Halfway Hexed

by Kimberly Frost

  I clutched it to my chest and climbed down. I sat on the Chinese rug and opened the book on the ottoman. I skimmed the introduction, which said that because of the topic’s dangerous nature, there were not going to be any example spells in the book.

  I scanned the table of contents, my pulse speeding up.

  Chapter 1—The Energy of the Earth

  Chapter 2—The Energy of the Universe

  Chapter 3—Blood & Bones Magic

  Chapter 4—Premorbid Metaphysics

  Chapter 5—Crossing the Threshold

  Chapter 6—Journey of the Soul

  Chapter 7—The Afterlife: Current Debates

  Chapter 8—The Undead

  Chapter 9—Death, Ethics, & Law

  I flipped the page and scanned the chapter descriptions. Blood & Bones magic pertained to healing spells and hexes that caused disease. Journey of the Soul was about what happened to the spirit after the body died, which was exactly what I wanted to know. I turned to page 254. The chapter started with a lot of stuff that didn’t make sense, and I guessed I’d have needed to start at the beginning to understand all the energy talk. I flipped to the next page.

  The majority of souls cross into the afterlife, which will be covered in Chapter 7. Of those souls who do not cross over, there can be two causes. In the first, it is the spirit itself that misses the opportunity to pass into the afterlife, giving rise to the term lost soul, and it occurs most often in cases when the body dies by violence, as is the case in murder, suicide, war, and martyrdom. The other reason a spirit is unable to pass the gate from one metaphysical plane (namely that of Earth) to the next (the afterlife) is that the soul becomes trapped by the magical nature of the death. This is seen in the case of someone dying by magical rites or when the person was the subject of a human sacrifice.

  There could also be a combination of circumstances. A death by murder or suicide, for example, wherein a person has a spell acted upon them either in the moment of death or shortly thereafter. Historically, the best-known spell used for this purpose was called Purgatory, written by Morton Dunby in 1374. The spell was deemed illegal and immoral, and a coven of selected white witches studied Dunby’s spellbooks in order to write counterspells. These reverse rites were performed to free the trapped souls, which Dunby had kept inside hollowed-out animal bones that he sealed on either end with wax.

  My stomach churned at the thought, and I put a hand over my mouth while I shook my head.

  The coven who carried out the original counterspells favored burning Dunby’s journals and spellbooks in a cleansing fire, but the wizard magistrate for the region disagreed, citing a concern that the books might later be needed to generate other counterspells if further victims of Dunby’s hexes were found. This decision, though considered practical at the time, allowed for the theft of Dunby’s books and the widespread reproduction of his spells, which were sold on the black market. In the late 1800s a bastardized form of the spell was used to trap souls that were then used as a tithe for demons by those seeking power through black magic. This selling of souls is covered more extensively in Chapter 9, but has always carried a death sentence with or without torture tender.

  "What are you reading?”

  I jumped at the sound of Bryn’s voice. I hadn’t heard him come in. He bent forward and closed the book, shaking his head when he saw the cover.

  I bent my legs, feeling my wounded skin stretch against the stitches. I eased my legs a little straighter, resting my elbows on my knees. "What’s a ‘torture tender’?” I asked softly.

  “Tender in that context means currency, as in how you pay for your crimes. It means they torture you as punishment. Usually before they kill you.”

  I rested my chin in my palms, my fingers splayed over my cheeks. “It said witches and wizards used magic to kill people and to trap and sell their souls. To demons. How could anybody do that and live with themselves?”

  “I don’t know, but that wouldn’t be a problem for long if they got caught.”

  "Purgatory spell, it’s called. Edie’s been trapped, and we’ve been wearing that locket for years. How could they just—”

  “Tamara, your family ghost isn’t under a Purgatory spell. She’s connected to the locket, but she roams freely, doesn’t she?”

  I nodded.

  “Yeah, that’s different. It was probably . . .” He tipped his head back, thinking. “Maybe a Dearly Departed spell. That’s when a witch who’s close to the spirit knows the soul can’t cross over. The witch does a spell to link the spirit to some object that’s kept close to the loved one and is passed down. It protects the spirit.”

