Conjured

by Chelsea Luna

  “You found the birthmark on her neck,” William said. “Didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but….”

  “What more do you need? It’s the fingerprint of the Devil! She is a Longfellow and a Ross. Are we supposed to let someone with that kind of lineage reign freely? With that amount of potential? Do we want another Liam on our hands?”

  Gamma knew about Liam. Why didn’t they do anything about him? Liam should’ve been a prime candidate for Gamma’s hit list. Maybe Liam was too powerful? Maybe they couldn’t find him? Who knew?

  I stretched my legs. My mind was racing. I could hear the television in the living room. Emma probably fell asleep watching the fireflies. I’d have to move her before I went to bed.

  What to do? Try to go to sleep? Watch TV?

  Grandma Claudia’s journal was on the desk.

  Why had she written Liam’s name in the margins? According to Vanessa, Liam conjured spirits - for what reason, I have no idea. Grandma Claudia drew the conjuring symbol on the floor in front of the mirror before her death. It seemed likely she was conjuring - or at least trying to conjure - a spirit, too. But why? Was she doing research on Liam about how to conjure a spirit? But again, why?

  I puffed my cheeks and exhaled.

  I still didn’t know anything. My life was one unanswered questions after another. Where was Jonah Van Curen’s journal? What happened to Ethan? Where was his body? Who was the new leader of Gamma? When would they come after me? What had Victor so worried? Why was my grandmother conjuring spirits? Why was she so interested in Liam? Who murdered her? Why would they murder her?

  One big fat mystery. The story of my life.

  I abruptly stood up. I wasn’t getting any answers tonight. I went to the living room to move Emma into her bedroom. She was sound asleep on the couch. I turned off the television. A light humming vibrated from the aquarium of fireflies, but there were no other sounds. Complete silence.

  “Mom?”

  Emma stirred.

  “Mom, hey, let’s get you to bed. It’s way more comfortable than this couch.”

  Her eyelids fluttered. I slipped my arms under her and lifted her into a sitting position. Beads of sweat covered her forehead. It had to be at least eighty-five degrees in here.

  “Can you stand up?”

  Emma nodded.

  I had a vague sense of déjà vu. How many times had I helped my drunken mother to bed? At least her drowsiness wasn’t due to martinis. Whatever state of mind she was in now was infinitely better than the raging alcoholic of the past decade.

  And whatever was bothering my mother now, I would fix it. I wasn’t angry with her anymore about all the lies. Emma was who she was. I couldn’t change her. But I would give her peace of mind. I would find out what happened to Ethan. Then we could move on with our lives and strive for some sort of normalcy.

  I guided Emma down the short hallway. The thermostat read a toasty eighty-seven degrees. No wonder we were drenched in sweat.

  The bed was unmade. Emma wobbled beside me, teetering on the verge of deep sleep. I didn’t bother to cover her with the blanket. It was too hot.

  “Mom, why do you keep turning up the heat?”

  Her eyes fluttered, but she didn’t respond. Scooby jumped on the bed and curled in beside her.

  “It’s like an oven in here.”

  “Cold,” she mumbled.

  “You can’t be cold, mom, you’re sweating. You have the thermostat turned up to ninety.”

  “No, that’s why I turn the heat up.” She rolled over onto her side and burrowed her head in the pillow. “The cold air is everywhere in this house. Icy. Right on the back of my neck.”

  “What do you mean? Mom?”

  “It’s not so bad when I crank the heat. I don’t feel it as much.”

  “You don’t feel what?”

  Her breathing deepened.

  “Mom?”

  No response. She was asleep.

  I left her door open, hoping to get some circulation through the house. I turned the heat down to a manageable seventy-two degrees. Maybe a draft was coming in from somewhere or a window needed better insulation. I’d see if Peter could find the source of the cold air in the morning.

  There was nothing left to do but go to sleep. I turned the lights off throughout the house and checked that the doors and windows were locked. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught my reflection in the mirrors on the wall behind the couch.

