by Jaime Munn
CHAPTER EIGHT
Through the course of the evening, we stuck close to the couch. I alternatively had Sofia at my side, pressed close against me, and Erica. At one point I even ended up between both of them. In the end, it was Kevin who was chaperoning three jovial women who might have had a little more than they should have to drink.
He insisted on getting us all home. Some women hate the idea that a man should feel his presence imparted a safety that was otherwise lacking, but I had no qualms with a little extra security. Since my place was the closest to Dusk, I was the first to receive safe passage across my threshold. The alcohol made me maudlin at the prospect of leaving Sofia and Erica alone in the backseat of Kevin’s car. I reluctantly closed the door after waving them all a rather listless attempt at a cheery goodbye.
I stomped up the stairs to my apartment proper and poured myself a tall glass of water. As I stirred in a spoonful of sugar, I wondered if I would ever see Sofia again.
I didn’t go to bed straight away. We had nibbled at a large platter of tapas over the course of the evening, but it had not sated my hunger. Worse, it had not cushioned me to the effects of alcohol.
I made myself my usual after drinking fare of a fatty breakfast meal of fried bacon, and eggs, and heavily buttered toast. I slathered honey over my toast and sat down with another tall glass of water and sugar with a dash of salt and baking soda thrown in.
Witches use science too occasionally, especially when they wanted to balance electrolytes after a night of too much drinking. Sadly, for a witch, too much drinking was the next sip after the first sip. Not that witches were massive supernatural drunks who levitated badly on the dance floor or anything. I got drunk just like the next girl, but it was the effect on my blood sugar levels and witchy reserves that made me feel as helpless as a baby. Casting a spell on alcohol was like running home after a marathon.
The apartment felt too quiet after the loud atmosphere at Dusk, which had only grown as the evening had progressed and more people had begun to fill the space. The cutlery seemed to scrape over the ceramic plates no matter how gingerly I held them. I struggled not to grit my teeth at every sharp note. Livia owed me, I thought. She knew I hardly touched liquor at all. I wondered if the drink had been a ploy to loosen me up around Erica. I’d found it hard to focus on the gallery owner though with the beguiling werewolf hidden right in our midst.
Sofia had slung back her drinks like they did not affect her supernatural system. That wasn’t the case. I knew it from seeing more than my fair share of drunk werewolves first hand. There should be a joke about drunk werewolves transforming because it’s that freaking hilarious. It had been clear that Sofia hadn’t been so drunk though. I wondered if every drink she’d ordered at the bar had had alcohol in it. It was rare for a werewolf to allow themselves to get drunk in a crowded room full of strangers. While I was sure Sofia could kick back and let loose with the pack like any other moon child, she’d been on her best behaviour tonight.
I shivered deliciously at the thought of her without inhibitions.
I finished my breakfast with the clock hands at least sitting in the right general area for the meal. It was two in the morning, and I had to open the store in six hours. I groaned.
I washed up the dishes because I wouldn’t have time to in the morning. The thought of getting home tomorrow night to find ants working hard to clean up after me was very unappealing. We had already reached a Mexican standoff on my sugar stores. The last thing I needed was for the war to flare up again.
The window before the kitchen sink opened up on the small balcony that I’d crowded with herbs and potted plants. Since stores and office spaces surrounded me, I had never put lace or curtaining up. Livia hated that. She felt like a blonde in a horror movie, she always said, whenever she stood in front of that naked window at night. It was one of the reasons she had sworn never to house sit for me. Fortunately, the potted plants didn’t need much babysitting.
A moth threw itself at the window as I finished up the last dish. It was difficult to see much more than the fluttering form of it, like an insubstantial ghost, with the glare of the fluorescents above me. I turned away. I got a refill of my sugar water, turned out the lights, and headed to the bedroom. The last soft and muted thump of the moth against the window whispered behind me.
I undressed carelessly, flinging my dress across a chair and kicking off my shoes. Dropping the jewellery on my dresser, I was about to slip under the covers when I heard another soft thump. This time against the bedroom window. I parted the curtains to peer out.
