Lost Souls (A Caitlyn O’Connell Novel)

by Delilah Devlin

  “Read this,” she said, shoving the book at his chest, her finger holding it open to the page.

  Morin scanned the words, his features sharpening. He read it again, and when he glanced back up, he said, “That’s it.”

  Cait grinned. A tiny kernel of hope bloomed deep inside. But she hesitated to give it a voice.

  An answering smile stretched across his face. “I think it might work.”

  “And you were right about that watch.”

  He shook his head. “I must have read it at some point. Using it makes sense.” His eyes rounded. “Is there still time? The spell must be cast within twelve hours.”

  She glanced at her digital watch, which had frozen on the time when she’d entered his shop. “We still have three hours left. I only need a few minutes. I can get back to the hotel and wind it back…”

  Morin touched her shoulder, his fingers moving in a light caress. “You know it’s just a chance. Not a certainty.”

  “That’s more than I had when I came here.” Feeling like a weight had lifted from her shoulders, she covered his hand with hers and squeezed. “Now, I have hope.”

  “I’ll gather ingredients. Looks like we’ll be combining spells—”

  “Layering them to make this work. No one size fits all.”

  “Casting them will be complicated,” he warned, his gaze narrowed.

  “I’m okay with that.”

  “You’ll need a helper to make it back.”

  “That’s going to be the tricky part. But I’ll worry about it after we’ve got all the parts prepared.” One step at a time.

  Morin held still a moment. “I wish I could go with you.”

  “If this works, we’ll know there’s hope for you too. We just need the right combination.” She emphasized her words, wanting her mentor to share in the new potential.

  “The right sequencing.”

  The painful knot that had lodged securely in her chest the moment she’d lost Sam in the fog eased.

  A soft wistfulness crossed Morin’s face. “I’m glad I’m the one helping you, Cait. I’ve missed you.”

  Cait gave him a faint smile, not ready to rush into his arms by any stretch of the imagination. Morin was still Morin. Flawed. Selfish. Clever.

  “I’ll hold up my end of the bargain,” she murmured.

  He winced. “I swear I wasn’t thinking about that. Not that I’m a huge fan of Sam Pierce. But I recognize how much you need him in your life. He gives you balance. Holds your feet to the ground.”

  “Sam’s not up for discussion with you, Morin. I don’t mean to be rude, but you and I, we have a past.” She looked past his shoulder, her gaze focused on the wall of books. “I’m just not comfortable talking about him with you.”

  “And Sam wouldn’t approve,” he murmured slowly, shaking his head. “He wasn’t too happy that mine was the first face he saw when I summoned him. Said he wondered if he’d landed in Hell.”

  A smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. “Yeah, that sounds like him.”

  “He couldn’t move fast enough getting to you. Forced me to shout my warnings about how long he had.”

  “How did that spell work anyway? I didn’t know it could be done, bringing someone back to life.”

  Morin shrugged. “You know that some cultures believe it’s possible for a soul to become corporeal for short periods of time. Usually shamans or witches casting to allow a spirit to walk for one day.”

  “Like Día de Los Muertos.”

  Morin nodded. “Sam’s still tethered to this world. Dragging him in wasn’t hard. Now, making him physical again… Well, that took real magic. I’ll show you sometime.”

  Cait thought about his offer but then shook her head. “I might skip that lesson. Too tempting. Next thing you know, I’d be reanimating vics to find out who killed them.”

  “And spells that strong always take a toll.” Morin’s mouth drew a thin line, and his gaze fell away. “I’ll find the watch.” He turned to move to the other side of the shop.

  “Hey, something strange happened. I didn’t find that passage by myself.”

  Looking over his shoulder, he spoke as his brows rose high. “Oh?”

  “The book fell off the shelf, and the pages opened to that precise page.” She rested a hand on her hip. “Do you know anything about that?”

  Morin shrugged. “Heavenly intervention?”

  “You don’t believe in Heaven.”

  He cleared his throat. “No, I don’t. Perhaps we should save this discussion for another time?” He turned again and hurried toward the staircase.

