” I ask. “Any new clients?”
“A few. Referrals from hospitals, things like trauma and addiction, a chronic pain case. It’s actually kind of sad.”
“I’m sorry. I wonder if Henry will refer you any business when he becomes a doctor.”
“Who?”
“You met him—the one who drove me to my appointment?”
“Ah.” Mason rubs the extra stubble on his face again. “I saw him at your house too, didn’t I?”
“Yeah. He’s my brother.” His expression shifts oddly, and I feel the need to clarify, “My stepbrother.”
“Ohhh.” He leans back into the sofa, smiling at the apparent revelation. “I see.”
His exaggerated drawing out of the word irks me somewhat. “What do you see?”
He appears to deliberate before answering, “It’s just that he came across as a lot more than brotherly toward you, if you get you what I mean.”
That friggin’ smirk again, and now my stomach decided to do a nosedive, both at his words—whatever he means—and how good his longish hair looks tucked behind his ears and blending smoothly with his facial hair.
“Henry can be kind of a pain in the ass sometimes.” I hope my statement makes him stop looking at me like that, as if he knows something I don’t. Feeling suddenly guilty, I add, “But he means well.”
“Hmm.” Mason doesn’t offer anything else, just downs the contents of his plastic cup and gets to his feet. “I’m glad this stuff’s sparkling. I have to drive home.”
Our mothers take far too long to stop socializing, and the group finally takes down the cone of power and opens the circle (“open, but never broken”). We wrap up the items we brought, snuff out the candles, and turn off the stereo. I lose track of where Mason’s gone to by the time I climb the stairs with my mom. Her face looks fresh and bright, like she’s just emerged from a spa. Ritual always has that effect on her. Once in a while, on nights like tonight, I can sort of see why.
Voices fill the main level of the small shop as everyone hugs and kisses and says their goodbyes, jangles car keys and checks their cellphones for missed calls. I notice Mason in the corner by the grimoires and blank Books of Shadows, speaking to Miracle. She’s holding a wad of cash, and Mason’s carrying two little plastic bags he didn’t have before.
I lift a hand to wave goodbye, but he heads over. “This is for you.” He gives me one of the bags.
“Me?” Flattered, I peek inside to see a hardcover notebook.
“It’s a dream journal. You should start writing in it, in the days leading up to our regression.”
I feel my smile softening, along with my voice. “That’s really sweet. Thanks, Mason.”
“No problem. I’m actually looking forward to it. Most of my clients are for physical cases…pain management, substance abuse, like I was telling you…so I’m intrigued by working with you on something that’s more…”
“Spiritual?” I suggest, at the same time he offers, “Esoteric.”
We exchange grins, and he jiggles the bag that’s still in his hand. “I also picked up some essential oils and whatnot, to help set the atmosphere for our session. I figured, might as well, while I’m here.”
He’s trying to write it all off as casual, but I sense his shyness as he says it. Maybe I am as psychic as my mom always insists I am. I return my gaze to the bag in my hand. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
“I know, but I wanted to. I feel like it’s important.” He holds out an arm, inviting me in for a hug. Cautiously, I wrap my arms around him. His leather jacket is crisp and cool, his hair silky against my cheek, and he smells like patchouli. Involuntarily I inhale, as if my olfactory receptors long to savor the scent.
When we break apart, he heads for the door. I watch him exit out to the parking lot, though not before steals another glimpse of me over his shoulder.
6
My bleary eyes scan the cover of the journal on my nightstand. I recognize the shape of the white wolf with glass beads for eyes, and reach for it. There’s a ribbon marking my last entry, and I flip to the next blank page and groggily jot down the remnants of my most recent dream before I forget.
Flat land. Field. Dairy cows… Convenience store?
My phone vibrates loudly, startling the bej
esus out of me. The time flashes with the incoming message. Who is texting me at seven forty-three in the morning?
I set down the dream journal and pen, glance at the message on my screen, and groan.
Flopping back against the pillows, I hope to postpone the decision I’ll have to make by snatching maybe another hour of sleep. But the phone goes off again, vibrating the entire nightstand with it. I reach for it and hold it up.
It would mean a lot to her if you came.