A moth threw itself against the window pane, wings quivering. I thought it might be the same moth. I was able to see more of it now. Grey velvet with black markings, it seemed to be etched with a skull design in the rare moments it was still enough and correctly oriented to discern a pattern. I drew the curtains. I got into bed and switched off the light, listening to the soft thump, thump of the skull moth. It seemed that I heard it still for a long while after turning out the light, struggling to get in. I shuddered when it was finally silent.
Later, I fell asleep.
CHAPTER NINE
I woke independent of the alarm clock. It was still dark out. The room was a black canvas painted with half seen vague shapes. I remembered fragments of my dream, the skull moth like a terrible omen flinging itself at me no matter which direction I ran. It was something else that had wakened me though. I couldn’t tell what though. My skin crawled with the thought of what it might be. There’s a reason almost every child in the world believes in a monster under the bed. I tested my witchy reserves. The magic felt fragile and weak, but it would have to do in a pinch. I found myself cursing Livia again. A small part of my mind insisted that she’d only put the drinks in my hand, I’d swallowed them down willingly and without protest. Logic, I decided, was a fair weather friend. My thoughts jumped back to the bump in the night that had woken me from my sleep as I heard a murmur in the air like an indrawn breath.
“It’s coming,” a voice whispered from the dark. It sounded like Leah. It sounded like a warning. I barely had seconds to prepare, but instinct and the phantom’s words had a charm flying from me moments before something slick and oily shifted through the black canvas of my room.
The charm was weak and embarrassingly inept, but it was enough to hold the congealed darkness at bay for a few precious seconds, as I came fully awake and considered my almost invisible opponent. I had no doubt that this creature of the night was courtesy of Grace St John. I tried to recall what I had sensed the moment our hands had touched, hoping to gain an idea as to the nature of the conjuring directed against me. The oily darkness of it was a firm clue that helped guide me.
I recalled glimpsing an ebony mirror. It had been part of a jumble of impressions that had washed through me as I discovered just how black her heart was when I shook the wicked witch’s hand.
I had known what the mirror was even then though I’d never seen one first hand. This was the kind of mirror that the dark queen from the tale of Snow White would have wielded, I had always thought. It was a portal to a dark place deep within the veiled world where things that humankind had long collectively called demons lurked. Demon was a poor word for the multitude of dire beings that dwelled so deep in shadows that they were part of the very fabric of darkness. It was fortunate that they could never truly escape their domain. Only fools who wondered into that realm would fully face the horror of these beings. Through the ebony mirrors, they could project a form that witches called sendings. Grace St John had called out a sending for me.
“Shit,” I said aloud. I could hear the fear in my voice.
My heart was in my throat as the darkness pressed at my fragile spell. It warped and bent to the power of the sending.
“Shit,” I repeated fighting hard not to let fear paralyse me. I concentrated on drawing my energy, cursing at how weak the magic felt as I drew on it. The darkness pressed through my first charm and came at me with a sudden speed t
hat had it inches from my face as I released the second spell. I wasn’t sure the magic would work. It was a trap charm spun to hold the sending in place until day sprung up and cast it back to the darkness from which it had come. The charm itself was not difficult, but with an alcohol poisoned body, I was far from assured that it would work.
The spell sprang forward. The sending was as quick at withdrawing, disappearing back into the darkness as filaments of light tried to wrap themselves around it. The spell light was faint. It seemed so slow in comparison to the fluid retreat of the sending that I thought it would fail. For a heart stopping moment, it seemed like it had. The edges seemed to fray. Then with a sudden impetus, it was on the oily darkness at the far edge of the room, tangling pale weaves of light across that formless fragment of the night.
I didn’t turn away though I wanted to. The sending had been terrifying enough in its shapeless form, but as the cords of light crisscrossed over it, a twisted figure began to emerge and give substance to the nightmare. It made no sound as the spell cords wound across it, but it writhed and shook and fought against them. I grimaced when strands of light winked out in defeat, but still others grew and held their firm grip on the darkest flesh. Had it had a voice in this world the sending’s screams would have terrified the town.
