Hexen's Binding

by J. Kowallis

  Again, I call on the lightning. It breaks the surface of the water after splitting through her head, but nothing happens. As she approaches me, I finally realize she’s not physically here. She’s not exactly transparent, but . . . slightly less than opaque. That’s why the spells won’t work. Call her a ghost, a projection, or an echo of wherever she is, but nothing works on her. Not this version of her.

  At my feet, I can hear the pages of her grimoire whipping in the wind. I glance down as another forceful attempt to pierce my skull hits my temples and between my eyes. It feels like my skull is bulging, my eyeballs being shoved from their sockets. I scream out loud and crash to my knees in the mud, holding my head together. A spell briefly catches my eye, inked onto one of the earlier pages and I crawl over the book to find it again—in between bouts of clenching my eyes closed.

  The pages fight against me in the violent wind, but after a few seconds I see the spell again.

  Spiritual Disconnect.

  Disconnect.

  I look back over my shoulder at Hellia. She’s only fifteen feet from me now. With a harsh, tired voice I glance back at the book and read the words, “Anjescir fórdens ophdomen. Lieduk a dorie til bosigh oldyr.”

  Hellia stops in her tracks, panting. For one brief moment, she grits her teeth into a grimacing sneer, and then she’s gone.

  I fall back, and lay sopping on the ground. The wind still beats against me as I stare at the spot where she just stood. The pressure that bored into my brain stopped with her disappearance, but I’m exhausted. Can hardly move, and it feels like my bones liquified and my muscles became stiff and rigid. I place my cheek on the pages of the grimoire, not wanting to have the skins of its victims touching me but lacking the energy to move. I briefly close my eyes while cold rain and chilled winds beat down on me.

  Each breath becomes deeper and slower than the last until finally the world around me disappears and I sink deep into my inner darkness.

  Fifteen

  My body trembles. What’s worse, my fingers feel frozen to the bone.

  I slowly open my eyes to find that the wind, the rain, and the lightning have all stopped, but I’m lying in a puddle of mud. The smell of algae, petrichor, and marshlands is overwhelming.

  Slowly, I push myself up with a lot more shaking. The earth slops and slides beneath my hands and knees until I roll over onto my back and look up at the still, gray, cloudy sky.

  Hellia Morrigan.

  Somehow, she was here. But not, at the same time.

  My body trembles with cold again so I push myself up and look around. Hair, mud, and grass cling to my face like slimy rubber cement. I turn around to see the grimoire laying open on the ground behind me. It looks innocent, mundane even. Scooting toward it, I smear even more mud on my clothes. At this point, it doesn’t matter. As if I could get any wetter, muddier, or more disgusting.

  The leather pages are soaked, but the writing is still as crisp and clear as it was when I first opened the book. I perform a drying spell on it. When the pages stop fluttering and the book closes, I pull the lock around the side and clip it into the front clasp. The iron snaps into place and I respond with a sigh before pulling the large book toward me. I place one more spell on the book to clean up the cover, removing the water damage and mud.

  I could do the same to myself, but I’d still feel it. The filth, a layer of unnatural residue saturating myself. My clothing.

  Taking one last look across the lake, I shiver. The remedial spell for Coll is in the book I hold. That means there’s still a chance I could get him back.

  That one thought, despite just battling Hellia, who technically should be wedged somewhere in a dark hole in the world of the dead, actually brings me a measure of relief.

  I stagger to my feet and begin the slow shuffle back to Angie’s cottage. At first, I think about using a tiaseal spell, but I don’t know how long I’ve been passed out near the lake’s edge. Angie and Dad could have returned by now and without knowing if Angie’s in her room again, or if it’s even safe for me to step inside that house yet, I’m going to take my time.

  Flashes of the battle with Hellia play through my mind. The explosion of water, the absolute agony driving through my head. The only thing I can possibly imagine that she was trying to do,

  was . . ..

  My footsteps slow down.

  The block on my mind. She was trying to break through the barrier that Angie placed there the moment Dad and I arrived on her doorstep. She was trying to get into my mind.

  “Sonofabitch,” the words slur in my mouth.