The air hisses out of my mouth like a deflating tire. Blinking the final film of sleep from my eyes, I consider my response.
The messenger is Bradley, my brother-in-law. The one married to my estranged older sister. He rarely contacts me, and when he does, it’s to guilt me into some kind of reunion or favor for my sister.
Because, of course, it’s October the first. How could I forget Heather’s birthday?
Brad is no more comfortable with the situation than I am. The rift has always been between Heather and Mom, with the likes of me and Heather’s husband fidgeting awkwardly on the sidelines. And now he’s inviting me to meet them for dinner at Savory tonight, and what choice do I have but to punch out, Okay, I’ll be there, on the screen and hit send?
When I see my response has been delivered, I don’t feel any better about myself. There’s no fanfare in my conscience waving pompoms and chanting, Ra, ra! Willow did the right thing! Instead, I just feel resigned. I’m surprised Heather would even want me there. Wouldn’t she rather celebrate her birthday alone with her husband?
Realizing I won’t be falling back asleep at this point, I sit up. Work is always waiting, and then at one o’clock today, I have my regression scheduled with Mason.
I can’t believe I’m actually going to do it. Apart from keeping the dream journal, I haven’t done much preparation. Every time I think about going back to…wherever it is that’s lurking in my subconscious, it makes me shake. So I’ve tried not to think about it.
Business first, shower later. I fire up the laptop, snatch yesterday’s thermos of cold tea, and respond to a request to conduct a backlink audit that takes about an hour, then on to the next task. My fingers flit over the keys as a few hours turn, until I find the clock approaching noon. I head into the bathroom, shower, and then, wrapped in my bath towel, begin the agonizing process of deciding what to wear to my appointment.
I’ve never put so much thought into my clothing before—which is atypical for a girl, I know. But I’ve also never hung around a guy like Mason Rychards before, and I promised myself I wouldn’t be caught in food-smeared blue jeans and a wrinkled H.I.M. band shirt around him ever again.
I try to squeeze into a pair of last year’s black pants, but I must’ve put on a few pounds, because I can barely pull the waistband past my ass. Flustered, I peel the slacks from my thunder thighs and toss them onto the bed. Fishing in my closet again, I find an ankle-length, wraparound hemp skirt I’d forgotten about. It’s a light, autumny umber color—fits the season perfectly. I unclip it from the hanger and pull it on. I still feel like my butt is bulging, but a long, beige, form-fitting button-down compliments the skirt nicely, and smooths down some of the junk in my trunk. At last, I feel satisfied with my reflection.
“I almost didn’t recognize you,” remarks Mom as I get into the car at a quarter till. “When was the last time you wore a color other than black?”
I reach for the seatbelt. “Hmm. Last Thursday, I’m pretty sure I put on purple socks.”
She backs out of the driveway, grinning. “So, you ready for this?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.” Oaks and maples drift past my window, their leaves brick red and sunset gold. Since listening to Mason’s recording every night, my anxiety as a passenger seems to have waned a little. It’s not completely gone by any means, but the difference is that I’m ready for it to be.
That’s what I’m hoping today will accomplish. Maybe if I can show myself the origin of my phobia, it’ll break me free. And I feel it now, more than ever…something has been holding me back for a long time. Something big.
Am I about to finally face it?
“What’s wrong?” demands Mom, side-eyeing me.
I look up, questioning.
“You’re white as a sheet.” A shadow crosses over her face and, not for the first time, I’m surprised by how perceptive she is.
“I was just thinking about…” But I don’t know how to put it into words. Facing something. “It’s like something’s been lurking around me…all this time.” A cold frisson touches my spine as I stare out the window. Lurking.
For lifetimes.
And, wait—I’m going to face it today?
Mom sounds protective as she pulls into a parking space on Front Street. “I’m going to sage the house when we get home,” she announces, “thoroughly.”
I offer her a smile. “Thanks, Mom.”
She stays in the car, engine running. “I’ve got a few errands to run. Text me when you want me to swing back.”
“Sure thing.” I open the door and hop out.
“Wil?”
I turn.
Mom’s mouth hitches. “Leave another button open.”