  Three small mirrors, all framed in dark cherry wood, were the only wall decorations that we’d managed to put up. As it always did, my mind made the hideous leap from these inconspicuous mirrors to the silver gilded mirror that adorned the wall behind my grandmother’s couch. The same mirror that was propped against the recliner in front of my grandmother’s body. The same silver gilded mirror that was currently stored in our basement.

  Before I knew what I was doing, I was downstairs.

  The basement was unfinished. Clean gray cement covered the floor and melted into the walls making the entire room feel bleak and foggy. A strong bleach odor still hung in the air from my move-in cleaning spree.

  Grandma Claudia’s stuff was in the far corner. Lying on top of the stack of boxes was the carefully packaged mirror. It was securely wrapped in plastic bubble wrap. I pulled the heavy bundle down and carried the mirror to the center of the room. My legs gave out and I sunk to a sitting position on the cold floor.

  I don’t know how long I stared at the bubble-wrapped mirror. It could have been minutes. It could have been hours. I’ll never know. Finally, I reached inside the box next to me until I felt an object that I could use. My fingers grazed a thin piece of wood and I immediately pulled out the pencil.

  I pried open the tape around the corners with the pencil and, within seconds, my grandmother’s mirror was propped up against the boxes in front of me. Just as she had propped it up on the floor the day she died.

  I’d never really noticed the mirror. Why would I? It was a decorative piece in Grandma Claudia’s house. Nothing more. And after I’d found the mirror playing such a ghastly part in my grandmother’s death, I couldn’t bear to lay eyes on it.

  Now, I couldn’t pull my eyes away from it.

  The silver was polished to an illustrious shine. Four cherubs were carved into the frame’s corners, their angelic faces smiling. Etched grape vines ran down each side of the mirror connecting the cherubs. It was beautiful, but even with the angelic faces, it had a sinister aura.

  Again, before I knew what I was doing, I was sketching the elaborate conjuring symbol onto the cement floor with the pencil. I shut my eyes and saw the bloody drawing that I’d never be able to forget. My mind precisely recalled each shape and word and number in that awful symbol.

  My hand moved in a businesslike manner to create the two-foot design. When I finished, I placed the pencil back into the box, careful not to raise my eyes to the mirror.

  Why did I draw it?

  I didn’t want to conjure a spirit. But the mystery was too alluring. The answers that I’d been seeking were close. My finger lightly traced the pattern of the symbol, careful not to smear the lead. I didn’t know if an incantation needed to be read. I only knew the symbol and the mirror were necessary. Would the symbol itself be enough? Did it need to be drawn in blood? Was I brave enough to face it?

  I’d have to be. For Grandma Claudia’s sake.

  I took a deep a breath to steady my nerves. My heart was pounding in my chest. I was so scared of what I’d see.

  I raised my eyes and looked directly into the mirror.

  CHAPTER 12

  I don’t know what I was expecting to see, but it wasn’t my own reflection.

  I saw myself sitting on the cement floor wearing a pink scooped neck t-shirt and red snowman pajama bottoms. My long dark hair was pulled back into a sloppy ponytail. And my deep green eyes were scanning my own reflection, looking for something that wasn’t there.

  What did I expect? Did I really believe the answer to
my grandmother’s murder would be staring me in the face? Did I honestly think it would be that easy? I didn’t know how to perform the spell. Why did I assume that drawing the symbol in front of the mirror would conjure a spirit?

  I frowned at my reflection. I was an idiot. The most inept witch in the history of the world.

  My reflection smiled back.

  A glacial coldness spread through me. I hadn’t smiled, but my reflection did. I should have bolted out of the basement, but I was so shocked and so terrified that I couldn’t remember how to make my legs work.

  What was it? It looked like me, but I didn’t imagine that smile. I cautiously raised my hand. My reflection raised its hand, but slightly slower. The movement didn’t match my own. The grin in the mirror grew wider as I felt - but couldn’t see - my own jaw fall open in horror.