  The thought sends chills down my spine and I hug the book closer to myself, afraid of losing it, but terrified of having it in my presence.

  I sniff back a warm trickle of phlegm in my nose, continuing my shuffle. At the end of each shallow breath, there’s a small, lingering trail of white steam. I look over at the lake every few steps.

  How did she do it? How did she project through the gate of the Himaleasa?

  I glance down at the book in my arms. What possible type of magic would she have known that allowed her to reach out from the afterlife and attack me the way she did?

  No good can come from that grimoire.

  The book. By opening it, I must have done something. Opened a window. Torn through the worlds.

  Then, I suppose if she had found some way of reaching out from the afterlife through a tear like that, that might account for it. Something like the ghosts of dead humans. Their sadness, hate, and anger projecting like echoes from the afterlife into this world. (Suddenly, I feel proud of myself for remembering the whole lesson on ghosts of both hexen and alemflu that haunt and tend to linger in places.)

  I reach the cottage and walk up the couple stairs to the front door. Being cautious, I open the door slowly and look around. I even listen. But I don’t hear a single squeak, crack, or rustle.

  Taking advantage of the obviously empty cottage, I carefully walk up the stairs, continuing to keep my ears open for any sounds or movements. Once I reach Angie’s room, I press my ear against the door, checking for movement or any sound of life. Nothing.

  After warily twisting the cold doorknob, I put the door open to find an empty room. Now I hustle. I rush into the room, shove the book through the broken wardrobe panel and recite a repairing spell. Finishing it all off, I place a double locking spell (if that’s even possible) and hurry out of the bedroom with a quiet latch of Angie’s door. It’s then that I feel a breeze coming from downstairs and I realize I left the front door open.

  “Shit,” I whisper. Turning around to head for the stairs, I tug at my dirty shirt and step down the first few steps.

  “Taran?”

  Standing at the front door, chopped wood in his arms, is my dad. He scans me from head to toe, taking in the mud, the stains, and the crumpled, dried clothes. Even my hair must look like something you’d find floating on the surface of a swamp that possibly used to be growing underneath the sludge at the bottom.

  “What happened?” he asks, the wood tumbling to the ground. He nearly drops two of the logs on his feet and he jumps back before looking up to stare at me again.

  “Nothing,” I sigh. “Just a little accident.” Dad opens his mouth and takes a step forward. Without waiting for him to actually say something or come any closer, I blaze on. “I’m glad to see you’re back, though. I’m uh, feeling better. I’m going to go take a shower before Angie gets back.”

  “Taran.”

  I step up one stair, then turn around, cutting him off once more. “Where is Angie by the way? No,” I jump in, leaving him still stammering, “it’s okay. You can tell me later. I just need to wash up.”

  “Taran,” he calls to me again, but by this time, I’m halfway to the bathroom. Once more he calls my name, and I shut the door behind me, locking the deadbolt. Quickly, I look at myself in the mirror and understand why Dad looked at me as though I was melting like the Wicked Witch of the West.

  Mud cakes my face and
my hair has been strung into a slimy mess of dreads that look like they’re covered in mucus. Not to mention the damage to my clothes. Overall, I look like I’ve been thrown into a tornado as it traveled through a bog.

  “Taran?” Dad’s voice is harsher this time as he knocks on the door.

  Ignoring him yet again, I turn around and turn on the shower above the claw-footed tub. I pull my maroon t-shirt (which is now smeared with mud that resembles liquified poop) over my head and toss it to the floor. Of course, even my pink bra changed color, taking on the appearance of something that’s been tea-stained.

  “Taran!” he pounds on the door repeatedly.

  “Sorry, I’m naked. Be out soon.”

  Next go the shoes, the socks, pants, and finally my underwear before I hop into the warm water.

  Streams of mud flow over my skin and snake toward the drain. I personally enjoy the cloudy murky color of the shampoo suds before they slither down my skin and to the tub floor. The feeling of actually watching the filth rinse off and disappear down the drain fills me with a strange sense of satisfying tranquility.