  Cait’s gaze followed him, narrowing. She left the library, winding her way behind the shelves to the small kitchen in the back. The kettle sat on a trivet next to Morin’s earthen pot. She touched the side of the pot, found it still warm, and then took two cups and saucers from his cupboard. Holding a strainer over each cup, she poured the tea. She added honey to hers, a splash of milk to his. Then she glanced at the worktable where the rose quartz crystal ball sat.

  He’d said the ball needed charging. If she failed in her quest, at least he’d be able to watch her actions and tell Celeste what had happened.

  She walked to the table and picked up the ball from where it sat atop a three-legged silver stand. At the first contact, her palms tingled. Curious now, she walked to the gas stove, turned a knob to light a burner, and held the ball in front of it to watch the flame flicker in the rosy depths.

  “Are you here, Mama?” she whispered, casting a glance over her shoulder to make sure Morin hadn’t snuck into the room. The last thing she wanted him to know was that she felt drawn to look. He seemed to think any witch would be eager to expand her skills. The fact she’d turned her back on magic for so long was unfathomable to him. Power was to be embraced, celebrated, envied, according to Morin.

  But Cait wasn’t drawn to magic because of any power it might bring to her. Magic was a tool. If misused, it was a dangerous one. Not something she would ever take for granted. She’d seen the damage magic could do.

  Her mother had ended her own life, by accident, leaving Cait alone to fend for herself and filled with loathing for the man who’d instigated the spell. She’d only lately acknowledged that Morin wasn’t completely to blame. Cait thought maybe some of that loathing was misplaced. Her mother had taken matters into her own hands and tried to perform a powerful spell.

  Had she simply poisoned herself? Or had The Powers decided she’d overstepped her bounds? The possibility was something to consider as she moved forward with her own plan to conquer a demon and defy natural law to take back what had been stolen.

  Flames flickered brighter in her ball, and she leaned closer, watching the red and orange light flicker and then swirl, the ball bending light in the natural occlusions of the rock, blending the flame with its pink hues, then flaring again.

  She half expected the ball to grow hot but held it comfortably in her grasp, turning it to watch the display of blending light.

  “I should ask a question, shouldn’t I?” she asked the ball.

  Light continued swirling in seemingly natural movements, apparently unimpressed.

  “You don’t like ambiguous questions, do you? I should be more specific. Did my mother show me the book?”

  No answer magically appeared, not by vision or changing color.

  “Don’t like yes-and-no questions,” she mused. What else could be accomplished by a scrying ball? “Show me the moment.”

  The center of the ball darkened, the colors growing murky. Slowly, a picture formed in dancing shadow and light—of her, cheeks a faint rose flame, her eyes flickering green.

  Behind her stood a shadow, a figure peering over her shoulder, with long hair trailing downward as she bent.

  Her mother. Cait had no doubt from the slender frame and the particular cant of her head. A pose she’d seen often as Lorene O’Connell bent over the kitchen counter while she cut vegetables or ground ingredients for a spell.

&
nbsp; Cait held her breath as the figure whipped around, glided gracefully to the bookcase, and lifted a finger to curl over the spine and tip the book to the floor.

  “Did you find any answers, Cait?”

  Surprise ripped a gasp from her throat. She nearly dropped the ball, lowering it to her waist as she met Morin’s lazy smile. “You wanted me to charge it.”

  “I didn’t ask you to. I merely mentioned I couldn’t watch.”

  “Well, now you can.”

  “No need to get snippy.” His mouth twisted in a rueful smile.

  Cait walked back to the workbench and gently replaced the ball on its silver stand. No flames swirled, no colors other than its soft pink hues glinted back.

  “Did you see her?”

  Cait shot him a glance. “You know my mother’s here?”

  A shoulder lifted in a shrug. “I’ve felt her presence. Smelled jasmine at times. She’s here.”

  “Why here?” Irritation tightened her hands and she forced them to relax. “Why not with me?”

