by Kat Turner
The fifth, an empty cot in the middle of a dingy basement.
The sixth, a wormy pile in the center of a pentagram. Someone had knifed the word “sacrificium” in scratchy white streaks over the gruesome visual.
Nausea wrenched Helen’s stomach as bile vaulted up her esophagus. But the pictures could be a scare tactic, a deliberate manipulation engineered to induce panic. Best to remain as calm as the bleak situation would allow. She clenched Brian’s forearm. “We can’t say for certain—”
“Where is she? What have you done?” Brian shouted at Joe, agony tearing ragged holes in his voice.
Joe put up his hands. “She’s fine. This is a threat, a shot fired. But rest assured, they haven’t done anything yet. They want you. But they will retaliate. Which is why I’m telling you, you can’t back out now.”
“Oh, you best believe I won’t rest assured.” Brian ran to the bedroom. He returned hopping into jeans. A wrinkled T-shirt haphazardly clung to his torso, hiked up enough to show a dot of dark blue bruise above his hip. A creepy sensation tightened her skin. She hadn’t noticed the mark when he’d been naked minutes ago.
“What’s going on?” Thom scratched his head of mussed hair.
“I’ll explain later,” Helen said to the bewildered bass player. Brian’s bandmates could serve as allies, eyes and ears.
Cell phone pressed to the side of his head and pictures clutched in his free hand, Brian paced. “Tilly, thank God. Thank God. You’re at your Beverly Hills flat right now? Good. Good. Stay there baby, okay? Lock all of the doors and windows and get out your pepper spray. Call nine-one-one if anything suspicious happens, and I’ll be there in a couple of hours. In the meantime, I’m sending over a security detail. What? No, you’re not grounded. I’ll explain soon. On my way right now. Don’t move.”
With a massive sigh, Brian hung up, shoved his phone in his pocket, and stabbed a finger into the entrails picture. “Don’t you dare hide anything or lie. Who sent these?”
Joe fished a hankie from his back pocket and sopped a glistening brow. “I don’t know. Like I said, ditching the Bronze Phase wasn’t the right move. But the good news is the Silver Phase is next week, and when you go you can make amends.”
“Fuck off,” Brian yelled at Joe. Hurrying into his shoes, he turned to Helen. “I need to leave. Come to the airport with me. You’re welcome to fly to Los Angeles, but if you need to head back home, I understand. I apologize, I’m…” His voice broke like he battled tears.
Helen’s heart hurt for Brian, but at the same time a sense of duty and obligation crystalized inside of her. Literally, crystalized. She had an idea for how to use the crystals and bust out a Left Hand spell that could help them get to the bottom of this insanity.
The universe had already punished her for choosing the wrong magic, so no putting the genie back in the proverbial bottle. Might as well use the powerful Left Hand path to maximum advantage.
She’d better get bold, take control, and use her witch powers to put Joe in his place and protect Brian and his daughter from harm. This dire situation called for hardcore witchcraft.
“I’ll stay. I have to wrap some things up here before I leave, but I’ll be fine. I promise. You go take care of your daughter, and we’ll be in touch soon.”
Brian closed his eyes. “Are you sure? We have another few shows on the Western seaboard. I’m going to take Tilly along with us for the rest of the tour, never let her out of my sight. After the performances are over, I’ll be free for a bit. The finale is in LA, eight days from now.”
Joe made a nervous noise, like he struggled to suck in oxygen, a second after Brian mentioned the final show. Rubbing Brian’s arm with comforting touches, Helen studied the manager. He picked a sore on his cheek and sent a darting gaze this way and that. Why had he reacted to Brian’s comment about the finale? Did the final show relate to this Silver Phase?
“I’m fine. You focus on your family right now,” she said.
Brian hugged Helen, pressing her to his body and encircling her with both arms in a gesture no doubt as much about his comfort as hers. “Thank you. I’ll ring you as soon as I can.”
She didn’t feel right about letting him slip away, but no way would she stop Brian from taking care of his child. “Sounds good. Keep me updated.”
