by Bailey Cates
“Right. Usually, I go on the journey for someone else—though I have gone for myself, of course—and then I bring back what they need from the Otherworld.”
“Otherworld?”
A brisk nod. “You’ve got the upper world, the middle world, and the lower world. The middle one is the here and now. The upper one is, well . . .” He pointed to the sky. “And the lower world is between here and the underworld.”
“Upper, middle, lower, and under. All layers of the Otherworld, and the middle is where we are now. Gotcha.”
“So, I go on a journey, usually to the lower world, and bring back the part of a person’s soul that is missing.”
My eyes widened. “Missing soul parts? This kind of thing happens to other people?”
“All the time. Not as, er, dramatic as what happened to you, but trauma or illness or any number of other things may break off a piece of a person’s soul.” He shrugged. “I go retrieve it and breathe it back into them.”
I felt a rush of pride and love for my father. He was a healer on a whole different level from what I did with my herbs and spices. All this time I’d had only a vague notion of how amazing that was.
“This time, though, I want you to go on the journey as well. I might not recognize your magic in the same way you would, but you will know what you need to retrieve when you see it.”
Excitement mixed with fear and hope. “You sure?”
“Absolutely. You’re my daughter. I want to do this together.”
“How does it work?”
“Enough talk. I’ll show you.”
Taking a deep breath, I licked my lips and stood up.
Back in the gazebo, Dad opened his leather bag and took out a woolen blanket. He spread it on the floor, over the pentagram. “You lay down on this on your back. I’ll remain sitting, so I can drum you in.”
Drum me in? But I just nodded.
He laughed. “You’re going to have to relax. Ever do any meditation?”
“Off and on,” I said. “Sometimes it seems to work, and sometimes I just get twitchy and give it up until I feel guilty enough to try again.”
“Mmm. You’re a bit type A. Would probably do you a world of good to have a regular meditation practice, but never mind that for now.” He retrieved a small drum and a handled rattle. “This is actually a miniature Celtic bodhran.” He pronounced it bow-rawn. “Not a tribal drum. Sosa gave it to me, and I just like the sound of it. The rattle is Shawnee, though.”
It was made from the shell of a turtle and made a soft clattering sound as my father shook it.
“Mr. Bosworth had something like that,” I said.
“I’d sure like to see that whole collection,” he said, removing a long, striped feather from the bag next. He held it up. “Pheasant.” And finally, he took out a cup made from a hollow dried gourd.
“Be right back.” He bounded down the steps and went to the stream at the edge of the property. Moments later, he was back, the gourd filled with water. He reached into the bag one last time and took out a vial, removed a small pill, and dropped it in the water.
“Is that peyote?” I asked in a tight voice.
“What?” He laughed. “No, honey. That is a water-purifying tablet I picked up at a sporting goods store this afternoon. When you come back from the Otherworld, you’re going to be parched. Natural water will best quench your thirst, and while that stream seems pure as crystal, I’m not taking any risks.”
“Ah.” I felt better, not only because I wasn’t expected to take some psychoactive drug, but because I knew Dad had my best interests at heart—on all levels.
Well, of course he does.
Suddenly impatient, I asked, “Can we start? Not having my magic is like having a deep itch that I can’t begin to scratch.”
He smiled and nodded. “No time like the present. Lie down.”
I did and tried to relax. The hard wood of the floor felt like stone despite the blanket.
“Now set your intention clearly,” he said.
“I intend to get my magic back,” I grated out.
“Try to let go of your anger.”
Deep breath in, then another deep breath out. “Doing the best I can on that, Dad.”
He laughed. “Okay. Now, release expectations.”
I sat up. “How do you have intention without expectation?”
He frowned. “Like you do with any spell. You trust the elements, the energies of the universe that you’re tapping into, you make your intention clear, but do not force it. Right?”
“I never really thought about it like that, but I guess you’re right.” I lay back down.
“Maybe it would be best if you simply think of this as another kind of spell, plus a little visualization—especially at the beginning.” He took his boots off and settled in next to me, cross-legged.
“What am I visualizing?” I asked.
“A tunnel of some sort. It can look like anything you want, but I want you to construct an entrance into the earth in your mind.”
“Then what?”
“Wait. Listen to the drum. If it feels right to walk down into the entrance, do that. Watch for your dragonflies. Watch for other animals as well. Be patient. See what comes next.”
That all sounded very different from any of the work I’d done with the spellbook club, but I tried to keep an open mind and trust my dad. Still, I couldn’t keep the worry out of my voice when I asked, “Where will you be?”
“I’ll be there. As will Mungo. Right, boy?”
Yip! My dog nestled in next to me.
Dad smiled and leaned over me. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. You can come back from this journey anytime you want. All you have to do is open your eyes. It’s literally that easy.”
I looked into his kind brown gaze and let out a breath. “Okay.” I ran my hand down Mungo’s back, then closed my eyes.
The drumbeat that started was low and slow. Gradually, the tempo increased, and I found myself relaxing into it.
Losing myself in it.
Drifting on it.
Tunnel. Imagine a tunnel, I told myself.
