by Angie Fox
I started down the steps. Meanwhile, Creely went back and grabbed her candle. “Damn. I wish I’d brought a few spell jars.”
“Let’s hope we don’t need them.” The air was musty and chilly in the passage. I fought off a shiver as we descended, our footsteps echoing off the stairs.
Whatever awaited us down there reeked of stale incense and rot. This had to be Russell’s crowning achievement. It was hidden at the very center of his home, well concealed under his precious books and occult artifacts.
As we reached the bottom, I gasped. Holy hell. He wasn’t an occultist. He was a Satanist.
My flashlight shone directly on a skull. Then another, then another. They were stacked along the walls, a macabre collection dedicated to death and the dark arts. Some of them were even decorated with gold gilt paint and lacquer. As if the gilded age tycoon couldn’t even leave death unadorned.
“They don’t look human.” Creely said behind me.
“That one is.” I pointed my light at a gold-painted skull that sat on top of a pillar, like a macabre bust. It was adorned with a dull red jewel between the eyes.
At the center of the room stood a black stone altar, with black tapers on either side. “Fuck it. I’m not lighting those,” Creely said.
I didn’t blame her. I also noticed neither one of us had moved from the very bottom of the stairs.
I’d heard of places like this, dedicated to the dark arts. “This is a black chapel.”
The biker witch let out a low whistle. “It ain’t Disneyland.”
“I wonder if this is what’s blocking my power.” I didn’t feel the heavy press of evil, like I should. Only the very real, very human instinct to run.
“Let’s get the hell out of here.” Creely said, obviously feeling the same.
“Give me a minute.” I forced myself to take one step forward, then another. The floor itself seemed tainted, the air I breathed, impure.
My flashlight snaked across the chapel. I walked behind the altar, like a dark priest would. I stood at the very center of the house, the vortex of evil.
There, carved into the black altar, was the third mark.
Chapter Seventeen
That was it. I hated to turn my back on the dark chapel, but I wasn’t about to have Creely behind me, either. I let her take the lead as we made tracks up the stairs and through the hidden office. She battled with the secret door we’d used to get us into this mess while I guarded her back.
She’d needed my light to find the latch, so I was left with a candle and my switch stars. I kept an eye on the bookcase we’d closed behind us. Nothing seemed to follow from below. Yet. For that I was eternally grateful.
“Got it.” Creely let the door swing open.
“Thank God.” I doused the last candle and followed her out. She slammed the door behind us, and I didn’t blame her a bit.
We were met by a startled Frieda, who stood a few feet away, stopped cold by our sudden appearance. “Err…” She fiddled with her hair. “People are looking for you.”
“In a minute.” I didn’t care who they were or what they wanted. I had a creepy grave dirt issue to address.
I wasn’t about to empty it inside the house. Who knew what that might do?
It would have to be done outside, completely off the property. I didn’t want this dirt anywhere near the house, or the land.
After that, I’d have to wash the necklace and purify it. I wanted nothing to do with the demented railroad baron or his dead bride.
I jogged down the winding drive, all the way down to the main road. Gargoyles stared down at me as I put one foot in front of the other, trying not to think about what I could have around my neck.
What I’d worn this entire time.
My body warmed from the run. Despite it, I felt cold inside. I half-expected Elizabeth to appear and try to stop me.
I hadn’t even heard the ghost’s voice until I stepped on that grave. Her grave. Well, no more. She could haunt someone else.
I reached the road, crossed it, and picked my way through tall spindly weeds to the cliff face on the other side. There would be no way for Elizabeth to contact me again. Or at least I’d do my level best to make it so.
Salt tinged the air, along with a cool breeze off the water. I stopped a yard back from the edge of oblivion. Call me crazy, but I didn’t trust the sturdiness of the land so close to a sheer drop off. I glanced behind me, making sure I was alone. This would be the perfect opportunity for murder.