  “From what?”

  Bryn rubbed his jaw. “From deteriorating into a ghoul. After generations, as people who know a ghost die, their recollection of the spirit is lost, and the ghost loses its memories and changes. No one really understands the exact nature of the metaphysical disintegration or energy dispersal. There are a couple of interesting theories. There’s a witch named—” He paused and smiled, deciding I guess that I wasn’t ready for all the details. “Your aunt Edie hasn’t been cursed, at least not by the spell that connects her to the locket.”

  “You said that her being connected to the locket helps preserve her memory.”

  “Right.”

  "All her memories? Even ones that aren’t on the tip of her tongue or whatever?”

  “You mean does she have a metaphysical subconscious where memories are stored but which she can’t access normally?”

  “Exactly.”

  Bryn shrugged. “It’s possible. There’s been research in that area, but I haven’t read anything about it since I was maybe seventeen or eighteen. Witches and wizards who have family ghosts are notoriously protective. They generally refuse to turn them over to be studied.”

  “Of course they do,” I said.

  “So then it’s hard for academics to do practical research, isn’t it? Andre may know the current theories. The more esoteric a topic, the better he likes it.”

  “Can we get him in the mirror to ask him?”

  Bryn chuckled. “Get him in the mirror? He’ll love that expression.” Bryn ran a hand through his shiny dark hair, which was mussed in a sexy way. “Andre’s lying low right now, remember? The less contact I have with him while I’m under Conclave investigation, the safer he’ll be. Why are you so interested in that research?”

  When I didn’t immediately answer, he sighed. “Let me guess. You think Edie knows the prophecy about our two families.”

  “We could prove it doesn’t have anything to do with you and me,” I said, my voice full of optimism.

  “Even if it were theoretically possible to access the lost memories of lost souls, being able to draw out a specific memory? Extremely unlikely. The complexities of that kind of spell . . .”

  “Right, but you’re brilliant, so you could probably write one that would work. Wouldn’t it be an interesting challenge for you?”

  He laughed. “You’re about as subtle as a hurricane.”

  “But what I lack in subtlety, I make up for in charm?” I asked with wide eyes.

  “I’ll tell you what, I’ll do some research and I’ll think about it. If I decide it’s possible, we can negotiate what you’ll do for me in exchange for me writing the spell.”

  “I could write recipes for thirty amazing desserts, better than anything you’ve ever tasted, and bring them over every day for a month.”

  Bryn picked up the book. “That sounds very tempting, and yet somehow not likely to be what I’ll choose.” As he went up the ladder, I frowned at his back.

  “I hope you’re not planning to—What’s the word I want?”

  "Extort?” he offered innocently.

  “Yes, actually.”

  He smiled and put the Death book back on the shelf.

  “I hope you’re not planning to extort things that shouldn’t be extorted,” I said.

  He laughed. "What things are fair game for extortion?” he aske
d with mock curiosity.

  “You know what I mean. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

  When he came back down the ladder, he held out a hand. “Come on. You don’t belong in my library when I’m not here.”

  “Just doing a little reading. You said yourself I need training.”

  "When I walked in, the expression on your face was so forlorn you would’ve thought you’d lost your cat.”

  “Well, selling souls to demons, who wouldn’t be sad about that?”

  “Right,” he said, tugging my arm to pull me to my feet. “But it’s dangerous to give yourself a piecemeal education, especially when it involves reading and casting actual spells. Plus, it’s illegal and the Conclave’s in town, and I’ve got this odd objection to giving them more reasons to stick needles in my throat.”

  I paled. “They’re not going to know.”

  “Don’t assume that it’s easy to keep things from them. I promise you, it’s not.”

  Chapter 18

  Scrying to find something isn’t what I’d call easy magic, but to recover the brooch, first I’d have to figure out who’d stolen it.

  I couldn’t ask Bryn to help me directly since the Conclave was snooping around, because even though it was okay for us to see each other, he wasn’t allowed to give me spells unless I agreed to be his apprentice or something.

