Lycan Legacy (A Soulmark Series Book 5), page 35
“Ready?” he asks. My mouth opens and closes, but I merely nod.
We walk side by side up to the house, and with every step closer, a feeling of great unease grips my insides.
“I don’t like this,” I mutter, voicing my thoughts as an ominous influence begins to grow in the air. “It feels….” I look up to him and watch his brows hunch over his eyes in consideration. “It feels like a warning. Maybe I should call—”
The door to the house opens, and in its frame is Aunt Lydia. She’s dressed in all white and eyes us superiorly from her vantage point.
“Astrus mosta.” Her words ring out against the night air with authority, and the house appears to shiver. “Come,” she says, sweeping her hand out behind her. “Hurry, before it closes.”
We move into the house, but I cannot shake my uncertainty, and crossing into the household only worsens my unease. A quick look at Atticus and I’m assured the feeling is mutual.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to suffer through your discomfort. This is no ordinary magic we are dealing with, and so we’ve had to dip into more powerful magic ourselves,” Aunt Lydia says, her eyes hovering over the tense line of our shoulders and rigid postures. “You can go to the open office upstairs. It overlooks the room here”—Lydia gestures to the room to her left as we strip out of our coats—“where we will perform the ceremony.”
I look at our designated area. The open office reminds me of an interior balcony, as it hangs a quarter way over the room below it overlooks.
“Off you go, it’s almost time to begin.”
Aunt Lydia spins around, her long white dress fanning out with the motion. A warm weight settles on the small of my back, urging me away from the room next door full of witches in white.
“Come on.” Atticus's breath stirs the hair tucked behind my ear and sends a shiver down my spine.
We climb the steps slowly, both of our attention drawn to the scene below. The room is clear of what furniture it used to host. Only imprints remain in scattered squares or circles. A chair here… a table there, I note.
The only objects that remain are three standing mirrors. They are equal distance apart from one another and act as tips of a triangle, facing inward toward each other. Just looking at them makes the uncertainty of tonight’s activities even more pronounced.
Atticus guides us to the middle of the banister once we are upstairs. We stand hip to hip as we watch the witches organize themselves below. Aunt Mo speaks to three witches in the far corner of the room. I cannot see her face, but her hands move about wildly to explain something to them. The witches opposite her are rapt in attention.
Meanwhile, Aunt Lydia’s instructions ring the loudest in the room.
“Eldritch witches, take your place,” Aunt Lydia commands with a clap of her hands.
Atticus tenses beside me and stands straighter as we watch six witches gather around the set of mirrors. In each of their hands is a broom, and upon finding their places, they hold them horizontally, waist high. They adjust, closing their ranks a step tighter until every broom is nearly touching from handle to base.
“Brisium,” they say in unison.
The wooden broomsticks make a distinct clink as they snap forcefully together and begin to gently vibrate in the air of their own accord. The Eldritch witches take three steps back, their hands kept out in front of them as if the action alone keeps the brooms held up in the air.
“That’s… interesting,” Atticus mumbles.
I grimace in response, not liking the reverberation of magic in the air. The magic is more powerful and painful, even more so than Luna's outburst. Whatever energy powers this magic is concentrated and hangs densely in the air. It pinches and pricks at my skin. Every breath I take leaves my insides feeling irritated and rubbed raw.
“I have a feeling it’s going to get a lot more interesting,” I say lightly back as I shift my weight from foot to foot and wrap my arms around my middle.
Aunt Lydia circles the perimeter they have created and eyes it critically for any weak points. When she is satisfied, she shuffles over to Aunt Mo and places a hand on her shoulder.
“It’s time,” she says too lowly for human ears to catch, but for lycan hearing in an abnormally quiet room… it’s as if she’s speaking right to us.
Aunt Mo nods. “All right, ladies, take your positions.” They do as they're ordered and stand in the spaces between each mirror, a mere foot away from the broom-circle’s circumference. “Charity?” Aunt Mo calls.
From beneath our private mezzanine, another witch enters the room. Her hair is long and blonde, and her willowy frame drowns in the white cloth gown she dons. Similar to the Eldritch witches, her hands are held out in front of her. But instead of thrusting her palms forward, she enters with her hands cupped.
A whisper reaches my lycan hearing. Words I cannot begin to decipher prickle at the delicate curve of my ear and make me twitch uncomfortably. Atticus grunts, unable to resist the urge to scratch and rub at his ears. I catch his eye, and we stare at one another in quiet trepidation.
“You okay?” he asks, his eyes running over my form. “Doesn’t it bother you?”
My eyes widen comically. “I feel ill,” I tell him a touch breathlessly. “I wish we didn’t have to be here.”
Atticus frowns sympathetically. “They need witnesses from the pack.”
“I know,” I say, turning my gaze reluctantly back to the proceedings below. Aunt Mo and Aunt Lydia are pouring some dark matter out onto the ground to encase the three witches in another ring. This dark ring creates a divide with the Eldritch witches standing behind them.