The area behind me was deserted. So far.
Dry grass crunched under my feet as I forced myself to take one tentative step forward, then another. A car whizzed past. The ocean churned below.
With shaking fingers, I grasped the clasp of the locket, ready to release the dirt into the waters below.
It wouldn’t open.
I pulled harder, the cool metal biting against my fingers.
“Come on.” It wouldn’t budge.
Sweet switch stars. I had to get rid of this tainted dirt. I felt sick with it. Claustrophobic. I needed the grave dirt off of me. Now.
Come on. Come on. I struggled against the enchanted metal.
It was as if the fricking thing were welded shut.
I wanted to collapse and cry. Maybe I would have if I hadn’t been so petrified of the cliff, and the ocean, and what could happen if I let my guard down for a second.
There was only one thing left to do and, Hades, I wasn’t even sure I could pull it off.
Dimitri had gifted me this enchanted necklace soon after we met. It was meant to be with me always, to protect me. Back when I was first learning my powers, it had been impossible to take off. Now, I had to change that.
“I’m sorry, Dimitri,” I said, focusing every bit of my power and concentration on the task ahead. “I renounce our agreement,” I said, feeling the sting of my own betrayal. It had to be done. “Though the emerald was freely given” —I paused before I could force myself to say the words out loud— “It is no longer freely accepted.”
I could almost feel his heart break a little from here. Dimitri would understand why I broke our protection bond. He had to. He may not, however, be so generous about what I planned to do after I removed his family heirloom.
I grasped the necklace on either side, felt it hum in protest as I lifted it slowly. It grew heavier every second, but I kept going until I was free. I felt strange without it. Naked.
The necklace dangled from my hand, its bronze cord in sharp relief against my clutched hand. I tried one last time to open the locket, with its gleaming teardrop emerald.
This necklace had given me so much joy, and anguish.
I focused on the good times. The time it had morphed into a crazy medieval helmet. The time I’d had to wear it as a Las Vegas stripper bra. I felt it pulse with energy as I held it over the edge of the cliff.
This was better than taking a chance that it was acting against me. I had friends to worry about, family as well. Dimitri would have to understand.
The metal chain hummed and went liquid. It attempted to cling to my hand, to wind itself up and around my wrist. I brushed it away. “Goodbye,” I said, as I tossed it over the cliff.
It stuck to my hand.
“Frick.” I tried to peel it away. It stuck to my other hand. “Oh, come on.”
It was weak, most likely from the grave dirt. Still, it would not let go. The chain grasped at my hand. The locket stayed completely intact.
I could hit it with a switch star, not at this range. Can’t say I wasn’t tempted.
Of course it had attached itself to my throwing hand.
“This is the way it has to be,” I said, giving it one final, violent toss over the edge.
It clung to my middle finger.
God bless America. It was official: I hated this necklace. I hated the ghost, and I needed to punch something except there was nothing to hit. I swung my arm around anyway. The necklace went with it, swinging by the chain, and smacked me hard on the cheek. My h
ead rang and my skin stung.
“Fine!” I yelled to nobody in particular. This was such a mess.
I trudged back to the mansion, with a throbbing left cheek and a necklace attached to my throwing hand.
Frieda stood on the front porch, sneaking a smoke. She knew better than to say anything as I stormed past her.
The second I walked into the house, the necklace let go and collapsed in a heap onto the floor in the foyer. I was tempted to leave it there. Instead, I scooped it up in the wide skirt of my sundress and hurried it up to my room. Once I got there, I opened the top dresser drawer, cleared out my underwear, and let go of the necklace. It willingly dropped inside.
That settled it. I’d be sleeping with Dimitri tonight. I didn’t want to be anywhere near that thing.
I clutched the dresser as a heaviness descended on me. It wound in my stomach, cold and evil. I didn’t understand what was happening for a second until a sickening realization clicked into place. My demon slayer senses were waking, prickling like a blood-starved limb as they came back. Along with them, came the horrifying realization that we stood on cursed ground.