  On the other hand, Bryn could give my magic a boost without even trying, so just before I went down the hall, I stole a kiss. It surprised him for about a second, then his arms snaked around me and the kiss lasted way longer than I’d originally intended. I felt his magic tracing patterns over my skin, leaving tingling tattoos in its wake.

  I pulled back, but he didn’t immediately let me go, so it became a tug-of-war to untangle his fingers and get out of his arms. By the end, I was breathless with my hair tangled in front of my eyes. I pushed it back and glared at him. He only smiled, and I wondered if he’d guessed that I’d wanted that kiss for magical reasons.

  “I’m going to take a walk before I make breakfast,” I announced and hurried into the kitchen.

  Merc was standing near the kitchen door. I grabbed a mixing bowl and said, “C’mon, Merc. Let’s see if we can find anything out about the robbery.” I opened the door, and he followed me out. “Here’s the thing. I’m best when my feet are in the dirt, but for scrying Momma and Aunt Mel used to look into a bowl of water. The water bowl didn’t work for me last time, but wouldn’t the Amanos River be more powerful than tap water? Plus, Bryn’s got a connection to it, and I’ve got connections to him.”

  I went to the river and scooped up some water, then went back to the dock’s edge where the grass had been worn away, leaving bare dirt. I dug my toes in and stood staring down into the bowl resting on my hands.

  I’m not sure how much time passed. My eyes crossed and uncrossed as I stared into the water. At times I saw my own reflection. At others, someone else’s image tried to take shape, but didn’t. “It’s there, Merc,” I grumbled. “I can almost make him or her out.”

  I bent my face closer.

  You who robbed my car.

  Show yourself unmarred.

  There was a face under the depths, so I shoved my face into the water, banging my nose on the bottom of the bowl. The watery vision didn’t clear, and I lost my balance. I dropped the bowl, which splashed into the river as I fell. I landed half on the dock, with my feet still touching dirt.

  Twisting my body over the water nearest the bank, I saw a face taking shape. I crawled farther over the edge, stretching to keep my toes in the dirt. The face was too far away. I had to get closer.

  I slid my lower body off the dock into the freezing water and planted my feet into the slimy mud. An icy chill shot up my legs, and Merc yowled. “Just a minute,” I mumbled.

  The current pushed against my legs, trying to knock me over. I wrapped my arms around the slippery moss-covered struts of the dock and bent forward, my face nearly to the water.

  “Show yourself,” I demanded.

  The current shoved me like it had hands. I landed on my knees, my face underwater, the metal of the dock scratching my arms that were locked around it. I opened my eyes and the water swirled around me, taking shape. Gwen’s face appeared just in front of my own, her lips pursed almost in a kiss.

  “You!” I said, realizing a moment too late that I was underwater. I choked on a gush of river water, and the current dragged my legs away from shore. Water soaked the robe, and it felt like ten tons of fabric weighing me down. I needed to breathe. I tried to get my feet under me, but couldn’t.

  I heard a muffled keening sound and felt something tearing at my hair.

  I have to breathe!

  I tried to push my head above the water, but couldn’t make it. My whole body seemed to sink down to the riverbed. I bent my arm so the strut was in the crick of my elbow and let go with my right hand. The current dragged the robe off my shoulder. I grabbed the strut with my right hand again, then hooked my right elbow around it. Releasing my left, the robe slid down and off me.

  Slippery as a fish and pounds lighter than I had been, I scraped my way to the surface for a few sips of air. Mercutio’s paws wound in my hair and helped give me leverage. Everything was so slick and slimy. I might slip any second.

  My heart pounded and my stomach churned. I found the dock’s metal struts with my flailing feet and pressed against the slats, using them like ladder rungs, then clawed my way up the bank.

  I rolled onto my side, coughing and sputtering. The air nipped my wet skin.

  “That was way too close. I think that water’s possessed!” I said, shaking. “That’s how many times it’s tried to kill us so far?”

  Merc yowled softly.