I wondered if deep within the veiled world, in that place where the demon dwelled, it screamed from a more substantial throat than its spirit wielded here. I shuddered at the thought.
The darkness had many mouths. I struggled to classify the limbs that protruded from it as my spell engulfed it. It would haunt me, a monstrous form forever part of the evil pantheon that would visit my dreams, but that was a far away concern. My fragile magic was fraying. The spell light net that had been meant to ensnare the sending till daylight could banish it back to the dark depths of the veiled world would not last a handful of minutes, let alone the hours till sunrise.
Strands broke and winked out. The oily darkness writhed and contorted. As many mouths as I saw screaming silently, gnawing at the glittering strands of light, I imagined a hundred more unseen and snapping in my direction. It would tear my spirit apart, ravage my soul and swallow my spark if it could. It would be a terrible and painful death. It would leave the pathologist with a conundrum as to exactly how I had died. It was a witch’s worst nightmare; leaving a beautiful corpse. It meant you’d not been strong enough to survive even on the cusp of the veiled world. The edge where the everyday world knitted itself raggedly into the less quantifiable world of myth and magic and the supernatural.
I gritted my teeth. I was no weak sapling to be done in by a wicked witch and her dark sending. I forced myself to ignore the horrible fascination compelling me to watch the darkness roil against my web of light. I summoned what energies I could and made myself glow. The light sparked and sparkled and flickered. I felt like a Christmas tree in its knickers as I opened the drawer beside my bed and surveyed my candy stash. The candies and chocolates in my bedside table were selected for sugar content alone. It looked like I was stockpiling for some witch-Armageddon. I opened a random candy bar and blessed the creators of refined, simple sugars, and their nearly instantaneous boost to my witchy reserves.
Blessed be candy, I thought.
I swallowed down a whole bar in the fewest bites I could, glad that I was sleeping alone and no one would witness my blissful gluttony. It didn’t matter that this was a case of life or death; eating chocolate bars will never be considered a chore period. I had failed to effectively convince anyone of that and believe you me my young self had tried…a lot.
The sending seemed barely clothed in my light spell, feeble strands almost swallowed by the oily darkness. I felt something brush against my skin and recoil, a cold and searing touch of spirit flesh to mortal flesh and bit back a scream of terror. The sending was almost free. Sensing my renewed reserves of energy it was striking out before I could spin my sugary boost into a spell against it. I refused to give in to the panic.
The bed felt cold. I wondered how much of the sending was oozing across it. More burning cold touches licked across my skin. The light I had infused through it flickered out and bloomed black like they were claw marks from some savage beast. I swallowed, breathed against the pain that came with the sending’s touch, and forged the same spell I had spectacularly failed to pull off successfully the first time.
Blessed be candy, I thought again, as the spell released. The bright and burning light that burst forth from me was like that of a sun powered by pure sugar and calories.
“Eat chocolate and die,” I spat at the sending as a powerful light flashed against the darkness. It shot threads of brilliant light that wove quickly and surely over the oily spirit form of the shadow creature. The sending twisted and silently shrieked, but nothing would free it now from the pure spun sugar-born light that overwhelmed it. When the whole hideous monstrosity was covered in light, I twitched my fingers. Like a drawstring purse, the light weave constricted until the sending was in a pouch of burning light. It resembled a fallen star suspended above me.
I got out of bed and moved to the window, drawing the curtains back. I was breathing hard and raggedly. Like I’d run a mile in Livia’s heels. I beckoned the light pouch. It drifted to hang before the window like a bright dream catcher. I silently commanded it to stay there till dawn when the sending within would be cast out of this world and flung back, a pale shadow of itself broken by the pure light of day. It would never consort with Grace St John again.
I didn’t for a minute believe that this was her only demon that she knew how to call through the ebony mirror, but it made me smile thinking that I’d lost her this one, even if it were but one of many.