  I pick up Angie’s homemade body washes and shampoos, smelling them, and then grimacing in disgust. Patchouli and amber. “Oh, gross,” I whisper. I know their properties and it’s all a bit uncomfortable. By the ancestors, Angie made me write down everything about both of them in my own grimoire. Attributes of enhancing love and sexual power. It just makes my skin crawl. Whether that’s because thoughts of my own life are such a mess right now, or whether its due to the fact that Angie actually uses scents that enhance her own sexual power, I don’t know.

  Great. I need something else to get my mind off everything that just flitted into my brain.

  I summon my own bath products from home and wash myself thoroughly. The more uplifting jasmine, palmarosa, and sandalwood make me feel at home again. And finally, clean. Those scents, combined with shaving my legs, and scrubbing my skin until it’s practically squeaking give me some semblance of a grip on my thoughts and what just happened out near the lake.

  When I finish, I step out of the tub and wrap myself in one of the fluffy, bright green towels Angie keeps stacked on the rack over the toilet. With a snap of my fingers, I transfer my clothes to the washroom and poke my head out the bathroom door. Dad’s nowhere around. At least the pathway to my room is clear and safe.

  Quickly, I dash across the hall and slam the door behind me. Tucking the towel closer to my body, I pad to my bed and sit cross-legged on the comforter. I reach over and pick up my phone that rests on the vanity. Small icons let me know that I have multiple text messages, some Facebook notifications, waiting emails, and missed calls.

  Pressing my finger to the fingerprint reader, my phone unlocks, and I go for the texts. There are seven in total. One from Nancy Shleff, the Dean of History. Just checking in on my dad’s “injuries” and wanting to know how I’m holding up. I quickly text her a sob story about how exhausted I am (which isn’t far from the actual truth), and how hopeful I am that he’ll recover fully.

  The second is from Mom. Dad must have told her I got the phone back because she’s been texting nonstop since yesterday. Asking me about the training, hoping Dad’s treating me okay, wondering if I’ve killed him yet, and sharing with me the status of her current novel she’s writing.

  “She’s writing a novel?” I whisper to myself, tucking my hair behind my ear.

  I respond to the ones that need a response, reassuring her that Dad and I are both very much alive still. Although (I look toward my door), I wonder how long that will last when he finds out what I’ve done.

  Third and fourth in line are a couple of my former students texting me to let me know how disappointed they were to find out I wasn’t taking on any graduate courses this semester and am, theoretically, on sabbatical.

  The fifth text is a spam text from my cell phone carrier about my next bill due.

  “Delete that,” I whisper. Not because I won’t pay it, but it’s just the last thing I want to think about right now.

  I don’t even pay attention to the sixth message or who it was from because message number seven is from Coll. The only line of text visible, without having to click on it, reads:

  Coll Donovan

  I’m sorry about last night. I think I owe…

  I take a deep breath and hold my finger over the message, trying to talk myself out of clicking on it. I do anyway.

  When the window opens up, one message glares back at me. It’s nearly the length of a Charles Dickens paragraph.

  I’m sorry about last night. I think I own you a full apology for how I acted. Taran, you have to know, I’ve thought about you every day since Bryden, and although it’s no excuse, I lost control over myself and made a right bags of the whole evening. To be honest, I never thought being with you would be that way. It wasn’t supposed to happen that way. I know it sounds cliché, but if I could, I’d take it all back. We’d do it over and change everything. And not just the date, but Bryden, and everything. I want your forgiveness, even though I’m a moron and I don’t deserve it. I don’t ever want you to feel forced. In any way. There are things I wish I could tell you, things I wish I could share. But, I’m afraid that after what happened, you’ll never want to talk to me again. And you have every damn right to feel that way. But you should know, I’ve come to love you. Over an apology text is not exactly the way I wanted to tell you, but if you’ll forgive me, I swear on my own father’s cursed grave I’ll make it up to you. Call me.

  It takes every measure of control in my arm, my hand, my fingers not to throw my phone on the ground and cuss. That rat bastard.

  Instead, I put the phone to sleep and throw it on the bed. I don’t even care about the other notifications. I don’t want to. I just need to find a way to get Coll out. And at this point, even if I need to break down Coll’s elevator door and rip his ancestor out through the throat, I’ll do it.

