CHAPTER 10
Callin’ Up The Dead To Chat
“What do I need to do?” Manny asked, his voice shaking.
“No witchcraft,” David said, his voice firm and unyielding.
I rolled my eyes. We were in a graveyard, about to perform a dangerous and powerful ritual, and he was still worried about witchcraft. I reined in my temper and thought about how to word my answer in terms he’d understand. “Manny, I need you to tell the spirits to go back where they belong. That’s all.”
“That’s it?”
I nodded at the wide-eyed boy. He looked so scared. “That’s it.” I looked at David, who seemed placated by my response. Then I said to David, “I need you to pray.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Me?”
“Yes, you,” I snapped back. “I need all the help I can get. When Mrs. Saunders prayed, it sent them away. So, pray.”
David muttered something about prayer being all powerful. I ignored him, to avoid the snarky remark that I would no doubt want to make.
Mrs. Saunders looked at me, her hands shaking, making her rosary beads click against each other like a wind chime. “What do you want me to say?”
I shrugged. “Whatever you normally pray.”
“Hail Mary, full of grace,” the woman’s voice shook but said the words clearly. She gripped her rosary and the words sent a chill through my body. Faith is power.
Mrs. Saunders gave me a nod and she closed her eyes. A thrum of power began to emanate from her as she mouthed her Hail Mary. I took a steadying deep breath. That woman was strong, in every sense of the word.
The rain splashed against my face as I stood in the graveyard, eyes closed, concentrating. I blocked out my doubt over my abilities. I set aside my anxiety over the situation. I accepted that David O’Toole, the man who was putting harassing and offensive material in my mailbox, was standing next to me. I let the cares and worries of life slosh off my body with the rain.
I entered a place of quiet stillness. My heart rate slowed. My focus turned to nothing but the banishing, which was just a fancy word to describe me bullying the spirits back into the grave. I’m sure I’ve had worse plans and this was towards the bottom of the good-idea list. But, it was all I could come up with and I had to try something.
It took me three minutes to gain enough focus to begin calling the spirits to me. The comfort of Mrs. Saunders’s power no doubt helped. The knowledge that she was going to smite David O’Toole might have helped, too.
I wore my pentacle around my neck, a gift from my best friend in high school. I wasn’t into pentacles and all that, but it was a gift, so it represented friendship more than anything. The rabbit’s-foot necklace and the medicine bag of my biological mother were wrapped around the wrist of one hand. I felt the stir of my own, minor talent.
But what I lacked in talent, I had in sensitivity. I was closer to the dead than most.
“Spirits of the Skraelings, the red Indians, the Beothuk, countless others who have roamed this land, come to me. Come and find peace. Spirits of the Norsemen, the Vikings, the warriors, explorers and priests, come to this site. Come and find peace.”
The ground shook, and I felt more than heard the pounding of spirit energy rushing towards us. Mrs. Saunders grabbed my pants leg and recited her Hail Mary a lot faster, nearly slurring her words.
I gathered my will and felt a flimsy sphere of power encompass both of us. I was never a good caster and I knew it wouldn’t hold if they decided to slam against us. Tears rolled down my cheeks as abject fear shook me, but I held on, repeating the words.
Every time Mrs Saunders called on Jesus or the Virgin, a little extra power zapped through the circle. Damn, that woman was more powerful than any priestess I’d ever met. Which goes to show, I suppose, don’t judge by the religion or the package.
Next to us, Manny O’Toole whispered, though I couldn’t hear his words. A little spark of power thrummed from him. Nothing substantial, but noticeable all the same. No wonder he felt conflicted, living in a home that was extremely spiritual, and yet rejected all forms of spirituality but one.
I put that aside. Perhaps later, I could speak with David and Irene, see if they’d let me help Manny. For now, however, I needed to control the ancient spirits.
The first indication that my calling was working was the pounding in my temples. I’d had a nonstop headache since Manny called these spirits forth, but I was accustomed to it. This sensation was more throbbing and painful. I fought against the need to scream and collapse on the ground. I fought against the desire to rip my hair out.
I fought.
A formless, pervasive psychic presence pressed against my senses, but I stood firm. I would not let a bunch of millennia-old spirits boss me around.
I gulped. I was so out of my depth.
I pushed aside the terror and uncertainty, pouring my energy into calling the spirits to me. In the blurred edges of reality, I heard cars chugging up the foggy hill behind us, leaves rustling, water crashing against the shore, and the thud of my own heart. The occasional wail of police sirens pierced the night, though even that sound was faded, distant . . . detached.
The dead occupied my thoughts. Forgotten languages, not spoken in millennia, flooded my consciousness. I heard the stirring of every single spirit within the sound of my voice. And there were a lot of them buried under the very ground where I stood.
Oh crap.
I inched towards contact. I felt the spirits waking and turning their attention to me. Cold sweat pooled around the waist of my jeans and I shivered, though that came more likely from the unrelenting wind howling around me. If I did this wrong, I could call up even more spirits from their places of rest. If there was one thing I excelled at, it was attracting the attention of the dead.
Just another minute, I thought to myself. I steadied my breathing. I was ready.
“What is taking so long?” David shouted in my ear.
Spirits Rising Page 10