The delight quickly faded when the throb of a headache started, like the thudding of a tiny hammer. All sharp notes that quickly cut through my thoughts like a scythe. I vowed to steer clear of any place with a bar for the next several months at least.
CHAPTER TEN
I headed through to the kitchen, turning on lights as I moved through the house. There were no dark shadows that stubbornly resisted the light. Grace had only sent the one sending after me. Had the voice of a phantom not stirred me from my sleep and given a warning, one would have been enough.
I made myself a sweet tea, fooling myself into believing that I could go back to sleep. The headache swelled into a behemoth. I ended up in the bathroom throwing up and wishing I could turn out all the bright lights that burned through my eyes and into my pounding brain. It wasn’t an option. I couldn’t cast another spell to save my life. I relied on modern magic to protect me. I bet you never realised that turning on a light was a little bit more like a spell than you imagined.
Only when the morning was turning the sky orange and pink and deepening blue did I feel safe enough to leave the toilet bowl. I brushed my teeth and rinsed my mouth before heading to the kitchen and getting a pot of coffee brewing. I threw heaps of sugar straight into the coffee pot. Though my stomach rebelled at the thought of food, I forced myself to pour out a bowl of sweet, bright Froot Loops; my sugared cereal of choice. They look so happy swimming in milk and more sugar. It was like Mary Poppins had designed them. Still, a single spoonful of sugar would never do.
I felt the sunrise as though it were a tidal wave crashing over me. The light purse unravelled, and the sending was naked to the kiss of the sun. It shattered like a breaking mirror. Though its screams were not audible to me, the banishing of the creature struck a silent note through the world that I could feel to the core of my being.
I heard the neighbourhood dogs set up a chorus of howls and grimaced at the thought of those who would complain about the unwarranted noise. The only creature that did something for no reason was man. They didn’t know that something awful had just left their world; shot back to the darkest depths of the veiled world where even their nightmares would seem benign. What they did not sense, was sensed by others.
My sweet coffee brewed, I poured myself a cup and added more sugar
for good measure. It didn’t improve the pounding in my head, but I trusted that it would in time. I fell into the routine of getting ready for the day. After a long, hot shower, I felt almost myself again. I texted Livia. I could almost hear her groaning back at me in her response. I wasn’t the only one suffering in the morning light. It was my turn to bring round the morning designer coffee courtesy of Coffee-on-Main, where exotic java was the norm, so I signed off with a see you later. I wondered if Sofia would be in Tangles when I brought the coffee round.
Which Light opened promptly every morning, whether I was sick, over-boozed, over-witched, or all three. Still, I spent a good ten minutes outside peering into the shop, checking for things that most people would never see. The creepy Victorian angel lamp was burning its light brightly, and nothing untoward showed itself. My witchy senses were on high alert, but nothing pinged, so I let myself in. The happy chime of the old-fashioned doorbell that I had inherited from the previous owner of the store seemed a little discordant. I had a second breakfast of a chocolate bar and washed it down with a sweet cup of instant coffee, which I kept hidden in a cupboard far from Livia’s prying eyes. Instant coffee was far worse in her eyes than tea.
I made a few sales before slipping out of the store leaving the ‘back in ten minutes’ sign in the window. The streets seemed very quiet, as though the psychic imprint of the banishment of the sending had subdued the ordinary sounds of the day. Grace would know by now that her attempt to deal with Emma’s witchy self-appointed godmother had gone astray. I could picture the black witch in her spell room plotting her next move. I shuddered at the thought.
Although on the outside Grace St John had seemed the epitome of a modern woman, her spell room was like something out of the past. A clutter of objects, spelling books, bell jars filled with curious items, and an antique table that looked too heavy to move had come to me through our touch. Unlike the amber light that suffused my basement, however, there had been long, dark shadows. The light had been mottled and sickly. I had never thought that the colour of one’s soul could so affect the light that filtered through from the veiled world, but it made sense to me as I pondered it.