“Bye for now.” Brian broke the hold, kissed her lips, and joined Thom in the hallway.
“Bye for now.” The words washed her tongue with poison. But this moment was not about Helen or her feelings.
Thom grabbed Joe above the elbow and dragged him behind as he followed Brian.
“My room’s right over there. I’m staying on this floor.” Joe writhed against Thom’s hold.
“Not anymore you aren’t. I texted the front desk and had them disable your key card. My mate Brian said you were fired. Meaning if you don’t cooperate, I’ll have someone much less pleasant than me escort you from the building.”
The three men walked to the golden elevators, Joe bitching his protests.
Helen secured all three locks on the hotel room door. A heat-seeking missile on a mission, she dashed into the living room, shook the bag of crystals onto the carpet, and cracked the grimoire. Her intuition churned like a whirlpool under the sea, frantic and strong.
Chewing her lip as a hunch festered, she arranged the incomplete set of crystals, the sets of seven each missing their clear ones, into two lines. Different shapes and sizes, some shiny and others matte or waxy, they made a motely crew of rainbow nuggets.
Two paths, two groups of crystals.
Dark magic caused a lot of trouble, but she couldn’t turn back now. At some point, perhaps she’d try the Right Hand method of drawing from her inner strengths, but now was not the time. She couldn’t afford to sacrifice power to chance, not when she needed quick results for getting the drop on Joe and helping Brian and Tilly. She had to work harder than ever to protect relationships with those she cared about, and at least she had experience in that area.
Wait, why was she interpreting her actions that way? This situation was completely different from the times she’d labored to win the approval of foster families with her brains, moxie, humor, and adaptability. Right?
Helen made a blubbery noise with her lips and evicted herself from the funhouse of her spinning thoughts. Dipping into the past wasn’t allowed. Time to act, to move, to fight for safety.
She picked up the yellow stone in the Left Hand sequence, its sunny hue bringing a bit of cheer. Yogis associated the color yellow with the manipura chakra, the energy wheel at the navel. And boy, did she have fond memories of finding her inner strength doing meditations associated with that one. Strength sounded useful right about now, too.
The feel of the stone in her palm, smooth and round, pleased her. Meditation centered around this color had helped Helen find conviction, self-confidence, and personal empowerment during a time when she’d lacked all three.
But again, no point in nostalgia. Helen opened the book to the approximate page of the spell she’d done in her apartment before an idea struck her. She could mix Right and Left magic and perhaps mitigate fallout from the darkness.
Speaking of Right Hand practice, astral travel could help crack the demonic sacrifice plot. She’d start by accosting Joe and scaring him into giving up the details, the location of the clear crystal, and a way for her to recover it. Immense personal satisfaction validated Helen. Being a witch was freaking awesome. Super empowering, and she couldn’t wait to learn the extent of her powers.
After some flipping past random words and drawings, Helen paused on a page with a graphic. On the warped, stiff parchment, a staircase rendered in sumptuous black ink dipped down and soared up, the ends meeting in an infinity loop. Pretty cool, like an M.C. Escher drawing. Some text wasn’t in English, but she could make out enough to apprehend meaning.
For the advanced practitioner of the spirit element, seamless merging into and out of the astral highway can become akin to teleportation. O
nce mastery of this travel method is achieved, practitioner may enjoy such abilities as limited corporeal levitation and telepathy. Proceed with caution, always using personal talismans to minimize byproducts and harmful aftereffects.
Helen snorted. The boat had already sailed on minimizing byproducts and harmful aftereffects, but she’d still involve her special crystals as much as possible. She laid the yellow stone on the top of the page, right above the staircase. With any luck and a little skill, she could use astral projection to find Joe, scare the crap out of him, and extract every drop of info.
She tapped her foot. Was she an advanced practitioner at this point? The book didn’t clarify what distinguished one level from the next. Whatever. She had to be close. “Let’s do this.”
Seated crisscross on the floor, she fixed a soft gaze on the crystal and slowed her breathing to a meditative rhythm.