It screamed at me. I tried to breathe through it. Sweat slicked my body. Searing hate slashed at me, and I had to force myself to shut down a little.
Damn. If I’d felt a tenth of this on the first day, I never would have set foot inside this house. I could even feel the markers, pulsing.
Nausea hit me in waves as I tried to shut down more, to block the potent energy of this place. I had to get my friends and family out of here as soon as I could.
That meant destroying the markers. I shoved myself away from the dresser and stumbled toward the door. Every step I took, I tried to shut down a small portion of the cavalcade of emotions that threatened to overpower me.
Fear.
Longing.
Hate.
One-by-one, I closed myself off. Until I felt the vicious energy as a muted throbbing at the back of my skull.
I paused for a few minutes at the top of the stairs, until I felt balanced enough to make it down all the way. Frieda stood talking with Ant Eater at then entrance to the sitting room.
The blond biker witch’s eyes widened when she saw me. “Are you okay, sweetie?” She scrunched her face, as if afraid to say the next part. “You look like…”
“Hell,” Ant Eater finished for her.
In this case, the curly haired witch wasn’t too far off.
“Where’s Rachmort?” I asked.
Ant Eater cocked her head. “In the dining room.”
I found him at a large mahogany table, with a half-eaten sandwich at his elbow, playing cards with Pirate. He’d propped up a book so Pirate could display his hand with nobody peeking. My dog was standing on one of the nice chairs like he belonged there.
Rachmort peered over his cards. “How about…three of hearts.”
“Ha!” Pirate pawed the edge of the table. “Go fish!”
The necromancer drew a card from the stack while my dog’s tail wagged itself into a blur. “I am so good at this game. There should be a championship. I would be the Go Fish Ace!”
“I hate to interrupt your game,” I began.
“Then you stay over there,” Pirate said, “I’m winning.”
Too bad. “Rachmort, I need to talk to you.”
The necromancer glanced at me. “I forfeit,” he said, laying his cards down. “You win.”
“Yyyes! Zam!” Pirate hopped off his chair. “You see that, Lizzie?” He followed us as I motioned Rachmort into the kitchen. “Let’s go best seven out of ten.”
“Pirate, I need him alone,” I said.
My dog kept coming. “Twelve out of fifteen?”
“Why don’t you finish my sandwich?” Rachmort asked.
“Let’s take a break.” Pirate trotted off.
Luckily the kitchen was deserted. Rachmort and I crouched over the island. Even still, I leaned in closer. “I found the third marker. In a secret underground room, in the dead center of the house.”
Rachmort whistled under his breath.
He didn’t know the half of it. “This guy who owned the house, Russell, was seriously into the occult. He had hundreds of books on it in the library, a bunch of messages from a Ouija board, and a black chapel underneath it all.”
That surprised him. Hades, it had shocked me, too. Rachmort scrubbed a hand over his mouth, thinking.
“So what do we do?” I asked. Now was the time for action.
The necromancer walked a few paces toward the kitchen table, then back. Then away, then back.
Oh, come on.
“Patience,” he reminded me, rubbing at his chin. “We have to think.”
“I’d rather destroy the markers.”
He sighed, as if he’d given up on something. “If he was reading how-to books, it doesn’t seem like he was magical at all. I’d peg him as a novice. A poser.”
Of all the… “I am not dreaming up any of the weird things happening in this house. This is real. Besides, you saw the dress.”
My mentor held up a finger. “What I’d meant,” he began, then paused to think again. I opted to grind my teeth as he kept his finger aloft for an extra few seconds, no doubt to drive me nuts. “Is that an individual who is connected to the magical world would not need the Ouija board.”
“That’s exactly what I thought. Why didn’t he use the dark marks?”