Problem was, I was just a tad claustrophobic. Not weird about it or anything, but the idea of going down a tunnel to the lower world felt a little scary.
The image of a staircase popped into my mind. It led down in a gentle spiral. A dragonfly drifted in lazy circles above it. In my imagination, I gripped the sturdy railing and began going down the steps. Mungo brushed by my leg and ran ahead, leading the way. I was aware of the hard floor against my back, a breeze drifting through the gazebo, a hint of moonlight behind my eyelids. At the same time, I kept stepping down, down, down in my mind’s eye.
Suddenly, I didn’t know if I was just imagining the cold metal of the railing against my hand and the sound of my footfalls, or if I’d begun the journey proper.
It doesn’t matter. Just go with it.
The sound of the drum became my heartbeat. Or perhaps it was the other way around. After a while, I lost count of the steps but was drawn forward by the hint of illumination below my feet. It grew brighter and brighter, until Mungo and I reached the bottom of the staircase. The dragonfly swooping and bobbing ahead, we stepped into a short hallway. It was made of stone and had no windows, but the bright daylight that came from the open door at the end of it beckoned welcomingly. Mungo raced toward it, looking over his shoulder at me as if to tell me to hurry up.
However, I felt no urgency, only wonder. I trailed my hand along the fitted stones. My fingertips came away wet, and I realized I could smell the water running over the rock, bright and crisp and clean. Once I noticed that, I could hear it, too. The sound of my father’s drum was there in the background, too, a little faster than the beating of my heart now.
At the end of the stone hallway I stopped, laughing with de
light at the scene in front of me. I stepped into the room. On my right was a door open to the outside. Beyond, stepping-stones led through a lush garden to an opening in a low stone wall and a dirt path. Beyond that, I could see . . . forever. High mountains pushed up from vast plains bordered by crashing seas. Cityscapes mingled with plowed fields, and the spaces between and above were filled with all manner of bird and beast.
The dragonfly zoomed back inside, bringing my attention with it. Shelves and cubbies covered the other two walls of the room. They were crammed with jars, bottles, and carved boxes in all shapes, sizes, and colors. I knew the containers were filled with herbs and spices, dried fruit and mysterious powders. In the middle of the room, a well-worn wooden table held a basket of rising dough, its sour fragrance mixing with the plethora of herbal scents in the air. A spinning wheel sat in the corner, in front of a hearth that held no fire.
I’d walked into a hedgewitch’s kitchen. My kitchen, I realized.
Yip!
Mungo ran to the door to the outside and stopped at the threshold, again looking over his shoulder at me. However, I turned toward the spinning wheel and the hearth.
There’s no fire on the grate. It’s missing. The fire is missing.
A movement at the corner of my vision made me whirl and peer into the shadows. A scratching sound set my teeth on edge and sent a shiver between my shoulder blades. Nonetheless, I took a step forward.
“Mungo,” I called in a hoarse voice. “Dad, where are you?”
A streak of blackness shot across the room. I screamed. A rat, almost as large as my terrier, scurried by. Mungo snarled as it flashed past him and into the garden, then took off after it.
I was fast on his heels, terrified, but determined.
Because that rat had been carrying something that looked an awful lot like a glowing ember in its mouth.
My missing fire. My missing magic.
We ran out the door, through the garden, and out to the path. The path led us to a copse of trees, and then beyond, to a meadow. In the middle, a single enormous tree reached branches down to the ground and up to the sky.
The rat paused at the bottom of the tree trunk and looked back at me. Then it turned, and I saw my fire flashing in its jaws as it scurried up the trunk and into the branches above. I ran to the base of the tree and looked up. All I saw was a tangle of branches and leaves that seemed to reach into eternity.
“The blasted thing’s gone, lass.”
I whirled and saw a small man crouching among a scattering of wildflowers about twenty feet away. He was wearing riding breeches, coat, and high boots that went over his knees. His face was as wrinkled as a dried apple, but his blue eyes were bright. I recognized him from an old photo in Declan’s family album.
Still, I gaped. “Connell?”
“One and the same, Katie, m’lass. ’Tis lovely to see you, indeed. These circumstances, though.” He shook his head sorrowfully, then met my eyes again. “Not so lovely. I’m afraid the rat is gone.”
I stared at him, then up at the tree, then at him again. “With my magic? No.” I reached up to see if I could reach the lowest branch, but I wasn’t nearly tall enough. “No. I won’t let him. I’ll find a way to go after him, to get it back. I have to.”
Connell stood. “You can’t, lass.”
“Yes, I can!” I shouted.
“He’s right, Katie,” my dad said, stepping out from behind the tree. He still held the bodhran and was gently tapping it in the same rhythm I’d been aware of ever since descending the staircase. “You can’t follow someone else’s path back to the middle world. You have to go back the way you came.”
“But—”
He shook his head.
“Yer da is right,” Connell said, nodding to him. “’Tis a lovely drum you have there, sir.”
Dad nodded back, his face puzzled. “Um, thanks.”
“I don’t care, Connell!” I said, still peering into the dark of the leaves above. Then, in almost a whisper, “I have to try.”