  The reflection tilted its head to the side, as if contemplating me. Then, very slowly, the whites of my eyes in the reflection gradually turned light pink. Like red dye injected into water. The pink overtook the white of my eyes and seeped into the emerald green, turning the color a deed bloody red.

  My hands shot to my face. I couldn’t tell if the change in eye color was really happening or if it was only the reflection in the mirror. I didn’t feel any different. Only scared out of my mind. The reflection wiggled its eyebrows.

  I conjured a spirit.

  I had no idea whose spirit. But it took my form in the mirror, all except the color of the eyes.

  “Hello?” I said quietly to the mirror.

  My reflection waved back.

  “Who are you?”

  My reflection didn’t respond.

  Blood red eyes drifted from my face down to my silver Ross necklace. I pulled the ‘R’ charm out from underneath my t-shirt and protectively covered it with my hand. The reflection smiled again. This time, the edges of the lips turned up into a smirk.

  “Do you know Claudia Ross?”

  Silence.

  “Do you know who killed her?”

  Silence.

  My reflection shifted forward from its sitting position and leaned towards the glass. It studied me like I was a specimen in a laboratory. The mouth opened and said my name: Alexandria. No sound was audible, but I could easily read my reflection’s lips.

  I coiled back as the figured slithered closer to the glass. Could it come through the mirror?

  “What do you want?” My voice squeaked.

  Goosebumps rippled over my skin. It was suddenly cold in the basement. Frigid. The temperature dropped at least thirty degrees.

  The reflection’s hand - eerily my own and wearing Peter’s emerald ring - lifted and lunged for me. The movement didn’t break the plane of the mirror, but a pulling sensation erupted from the center of my stomach.

  I reflexively pushed back. I couldn’t stand up. The invisible pressure pulled me towards the spirit. My body inched forward. It felt like a jet engine was on full blast behind me, launching me towards the mirror.

  I was in trouble.

  The reflection crept forward, not yet breaking the plane of glass. The gravitational pull towards the mirror was getting stronger. My body sputtered forward. The spirit wanted me. It wanted to inhibit me. The sudden realization made me push back even harder.

  Is this what happened to Grandma Claudia? Did the spirit she conjured try to possess her, too?

  I planted my feet into the concrete. The temperature was dropping with each passing second. My breath was visible. It felt like I was sitting in a freezer. I struggled against the pull of the mirror. I dug my heels into the slick concrete. There wasn’t any traction because I was wearing socks. My feet slid closer to the silver frame.

  I had to do something quickly. My toes were only a few inches away.

  The simple gesture of lifting my arm took an enormous amount of effort. It was like swimming in molasses. With my palm out, I stared back at my blood red eyes and willed the anger to come.

  It was easy enough. I only had to conjure the image of my grandmother and what she must have went through during her final minutes. I could see her frail body fighting the mighty pull of the spirit on the other side of the mirror.

  The humming thrum of energy vibrated throughout my body as I fought against the gravitational pull. My mind was clear. I only had one goal.

  Break the glass.

  The energy was building. The frame shook against the cardboard box. The reflection’s smile faded. Blood red eyes flickered above as if it could see the frame vibrating from my energy. My power.

  A crack appeared in the top right corner. The fissure slowly - as if the gravitation pull of the spirit was slowing down its progress - seeped down the broad plane of glass. The reflection jumped from its sitting position into an animalistic crouch just before the crack in the glass reached it.

  “Pureblood,” my reflection mouthed.

  Blood red eyes narrowed. Its top lip curled into a snarl. But before the crack infused across the entire surface, my reflection opened its mouth and said three words.

  The mirror rattled one last time and the gravitation pull dissipated. The cold air was gone. The frame sat innocently against the box as if nothing happened. Staring back at me was my own face - emerald eyes and all - sitting stupidly on the basement floor.

  All movement had ceased. It was as if I’d dreamed the whole scenario. I checked the mirror again. My chest was heaving and my mouth was open in a pant. But it was my own reflection.