My stomach swishes in embarrassment as I glance down at my shirt. I’ve left the collar and top two buttons undone. She thinks I should unfasten the next one? I’m already showing a little cleavage. A little is enough, right?
“Mom,” I scold her. “I can’t. My bra cup will show.”
“Then you won’t look so frigid.”
“Mom!” I slam the door and shake my head at her laughing face as she shifts the car into reverse. With a final wave at her, I head up the sidewalk and through the indoor stairwell that leads to the hypnotherapy office.
When I reach the top, I hesitate, then pluck at the next button down my shirt. It comes undone, revealing more boobage than I think anyone who’s not a perv would care to see. I hastily refasten the button before stepping into the waiting area.
The waterfall and sound conditioner aren’t running this afternoon. The office door is ajar, through which I can hear the gentle patter of typing on a keyboard.
“Willow?” calls a voice from the other room, just as I’m sitting down on the loveseat.
I launch up again. “Yeah?”
“Come on in.”
I follow his voice into the office. It doesn’t look like he’s made much progress unpacking since the last time I was here. Boxes are still stacked against the wall, and his desk remains untidy as ever. But the red leather recliner looks comfortable and inviting, just as I remember, and I notice a vial of blended oils diffusing in the corner, casting the intimate room in pleasant aromas of rose and anise.
Mason glances over his shoulder, then shoots to his feet when he sees me. “Hey, how’s it going?” His smile is friendly, and I don’t miss his gaze giving me a quick sweep-over. He rakes a hand through his hair and indicates the recliner. “All yours. You’re my only appointment today.”
As I set my handbag down, I study him discreetly. He’s in khakis and an untucked, tunic-style shirt today. I notice he’s wearing a pentacle ring on the middle finger of his right hand. “Initiate band?” I ask.
He glances down at the silver star within a circle, and smiles. “Yeah. Third year.”
“How long ago?”
“Uh, I was sixteen. So, like, six years ago?” He stands over his chair, swiveling it by the back a little. “How about you?”
I feel a sheepish, lopsided grin pull my mouth down. “I never made it a month past my dedication.”
“No?”
“Nope. I tried dedicating myself when I was twelve.” I’m sure I still have the Book of Shadows with the ritual and journal entry about that night somewhere. “But I wasn’t ready. Half the school already thought my mom was a devil-worshipper. It didn’t take long before I just got tired of all the stigma and ignorant commentary.”
He nods empathetically. “I can understand not wanting that kind of attention. Espec
ially at that age, what with all the peer pressure. Wicca is probably one of the most misunderstood practices out there.”
“Tell me about it.” I settle onto the recliner and try to get comfortable, but for some reason, my hands are quivering. Odd…they weren’t doing that in the car earlier. “So, were you initiated by Maxine at Blue Star?”
“Self-initiated,” he declares proudly. “Solitary eclectic.”
“Ooh. Let me guess: you mix in some Druidry, too?”
“How’d you know?”
I smirk. “All pagan guys do.”
He tsks at me playfully. “And I thought you were beyond stereotyping.”
“Hey, if I was stereotyping, then I’d also assume you did nothing but smoke pot and play Dungeons and Dragons in your mom’s basement all day. And I’d be surprised your hair isn’t neon pink.”
Laughter lights up his lake-blue eyes. “That’s ice cold.”
I’m still laughing as I raise the footrest electronically. Suddenly remembering I’m wearing a skirt, I cross my ankles.
Mason shuts the door. “So, like I’ve told you, I’ve never done one of these before, but I found a script that’ll guide us. We’ll just have to experiment with something new together.” He dims the lights and resumes his chair, picking up a packet of printed paper. “Get comfortable. Rest your eyes.”
Drawing in a deep breath, I shut my eyes and try to let go. I’m awake as he guides me through the usual process of relaxing every muscle in my body, from my toes to my head, until I feel like cement in my chair. I couldn’t pry my eyelids open with a crowbar.
But, while my body is super relaxed, my mind isn’t yet. Usually by this stage in his recording, I’m asleep. Must be because it’s only the middle of the day.
Mason draws out his words, long and slow. As he lowers his voice to count backward from ten to one, there’s a bit of a croak in his throat, which I can’t help but find hot.