Rachmort tapped his finger against his lips. “If our home owner was not a magically gifted individual, he would need to rely on outside learning as well as an outside power source. Hence the library and the dark marks. Apparently he was a learn as you go sort of man.”
“Right,” I said, chastened. That made a lot of sense, actually. I joined him on the other side of the kitchen island, planted my back against it. “Russell didn’t have power of his own, so he had to create the dark marks. Still, he couldn’t use them by himself.”
“To power those dark marks, he’d need to have help from a demon. Then our occultist could do magic.” He folded his hands over his chest, pacing again. “If wasn’t careful— which I doubt he was, a demon could very easily escape. It’s not like one of his little books would warn him of that possibility. Research is fine, but in this case, it would fall woefully short.”
Dang. “You think he let a demon escape?”
“I’m almost sure of it,” Rachmort said solemnly. “Well, that is, as long as he powered his markers.”
Wait. I walked over to my mentor. “You said the demon would add the power.”
“Yes, but our occultist would need a soul connection in order to create an opening.”
“You mean sacrifice,” I said, dread creeping over me when I remembered the skulls we’d seen in the chapel. “I saw a human skull down there.”
Rachmort nodded, solemn. “Then it seems he found his victim. You must break the soul connection in order to break the markers.”
I had a pretty good idea who the victim had been.
She had been young, less affluent, a sacrificial lamb from the start.
Then again, I didn’t want to assume too much. That kind of thinking got people killed—or worse. This time, it wasn’t only me on the line, but also the life and soul of my possessed wedding guest. I needed facts. For all I knew, the dead woman could have been in league with the demon to get revenge on her murdering husband.
Help me could have been short for, “Help unleash this demon.”
I needed answers. Now. Before things got worse.
“I think I need the Cave of Visions,” I said to myself.
Rachmort barked out a laugh.
Yeah, I knew my track record wasn’t great.
The Cave of Visions was basically an express line to the other world. It opened up all kinds of possibilities—from finding the answers you sought, to losing your soul, and pretty much everything else in between.
The last time I’d tried to go in, I’d been sucked through by a bunch of sex demons in Las Vegas
. But I’d learned so much since then. I was a better demon slayer, stronger. I wouldn’t let my guard down again.
Of course, convincing the witches was another thing.
The Cave of Visions was a last resort, which seemed to fit our situation perfectly. I didn’t know what else to do.
Rachmort wasn’t exactly cheering my decision, but he didn’t argue with me either. He placed a large hand on my shoulder. “While you’re in there, do try to see who wants to kill you.”
“Good point.” I’d do that.
How bad was it when discovering the identity of my potential killer was the least of my problems?
***
“Absolutely not,” Grandma said.
I’d found her on the back porch, brewing up a large pot of leaves, sticks, dead bugs and from the smell of it—mint.
I gave it a brave whiff and regretted it. It smelled like road kill and chewing gum. “Don’t tell my mom you have spiders in her soup pot.”
Grandma sighed, tossing her gray hair over her shoulder. “First of all, she’s renting. Second, she knows.”
“Who do you think helped us carry it out here?” Creely asked. She opened a cooler and pulled out a couple of beers.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
I watched Grandma crack the beer open, thinking it would go in the pot. I should have known better. “Your mom’s okay,” she said, taking a long drag, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. “She said she wanted to help and she is. Now if we could get her into some better clothes.”
“Don’t even try it.” Hillary wore heels to the grocery store.
“How does that look?” Grandma asked, glancing into the pot.
Creely took a look. “Needs more spiders.”
The engineering witch ambled off the porch, presumably to go catch some.
I turned to Grandma. “I find it interesting that you’ll brew up spells to protect us, but you won’t build a Cave of Visions so that I can see who is trying to kill me.”
“She does have a point,” Creely called. “We’d be attacking the source of the problem.”
“She’d want to go,” Grandma said, her eyes boring into me.
I met her harsh glare. “I need to go in.” I didn’t have a choice.