  “I can’t answer that.”

  Before she could stop herself, she vented her frustration. “Why doesn’t she show herself to me? I talk to strange ghosts, ones I never met in life. Why not her?”

  “Perhaps that’s the question you should ask the ball.”

  Cait shook back her hair. “Did you find the watch?”

  He held out his hand. A man’s gold pocket watch sat in the center of his palm.

  “Is it gold?”

  “It’s valuable, yes.”

  “A sacrifice?”

  “For me. Not you.”

  She picked up the watch and stared at the white mother-of-pearl face. The gold hands that clicked through the seconds. The ornate engravings of vines and grapes that surrounded the clock face. “Where did you get it?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve forgotten, it’s been so long.”

  Not for one second did she believe him, but she let it go. “How do I charge it? If I do it now, will the energy last?”

  “Not here.” He shook his head, his dark hair waving against his cheeks. “Charge it once you’re in the hotel. Perhaps even in the elevator. No use letting any energy dissipate before you put it to work.”

  That’s what I figured. She tucked the watch into a front pocket of her jeans. “Your tea’s getting cold.” She picked up her own cup and saucer and headed back into Morin’s shop, straight toward his apothecary’s counter, sipping as she walked because urgency built inside her again.

  She stepped behind the counter and scanned the shelves and drawers. “Have you rearranged anything?”

  “If I had, everything would be exactly where it was the next time I looked.”

  “Then simple answer, no.”

  While she slid open small cubby drawers to peer inside, Morin gathered other items: a set of scales, a mortar and pestle, small vials, and a tin of charcoal.

  “I’ll package together everything for each part,” he said, reaching for a basket underneath the counter. “Having bundles will make casting simpler for you once you arrive at the hotel.”

  Ignoring the scale, Cait added pinches and handfuls of dried herbs into the mortar. She broke off a chip of benzoin resin, and the scent of vanilla drifted up to her nose. Then she used a knife to cut a chip of frankincense into the mix to mask the aromas of the herbs she blended, lest the demon figure out what she was up to before she could put everything into play. With the pestle she pushed her hand with a twisting motion and ground the ingredients together.

  “I’m adding a bowl and paraffin to your basket.”

  “Thanks,” she murmured, wetting her finger then touching her blended spell. She sniffed, liked the mingled scents, and then tasted it. An acrid tingle on her tongue. She made a face and wiped her fingers on her jeans. She wasn’t sure why she’d felt the need to taste and sniff, but a feeling of satisfaction filled her.

  Instinct guided her, and instinct said the mixture was complete.

  Next, she packaged ingredients for the spell to trap the demon, dropping them into a hemp bag.

  Morin handed her a wine bottle filled with water. She wrapped it in paper and snuggled it safely into the basket.

  “That everything?” he asked, leaning an elbow on the counter.

  Scanning the immediate area, she nodded. “I hope so.”

  Morin raised a finger. “You need a mirror.”

  Cait felt a shiver slither down her spine. “I hate mirrors,” she said, remembering how she’d found Henry Prudoe’s body in one and how she’d broken another after trapping a demon inside it.

  “I know. But when you face the demon, he won’t be able to look anywhere but at himself.”

  She held still, thinking about what Morin said. When she’d faced the demon who had possessed Leland, he had first greeted her from inside the mirror. She’d thought he was hiding to prevent Sam from seeing him, but maybe his action meant more than that.

  Morin rummaged through a cabinet and pulled out a small handheld mirror, the kind a lady might have used to primp in her boudoir.

  “It’s tiny,” Cait said doubtfully. “How’s that going to hide me?”

  “It’s not the size that matters.”

  Biting back a snort, she arched a brow. “When is that ever true?”

  Morin laughed.

  Cait tucked the mirror into the basket, then covered the basket with a cloth. She had everything she needed. She strode around the counter. As her gaze met her mentor’s, she opened her arms. He’d come through for her again. She owed him now.

  Morin smiled, stretching out to accept her quick hug. “Good luck,” he whispered against her hair.