  I hopped to my feet and slammed the mirror to the ground. The fissure cut diagonally across the length of the glass. The crack had been enough to break the connection with the spirit, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I stomped my fuzzy sock down on the glass, smashing it into dozens of pieces. Slivers of jagged glass scattered across the frame. I placed the ruined mirror back into the bubble wrap and re-taped the corners, all with shaking hands.

  I hid the bundle behind a stack of boxes - out of sight so Emma would never find it - and vowed to remove the mirror from the house as soon as possible.

  Somehow I made it back upstairs and into my bedroom. I avoided all mirrors and reflective surfaces. I was too afraid I’d see those blood red eyes again.

  A half of an hour passed before the trembling stopped. I pulled the blankets over my head like a child frightened of the boogeyman.

  Boy was I wrong about getting answers tonight. I didn’t have them all, but I had some. And, at the moment, I wished I didn’t have any of them. What was that old saying? Ignorance is bliss?

  The three words my reflection mouthed played over and over in my mind like a broken record.

  Could you tell if you were in shock? I didn’t think I was. It was more of a budding terror growing inside of me. But why was I suddenly so scared? Didn’t I know this all along? Didn’t I feel it in the core of my bones the moment I made the connection while reading Sarah Ross’ journal?

  But those three tiny words changed everything.

  Liam was coming.

  CHAPTER 13

  To say I didn’t get any sleep the night before was an understatement. I’m not even sure I slept at all. I wanted answers and I definitely received some.

  Grandma Claudia conjured a spirit because of Liam. I was sure of it. She must have known he was coming to Hazel Cove. She wanted answers just like I did. And how else do you get answers about an ancient powerful witch who regularly conjures spirits? You conjure your own spirit.

  I still didn’t know how Grandma Claudia died. I could speculate. Maybe the spirit’s pull was too much for her because of her age. Maybe she wasn’t strong enough because she was only a half-blooded witch. Maybe the spirit tried to take possession and she fought back. That would explain the exploded heart. Or maybe the spirit killed her in cold blood. I had no way of knowing what happened that day. And that fact drove me crazy.

  But I did know a few things.

  First, Grandma Claudia was not into the dark arts. She’d conjured the spirit for a reason. She wanted to find out information abo
ut Liam.

  Second, the spirit wasn’t strong enough to pull me through the mirror. It was angry when it realized I was full blooded. On the other hand, the spirit said my name, so it knew who I was. Why didn’t it know that I was pureblooded? Wasn’t that common knowledge? Or maybe it wasn’t. Victor, Emma and Grandma Claudia did an excellent job of keeping me sheltered from the supernatural world. Maybe others didn’t know about my lineage.

  Lastly, Liam was coming to Hazel Cove. Sure, the spirit could be lying, but I doubted it. If Liam kept regular company with spirits, I’m sure my reflection spirit was in the know.

  When was Liam coming to Hazel Cove? And why? Did someone as old as Liam count time the same as me? Would it be weeks? Years?

  The smell reached my nose before Peter’s voice did.

  “Lex, I think the waffles are burning.”

  I snapped myself out of my daze just as Peter’s large hand covered mine and lifted the top of the waffle maker. His other hand went around my waist and I momentarily felt secure. Of course, that was a dumb reaction. I was no longer safe at all. None of us were safe if Liam was coming. And if what Vanessa said was true, the fact that I was a witch meant that I’d know when Liam arrived in Hazel Cove.

  I was a ticking time bomb. For that reason, I decided not to tell Peter about my newest revelations. He didn’t need any more of my witch drama on his plate.

  Peter wrinkled his nose. “They might be a little well done.” He scraped off the black mud that was supposed to be a waffle and poured a new batch of batter onto the iron surface.

  “Sorry,” I said, turning around to face Peter. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  “Worried about today?”

  I hadn’t given today’s plans much thought after what happened last night. But today was important. Today could give me more answers. “We should eat quickly. We’re going to be late.”

  Peter didn’t miss that I’d ignored his question, but he didn’t say anything. We ate breakfast, which tasted awful, and left to meet James. Peter was driving me in his truck and James was giving me a ride home this afternoon. Talk about being chaperoned.