“No, Katie,” Dad said. “We have to go.”
The drumming increased in tempo, then in volume. The rhythmic sound of the turtle rattle joined it, and I found myself no longer in the meadow, but in my witch’s kitchen. Then I was in the hallway, then on the spiral stairs . . .
My eyes snapped open, and I sat up on the floor of the gazebo, gasping for breath.
Dad handed me the gourd of water, and I sucked it down as if I hadn’t had anything to drink for days. When it was gone, I handed it back and let my hand drop. I felt utterly defeated.
“It didn’t work.”
Tentatively, Mungo crawled into my lap, and I wrapped my arms around him. He licked my chin once, then leaned against my shoulder.
“It partially worked. You discovered your fire. Maybe we can try again,” Dad said, but there was something in his voice. “I’m encouraged that your dragonfly was there.”
“Why?” I couldn’t keep the defeat out of my voice.
“Because that’s part of your magic, too. And because . . .” He trailed off.
“Because . . . ?” I prompted.
“Because your totem is all about resilience and metamorphosis.” His tone was quiet.
It took me a moment to understand what he was getting at. “You mean you think I’m going to have to get used to feeling like this. That I’m going to have to make the best of living the rest of my life without magic.” Tears filled my eyes.
Sighing, he stood. “I don’t know, honey.”
I felt my nostrils flare, and I swiped at my eyes with the back of my hand as I put Mungo down and struggled to my feet. “No.”
Dad had begun to return the items he’d brought with him back into the worn leather bag. His hands stilled, and he gave me a questioning look.
“No,” I repeated. “I don’t accept that. What was that rat?”
“It was a metaphor—” he began.
I interrupted. “I get that. For whoever took my magic in the first place? Or for something else?”
He hesitated, then slowly nodded. “I think the former.”
“Then also the same person who took Kensington Bosworth’s life. Who cast a spell using his blood.” My lips set in a grim line. “And I’ll bet it’s a druid. In fact, I bet he’s a member of the Hermetic Order of the Silver Moon.”
My father was studying me. “Perhaps. But it might not be a ‘he’ at all. If the Silver Moon group is like the Golden Dawn group, they admit women as well as men.”
I handed him the blanket. “I don’t know who that rat was, but they have a part of me, and somehow, someway, I’m getting it back.”
Dad nodded soberly, then suddenly his lips twitched in a grin. “Good. You obviously have plenty of fire left, honey.”
Chapter 19
Wanting to be alone, I stayed at the apartment that night instead of going back to Lucy and Ben’s with Dad. I slept hard and long, and since I’d never had to set an alarm clock to wake up on time before, I overslept the next morning. My fiancé came home from the firehouse a little after eight to find me sitting on the couch, still in my pajamas. Mungo was curled beside me, watching me as I stared out the window at the birds pecking at the feeder I’d put out when I moved to Declan’s.
He stopped in the doorway. “Uh-oh.”
I glanced over at him.
“A day off, huh. Well, honey, you deserve it after all you’ve been through. I’m glad Lucy convinced you to stay home. We can hang out and—”
“She didn’t.”
He stripped off his T-shirt, tossed it in the general direction of the washing machine, and dropped into the red rocking chair across from where I sat. “Didn’t what?”
My eyes cut to his well-defined torso. It normally would have given me untoward thoughts, but not this morning. “Didn’t convince me. I overslept, then
texted her this morning that I wouldn’t be in at all, and she’s left me alone. Which is good. I have some thinking to do.”
Actually, it felt pretty crappy that she hadn’t even called.
“Are you sure she got the text?”
“Of course she got the text,” I snapped. “And Iris was coming in early. I’m sure they can handle everything just fine.”
“And if they can’t?”
I shrugged.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Katie, this isn’t like you.”
I lifted a hand, then let it drop back to the cushion. “I don’t know what’s like me anymore.”
“The shaman thing didn’t work, huh?”
“No kidding. How’d you figure that out, Sherlock?” I knew I was snapping at him and didn’t like myself for it one bit.
His lips thinned. “I’m clever that way.” He stood. “First off, Connell hinted that you and he had some kind of encounter, plus your dad called me last night. It would have been nice if you had, too, or at least returned my texts.” He turned toward the bathroom. “I need to take a shower. You need to check in with your aunt. They might be just fine without you, but I doubt it. You’re the soul of that bakery, darlin’. And it’s part of your soul, too.”
“You don’t understand,” I mumbled.
“Maybe not exactly. Not about losing your magic. But you seem determined to lose yourself entirely. Your dad told me last night that you seemed bent on figuring out who did this to you. What happened since then?”
“Nothing! I’m just trying to figure out my next step. Did you ever think of that?”
It was true. The problem was that I didn’t know where to start, and the longer I sat looking out the window, the more powerless I felt.
A deep tenderness entered Declan’s gaze, and it was in his voice as well when he said, “I’m on your side, darlin’. I’ll do anything I can to help you figure this out.” He suddenly rubbed his eyes.
Were those tears?
“I wish I’d listened to Connell when he tried to warn you the first time, back when he was being subtle and working through me, back when it would have made a difference,” he said.