  “Yeah, too many.” I shuddered, rubbing the gooseflesh on my arms. “It’s so cold out here.” I looked over my shoulder toward the river. The borrowed robe was long gone.

  I glanced down at my body. I was dirty, wet, and nearly naked. I looked like I was one of those mud wrestler girls. My cheeks burned. I needed to get back into the house unseen. But Bryn had those blasted security cameras.

  I got up and arranged my hair over my chest, mermaidlike, then crossed my arms over it. I tried to reason that my undies covered as much as a bikini bottom, but I wasn’t at all sure they actually did. Probably too sheer and lacy.

  “Merc, can you go get Bryn?” He could at least bring me another bathrobe, if I didn’t die of exposure first.

  Merc started toward the house, but then stopped and looked to the right.

  “Merc! Hurry up. I’m freezing!”

  Mercutio didn’t pay attention to me. His head was turned firmly upriver. My gaze darted there and movement caught my eyes. I stood very still, squinting. There was a spot near the woods where the ground darkened and undulated like it was alive. Merc crept toward it.

  “Uh-oh.”

  I rushed to catch him.

  “Merc, wait!”

  He didn’t wait, and then I heard a clicking sound. I looked up and saw a swarm of insects emerging from the woods. The insecty mass was funnel-shaped, like a huge inverted pine tree.

  "What?”

  I stumbled back and turned to run. The noise of their legs got louder and then the cloud of them surrounded me, whirring over my skin with their skittering legs and clicking wings. I screamed, then clamped my mouth shut for fear of swallowing them. I flailed my arms and ran, trying to get out of their creepycrawly cloud.

  Nothing stung me. Not bees, I thought, as the noise receded. I stilled and opened my eyes, panting for breath. The insect tornado moved toward the house. There were a few tangled in my hair, and I shook my head very hard, trying to get them out. I clasped one in my hands, then separated my palms carefully. A big brown locust.

  “Holy moly,” I mumbled as it flew off. I turned to tell Mercutio, but the words stuck in my throat when I saw him hopping up and down on the ground, doing some sort of predator dance.

  I hurried to him and realized it wasn’
t the ground that was moving.

  Frogs!

  “What in the Sam Houston is going on here, Merc?”

  Large frogs hopped from the river in five single-file rows. There were hundreds of them.

  I slapped a hand over my mouth for a moment, then let the hand drop, shaking my head. “Oh my old-testament-t wo-of-the-ten-plagues gosh!”

  The frogs didn’t scatter at Merc’s pawing or biting them. They just hopped forward, in a creepy and unnatural way.

  This is no good! What will people think?

  These frogs had to be stopped. I couldn’t let them get off Bryn’s property where folks might see them. I ran. By the time I got to the front of the rows, I was at the edge of Bryn’s house.

  “Stop!” I said, trying to divert them. They ignored me, and I looked around helplessly. I needed a trap. I needed a whole lot of traps.

  They went over and around my feet.

  “Don’t!” I said, scooping them up and tossing them back. The frogs I threw just got back in formation, like some lunatic frog army on the march. I couldn’t scoop fast enough.

  “Where are you going?” I snapped at them, but they didn’t speak human and I didn’t speak frog, so I supposed I couldn’t really expect an answer. I rushed to the house, knowing we had to stop them before they got to the street.

  I opened the back door to the kitchen and dashed in. “Bryn!” I shouted before I realized he was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee.

  He turned his head and raised his eyebrows.

  I remembered I was half naked and covered my chest with my arms. “Give me your shirt and come on!” I said.

  He stood and unbuttoned the first couple buttons of his shirt, then hauled it over his head and handed it to me. I turned my back to him and dragged it over my head as I went back out the door.

  Then I heard tires squealing and jerked to a halt.

  “Uh-oh.”

  I ran around the house and down the front drive to the gates. The frog army was well out into the street. A few houses down, Bryn’s neighbor Cecily, aka Cruella De Vil, had gotten out of her silver Lexus, leaving the door ajar to stare at the frogs. Without warning, a splinter group from the locust twister appeared and swarmed around her and into the open car.