  With a snap of my fingers, the wet towel around my body is replaced by a matching black bra and panties along with some torn skinny jeans and a black vintage Guns N’ Roses t-shirt from my apartment. Another snap and my hair winds itself into a top knot.

  I step off the bed, dropping my phone on the mattress behind me and head down the stairs for the main living room.

  “Taran,” Dad’s voice rolls with an unearthly warning. I turn toward him where he’s sitting in the living room, with his left ankle crossed over his right knee. On top of his legs, resting in his lap, is Hellia Morrigan’s grimoire. Standing in the corner of the main living room, looking out the front window is Angie. She won’t even look at me. She stands there in Japanese cherry blossom parachute pants, topped with a white t-shirt that’s layered under a crocheted vest. Angie’s gray-root, fiery maroon hair is pulled into a side braid.

  “What?” I ask, my voice calm, but assertive.

  “We know you took the book.”

  I take my eyes off Angie and lock eyes with my dad. “And?”

  A loud snap from Angie’s direction steals my attention and I look over to her. She’s beat a wooden spoon against the windowsill and broken the kitchen utensil in half.

  “Is there something you want to say to me, Angie?” I ask, keeping my feet firmly planted on the ground, my voice steady.

  “You stole that book.” Her voice boils.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “You went into my room, somehow unlocked my cabinet, stole the book, opened the most cursed grimoire in the world, and waltzed back in.”

  I let the silence sink in for a few seconds before I say, “I had to.”

  “Do you understand what you have done?” she asks, slowly turning to face me.

  “I think I worked it out,” I answer, tilting my head. “By opening it, I triggered a connection between Hellia and her book. In doing so, I ripped a hole between worlds. How am I doing so far?”

  Angie’s face hardens. Before she can say anything, I hurry on.

  “The good news is, your barrier on my
mind held. She tried to break through it. Hurt like the devil, but it worked.” I look to my dad. “You were right. But, let’s get something clear. I may not be as practiced as either of you, and I respect your positions, your craft, and your experience. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that I honor it. But neither of you are named or mentioned in Rheda’s prophecy. The only person in this room qualified to make final decisions about anything remotely tied to Deireanhexe is the one putting her very life at risk. If it’s not clear to you,” I look back at Angie, “that person would be me.

  “After all, in the last few months I lost my life. Almost everything I remember about it. I fought Ruhmactír and Frec around the stone table of Bryden. I’ve been yanked back in time to face Woden and see the after effects of Hellia’s execution. I watched Coll get blasted and thrown through the air. And over the last few days I’ve studied my brains out. I’ve exhausted myself half to death. I’ve . . . waited,” I grit my teeth to keep the words from coming out, but when they do, they burn, “waited while Ruhmactír pinned me to a bed while wearing his great grandson’s skin just so he wouldn’t see what was happening to him. I watched Coll’s veins turn the color of rotten shit while Ruhmactír’s hands slid between my legs. So yes, I took the book. And I’ll take full responsibility for that. In the meantime, by opening that very book,” I point at my dad’s lap, “I was able to find a spell. Confirmation that I can get Coll back. It was an ejection spell, and one that will help us remove Ruhmactír from Coll’s body. So, if you’d like to, you can keep ripping into me, or you can go sit up in your pathetic bedroom and try to see through the book like a coward. Because,” my shoulders sag and I feel the weight of the last twenty-four hours, “I’m tired.”

  I sigh. “I’m tired of not moving forward. I’m tired of thinking, and not having it confirmed that Coll’s alone while I’ve done nothing.”

  Dad slowly swivels his eyes to Angie. She still stares me down.

  “I’m not a child. But, the more you treat me like one, the more I’ll oblige. Now,” I glance into the kitchen, “if you don’t mind, I just held up against . . . what I’m going to assume was some very miniscule magic from Hellia, and I’m starving. So, I’m going to make myself something to eat, and then I’m going to get started on finding a way to get Ruhmactír to believe I still like him after what he did to me. Because we’re going to need to get our hands on him, and it’ll be easier if we don’t have to fight him. So, please excuse me.”