Helen fell into meditative bliss, toasty and perfectly spaced out. She’d done a memorable meditation like this years ago, at the beginning of yoga teacher training, and saved her life, her sanity, her health. Guided meditation taught her how to appreciate herself and purge a lifetime’s sludgy backup of negativity.
Time passed, a hazy blue and pink tint soon lightening dark skies outside the hotel. Helen’s perception looped and spun, fading in and out, merging dreams and wakeful impressions until she couldn’t be sure if she was awake or asleep.
She jerked, an abrupt and involuntary twitch that shook off the stupor of her trance. Helen swung her legs in empty space, the movement propelling her upward. She bonked the crown of her head on something hard.
“Ow.” Rubbing a swelling lump, she flailed for purchase, drifting like a man overboard in the ocean. But she wasn’t in the ocean. Helen swum in the hotel living room, hovering near the ceiling. Excellent.
She flipped, planting palms and soles against smooth plaster. From its spot on the floor, the crystal shone with the muted glow of mellow sunlight. Recognizing the rock’s sentient quality, a friend looking out for her, Helen nodded at the personal talisman.
Using hands and feet for traction, she crawled upside-down across the ceiling.
Cool, cool. Pretty witch-tastic. Her vision changed, apprehending in the murkiest of senses what lay beyond the walls and door of the hotel room. The confines had become semi-translucent, formed out of blocks resembling gray gelatin.
In other rooms, maids fluffed pillows, people channel-surfed. Jelly walls and hallways wobbled, coming into focus and revealing an expanding array of visuals. Empty wine bottles, beds, someone replacing a coffee filter.
As she swam through semi-solid space, muscles burning as she worked to push past barriers, a certain objectionable someone came into view. Apparently he’d slipped away from Thom.
Same sloppy clothes, bald head, frantic mannerisms, Joe shoved a credit card into the crack of space between a hotel room door and the jamb.
The card broke, falling to the floor in two halves. Joe doubled over, howling. Drifting closer, Helen sucked her teeth, embarrassment gunking up her insides.
She’d never met a worse train wreck of a person. And Joe’s off-the-rails behavior made him pathetic, yet troublesome. He was the same as a junkie in the full bloom of addiction, willing to stab his mother for a fix. And by stab his mother, she meant cut open Brian. Which begged the question: what did Joe stand to gain from all of this crazy?
One way to find out. She shoved her way through gelatinous slabs until she broke out into the hall, golden ball of light spinning by her solar plexus acting as a beacon of strength. She could beat this guy. She was tough, smart, vital. Had this in the bag.
Stuck to the ceiling of Joe’s hallway, Helen concentrated on drifting down until she floated to the floor. Her bare feet hit nubby industrial carpet designed to withstand repeated shoe traffic. Strange, the physical things one notices after spending a fair amount of time ungrounded.
“Hi,” she said.
Joe shrieked like a little girl. His eyes blacked with hate. “Quit creeping up on me, you dumb bitch.”
“What’s your problem with me? Are you a generic misogynist, or do you have a personal grievance?”
“Lick my nuts.” In a futile, impotent gesture, he slapped the closed door. He cussed, jiggling the handle.
“Are you frustrated that your magic isn’t working, so you resent me because mine does?”
Joe slid Helen an apprehensive glance of interest, wrinkling his nose in a childish, pouty tell. “No.” A juvenile whine fit his expression.
She laughed. “Liar. I get it now. But what’s in that room you want so badly?”
“I’m not going to stand here and tolerate an interrogation by Brian Shepherd’s groupie whore.” He scratched his ass, and she scrunched her nose when a rank odor fouled the air.
Helen pinched her thumbs and forefingers together into mudras, closing her eyes and bending her head to the ceiling. “Okay, that’s fair. Unfortunately for you, I have something you want, being the hex generator and all. But never mind. Whore, out. Beam me up, astral highway.”
She chanted a long “om,” pretending like she’d dematerialize any second. Hook, baited.
“Wait.”
Helen tilted her chin down and opened one eye. Nibble, nibble, good little prey.
“Can you get in there? With your magic?” Contempt a slimy film on the word “magic,” he nudged the door with his toe.