  “I’ll need it.” She tightened her embrace one more time and then stepped back, lifted the basket into her arms, and sighed. “Know a spell to summon a cab?”

  He shook his head. “Say a prayer to The Powers. Something will turn up.”

  He left unsaid, If it’s meant to be…

  Cait tipped the driver and gave him her thanks. Then she stepped down, shaking her head at the irony of arriving at the hotel in a horse-drawn carriage. Faster than walking, but still the plodding gait of the single horse had nearly driven her crazy.

  Who but she would find a horse-drawn carriage traveling down Beale Street in the early morning hours?

  The driver had said he’d been hired for a special event that lasted hours longer than the term of his contract. Not that he minded, as he’d been well paid for his efforts. Both he and his horse were tired, and he was happy for her company as they made their way back to the stables, seeing as how he was headed her way anyway. The old man with a thick white beard was dressed in “royal” livery and driving a carriage with Christmas lights winding around a pumpkin-shaped metal frame.

  Discounting what the carriage looked like, Cait didn’t feel like Cinderella arriving at the ball, although her boots did pinch because she’d been wearing them so long. She waved to the driver and patted the horse’s hindquarters, watching for a moment as they clomped down the street and around the corner.

  Then, tucking the basket’s handle into the crook of her arm, she eyed the hotel, hoping everyone was sleeping. Especially the demon in the walls.

  Once again, she stood in the shadows opposite the hotel, the smell of garbage filling her nose. Streetlights popped and fizzled, lightening then darkening her surroundings, their intermittent hum seeming to enter her body and sizzle along her nerve endings. A taunt she didn’t need. All too well, she remembered the stinging feel of the lash of the demon’s electrified whip. She worried about the coming danger, worried she wouldn’t be strong enough or brave enough to carry out what she had to do.

  The last time she’d faced a demon, she’d had Sam and Jason covering her back. This time, she’d be going it alone. That is, unless she could find the one person whose loyalty she would have to sway to help her.

  If she failed, she needn’t worry about aftermaths. She’d be dead. And glad of it. For living without Sam in her l
ife was unimaginable. Even if bringing him back didn’t solve their problems, didn’t keep them together, just knowing he was nearby, somewhere in the same city—that he was healthy and breathing, that he might find some happiness for himself—would be enough to get her through the rest of her days.

  At that thought, her eyes filled, and she allowed herself one last bout of tears. One last moment of weakness. Before she was a PI or a witch, she was a woman who had also, briefly, been a wife. Not a good one, not by any definition. But she’d known for a time the experience of sharing her bed and her dreams with another living soul.

  Cait closed her eyes and summoned Sam’s image to keep it in the forefront of her mind—dark hair, strong jaw, ripped body, and that intense blue stare—to keep her strong.

  Drawing a deep breath, she stared hard at the tall exterior of the hotel, telling the demon in her mind that she was there. That he had better be ready for a fight. Because she wasn’t leaving without her husband.

  A police cruiser was parked in front of the hotel. Something, and probably several someones, she’d forgotten might pose a problem. She pulled her phone from her pocket and tapped a number.

  “Hughes here,” came a groggy voice.

  “Leland?”

  “That you, Cait? What are you doin’ callin’ me at this time of morning?” Still absent was his usual bluster. In its place was something softer.

  Hearing his tone, she nearly teared up again. “I need a favor, Leland. Still got cops on the elevators and on the stairwell doors leading to the third floor?”

  “You at the hotel?” he asked, his voice sharpening.

  “I’m outside. And it’s time.”

  She didn’t say for what, but he must’ve figured out something big was about to go down. He stayed silent so long.

  Braced, she waited, but he didn’t tell her she had no business being there. Instead, he asked in an even tone, “Jason with you?”

  “No. This is something I have to do alone.”

  “Dammit, Cait. I can’t find another body in the walls. Not yours. Sam wouldn’t stand for it.”

  Pain pierced her chest at the mention of her ex’s protectiveness. “Sam’s dead. I have to finish this.”