“I like this analogy already,” he said, letting his voice deepen.
I didn’t scold him. I went on: “The sand touches the sea and the air and stretches along the coast and inland to the soil. Witchcraft is like that: it receives the waves of power—the gods and goddesses of the various pantheons—and touches the energy of nature, influences it, to shape witches’ will through rituals and spells. But sorcery digs through witchcraft, burrowing deep into places you cannot see to find the treasure—the power—below the surface. It consumes that power, directly creating an immediate change, not just influencing a future one.”
“Witchcraft is sand. Sorcery is buried treasure. Got it.” He turned up the bowl and drank some of the milk.
I laughed softly. “Male oversimplification strikes again.”
He lowered the bowl and wiped his mouth. “X marks the spot.” He scanned over the page. “So what do the rest of us have to do during the ritual?”
“Decide if you want to witness it or stay the hell away, I guess.”
“What about Beverley?”
“If we’re successful, Theo will change. I’d rather Beverley didn’t see that. Not yet, anyway. Lorrie wanted to shelter her from the visual until she was a little older. We should honor her wishes.”
He held another bite ready and I noticed he was not using a regular spoon, but one of my big serving spoons. “Yeah. She is a bit young to see something that gruesome, I guess.” He took the bite, munched happily.
His phone rang and he mouthed the word “Lycanthropia.” I knew it was band business. I took the papers back from Johnny and strolled to the window and read them over again while he talked.
The rite was more intricate and involved than anything I’d ever done before. That alone didn’t intimidate me—all rituals follow a logical sequence, and this was just like doing everything I usually did, just fancier and with more flair. But this spell called for a full-scale ceremony with visualization and chanting and the searing ley-line energy. That did intimidate me. I absolutely had to focus and get this spell right the first time. In the next few hours, I had to memorize it and rehearse it in my mind. I had to see it perfectly in my mind over and over, the way athletes visualize themselves making all the right moves of their sport.
The life of a friend was on the line. If I didn’t act, she’d die. So I was going to take action. My doubt was about the level of energy I’d be drawing from the ley. What if I couldn’t maintain my focus? How would I know what enough was? If it wasn’t enough for a full transformation, we’d have to put her down. Having to actively take her life like that would be so much worse than watching her life slipping from her.
Johnny closed his cell phone. “Sorry about that, Red.”
“Don’t worry. I still can’t believe you get a signal out here.”
“Aw, my magnetic personality just pulls the signal in.”
“And I expected you to brag about having your own relay tower.”
“Oooo. That’s a good one.”
I got up and headed for the door. “Hey, by the way, thanks.”
“For what?”
“For believing in me.” He gave me the guy-nod that men make at other men. I started out, then stopped. “Wait. You never told me what beholders are.”
“Oh. They’re vamp wannabes who’ve made it to the next level. They’re marked humans, lackeys who think they’re gonna earn the kiss. They’re usually tough and athletic, and the vamps use them as spies. As far as I know, they use beholders hard—like they say about racehorses, ‘ridden hard and put away wet.’ Vamps don’t seem to feel the same allegiance to the beholders—who are doing everything they can to prove themselves worthy—as they feel to the beautiful offerlings.”
“Offerlings?” I was learning a lot about vampires.
“The ones who have been approached by the vamps because of their looks or their intelligence. It’s supposed to be a huge honor to be sought by the vamp elite. Offerlings get marked twice at the start and, even if their mark is only days old, they have more authority than a beholder with a decade of faithful service.”
“Bet that goes over real well with the beholders.” My sarcasm won me a smile.
“The beholders usually end up killed in the line of service. It’s rare for a beholder to be turned, as I understand it.”
“Their chosen ones are offerlings, and their spies and muscle are beholders. How perfectly beatific.”
“Of course. They can’t be called something mundane.”
Pompous vampires wouldn’t name something using ordinary words. But, according to Beverley, Goliath wasn’t a conceited snot. That whole haughty vampire persona couldn’t be a PR scam like the fairies glamouring up wings and acting all benevolent, sweet, and giggly in public—could it? Was I putting more faith in vampirical stereotypes than in facts?
“Johnny.” Gentle words weren’t coming to me, so I just blurted it out straight. “This Lustrata thing. I don’t want to play Atlas, with the world on my shoulders.”
His satisfied expression dissipated as he sobered into a blankness that left only the stern and imposing Wedjat gaze. I felt small. “The world can’t afford for you to think that way, Persephone.”
“I think we should do something in addition to the wards, to increase the protection of the house,” I said.
Nana looked up from the Codex. “I’m already working on that,” she said as she patted her Book of Shadows and the Codex simultaneously.
“But I can help.”
“You should take a nap or go for a walk and get some air. Or meditate or something, to get away from here for a bit. The distance will give you clarity.” Nana was formidable in her spell-work, and her expression warned against any thought of further questioning.
Duly rejected, I chose to go out on the porch for some air. The crisp wind felt good. I wanted to walk, but with beholders on the loose, how did I dare to go for a carefree walk ever again? And I knew that my comfortable days of anonymous security from the likes of vampires were over. That hurt.
Could I ever leave Nana alone? I mean, she couldn’t go into a nursing home ever again, even if her personality didn’t cause problems. She’d be exposed there, open to harm. And Beverley. Poor Beverley. She knew Goliath! Knew a softer side, it seemed. Or an act. How could a killer of his nature even care about a woman like Lorrie and her daughter?
How could I get distance and clarity when my worries never rested?
I stepped off the front porch, determined not to be a prisoner inside my saltbox. I strode purposely around the house taking long, slow paces and studying the fields. Middle of nowhere. Just as well. In the middle of society, neighbors would turn away, shut their eyes, and lock their doors. At least out here I didn’t have a false sense of security. Everyone who would come to my aid was already here and seemed to put some value in my honesty, even if it had come late.
By the time I arrived at the cellar, it seemed like an inviting distraction. Throwing back the door, I stepped down and in as if I had a purpose.
It smelled like cold darkness should smelclass="underline" empty and damp. Winter smelled like this, when wet snow lay like white blankets on the resting world. The last two years of my life had been a winter. The surface was an organized routine building up buffering white layers, while below dormant issues, emotions, and thoughts waited. Ironically, just as winter was settling in on the geographical world where I lived, the thawing of my frozen life had unavoidably come. Myriad roots within me stirred, stretched. The complications piling up were all the sprouts.
One word echoed in my head: Lustrata.
There, beyond the golden beam of light from the open doors, I stepped into Johnny’s regular cage. The hay crunched under my shoes, and it gave a grassy hint of spring to the otherwise wintry cellar. I wanted more of that fresh growth, to think about the earth and not myself. I lay down in the hay, breathed deeply of the aroma, and closed my eyes.