“Sure. What’s in it for me?”
He scoffed. “I dunno. Money. Lots and lots of money. You won’t even have to suck any more rock star cock—”
Helen took two big steps to Joe and clasped a hand around his throat, shutting him up as she pinned him to the door. Ugh, this guy. This fucking guy.
“What did I say back at the fair about slut shaming? Forget it, you blew it. Now. Unless you want me to crush your trachea with my superior witch strength, tell me everything you know about the plot against Brian. Where the clear crystals are, what they’re being used for and how to end the scheme, and the deal with these parties. Go.”
“Or else what? You’ll choke me to death in this hallway? Good luck getting away with murdering a Hollywood executive, you white trash, cow-town tramp.”
The slight slid off of her back. “No, I don’t plan to kill you. Not here, not like this at least. Not when I could boil your flaccid little penis in my cauldron while keeping you alive, listening to your cries as you beg to die.”
She tightened her grip. A cross between a croak and a whimper belched from his parted lips.
“Speak.” She clenched harder. His pulse hammered against the pad of her thumb.
He pressed his mouth into a line, face turning a livid purple.
Acting on a hunch, Helen rolled her eyes, pointing them at a spot between her brows, site of the mystical third eye. A click sounded in her head.
Joe’s mouth dropped.
They had to be pure white, like Nerissa’s were in the house. Awesome.
“A vision of the white eyes is the first sign of my witchcraft curse against you coming into fruition. Next, I enter your dreams and steal your peace. After that, I enter your body and steal your health. Finally, I enter your thoughts and steal your mind.”
A bunch of random references cobbled together from horror movies and enhanced with her imagination, but hey. Every player benefitted from keeping a good bluff handy.
Joe scoffed. “Nice try. I saw guys doing worse shit than that on my lunch break last Tuesday.”
’Kay. Time to break out the big guns and try Nerissa’s out-of-body move. Helen barreled her stare into Joe, concentrating until a pressure originating deep within his head tugged on the muscles behind her eyeballs. She dragged her gaze from his up to the ceiling, and the weight of his essence followed her up there and landed on a spot near a lighting fixture.
“Wh…why am I on the astral plane?” Joe whispered.
“Because I’ve taken control of you and sent you there. And unless you start yakking, I’ll plop your eternal
soul anywhere I please and draw from your worst nightmares for inspiration on where to put you. I’m thinking the bottom of a sewage tank. Or how about sharing a body with a torture victim while your meat sack lies comatose in a hospital bed feeling every cut and burn?”
“Okay, okay.” Joe spoke in a raspy voice. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
She loosened her hold, and he coughed and wheezed. “I’m listening.”
“It’s a cult, a fringe thing that takes elements from all kinds of places, from Satanism to European paganism to far-out, esoteric occult mysteries you’ve never heard of. They’re into channeling, opening doors to other dimensions and welcoming through various entities and beings. Also enriching personal power by learning to remote view and levitate.”
He massaged his neck. “The hot thing is still celebrities. Twenty years ago, the ‘it’ practice was turning them into vampires. Now the name of the game is possession.”
“Getting demons to possess celebrities.”
“They turn girls into sex slaves and have them do the most depraved shit you can imagine, but for the most part everyone wants in on possessing the celebs.”
“Why?”
Joe’s expression grew shrewd. “Control. The host has to agree to join forces with the parasitic visitor for the ritual to work. Once union is achieved, the host body can live for decades beyond the natural human life span, but without the side effects that come with being a vamp. And the drones appear normal on the surface, regular, no fangs or sun allergies. But on the inside they’re compliant. Docile. Do as they’re told, able to be programmed and controlled from afar by spells and shit. And we can keep eyes on them through remote viewing and astral travel and intervene in case they get out of line. Real convenient.”
The agenda was to make Brian a pliable drone easy to pilot, a zombie to order around and send on stage, making money for other people without protest or a pesky mind of his own.
And those poor women. These dudes were some sick motherfuckers. “Where do you get your spells? How did you conjure this demon from the pit—yes, I know—and why are my crystals involved?”