I’m so engrossed in the goings on of the witches, I jump when Atticus’s hand brushes against my own. I stare down at the offending appendage and my heart races. Atticus says nothing, and he doesn’t move his hand. I dare not risk looking up at his face and slip back into my earlier stance with our hands now touching.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
Atticus’s warm breath fans my neck as he ducks his head beside me. “Watching a magic show,” he says seriously, though I just make out his twitching lips out of my peripheral vision. It never fully forms. “I think we’re better off facing this together,” he concedes after a moment. “If it bothers you—”
I shake my head faster than I can voice my response. “It doesn’t.”
He stiffens momentarily and breathes in deeply before straightening. My heart beats a little faster at the motion, and despite knowing better, I lean closer to him. There is a comfort in our closeness. It rides through the pack bonds, looping around us as the witches carry on.
Charity walks forward, past the two sets of witches and up to the broom ring. From her cupped hands lifts an object. It’s the necklace. I jolt at seeing it, although why I cannot say. After all, this is what we came here for—to use the jewelry to look into the past, and maybe, just maybe, garner something useful about our curses’ origins.
As a clock somewhere inside the house begins to strike three, the lights dim and candlelight flickers to life. And then, the witches start.
“In the witching hour, this darkest time, we call upon your sacred power.”
Aunt Mo’s voice is husky, sedate, and full of power.
“I call upon the sands of time! Vio doxin, sareth.”
The three witches nearest Charity respond. “Vio doxin, sareth.” Their voices echo through the room, dying off in a whispered wind before Aunt Mo continues. She tilts her head back, and an unearthly wind dances through her hair.
“By the power of three,
grant unto thee,
the gift of second sight!”
“Vio doxin, sareth,” the Eldritch witches repeat. The room swells with heat, dry and blistering.
“To see the truth,
to know the way,
I cast this spell in every way!”
“Vio doxin, sareth. Abrath malox. Vitume clos.”
The chanting of the last line brings about a new energy to the room. The unnatural heat cracks like heat lightning, and I let out a yelp as the candle flames shoot upward. Atticus shifts to wrap an arm around my back before his hand settles on my waist. As he does, the air begins to glimmer with golden streaks.
The necklace is propelled into the middle of the triangle, and so follows the glimmering light. My breath catches in my throat as I watch the magic run through the air, leaving behind dust-like particles that shine on brightly. I dimly register grasping onto Atticus’s arm as if he is the only thing to keep me afloat. Atticus shivers and moves to stand behind me, his hands coming to grip the banister as his arms continue to shake.
“Just breathe, Winter,” Atticus says, exhaling loudly as if to show me how. I follow suit, trying my best to focus on the rise and fall of his chest at my back.
But the air is thick with magic, and every drag of air burns painfully on the way down.
“Look,” he rasps as his grip tightens.
The golden light circles around the set of mirrors like a cyclone and the mirrors' surfaces begin to ripple.
“Oh.”
The three witches chant something new that is indistinguishable and full of magic.
Three things become clear to me very suddenly as images begin to play out in the mirrors’ surfaces. First, if Atticus weren’t here to support me, I’d be in a crumpled ball on the floor. Second, there isn’t just magic in the air but evil and sickness and malice. The glittering light whips out of its self-contained cyclone only to snap at dark, smoky tendrils that escape the necklace.
And last, it’s working.
It’s not just images that string themselves across the mirror’s surfaces but moving pictures. Like flashes of memory playing out against a screen, they play out in flickering bursts.
It is mesmerizing, and soon enough, the pain that accompanies the magic fades and dulls. I am saturated in its energy and completely inundated to its will—whatever it may be.
“What are you doing?” Atticus asks, squeezing me back unbearably tight against his front.
I stumble back a step, shocked to find that I have moved forward at all. But both of my hands now grip the banister and strain to pull me closer. I gulp at the air, but there is no satisfying my lungs.
“Atticus? Are you feeling this?” This lightheaded, dizzying, madness. A woman’s voice rasps in my ears, growing louder and louder until I am a whimpering mess. My legs collapse beneath me, but Atticus is there to catch me.
“Yes,” he responds gruffly. He lifts me and presses my body between his and the banister to support me completely. “Just hold out a little longer.”
But a little longer is almost too much to bear. Below the magic builds to a crescendo slowly. A throbbing builds at the back of my head as I watch. The scenes continue to play out along the mirrors, growing in speed. They flicker and jump around until I think I might be sick.
I wish to look away, really I do, but there is no hope of turning my gaze away. Whatever magic guides this spell has us both enchanted as well. The wolf in my mind is eerily silent. Its presence muted. And yet, the feeling isn’t quite as awful as I imagined it to be.
The spell ends with Aunt Mo dropping to her knees and the scent of blood cutting through the air. She gives a hacking cough as the spell breaks apart and the magic dissipates from the room in angry sparks.
Lydia rushes to her side, helping the older woman to her feet. I note, with a gasp, that red droplets streak down her cheeks.
“Maureen.”
Her name ushers from me almost soundlessly. I push away from Atticus’s hold, or try to.
“Not yet,” Atticus says in a low voice. His body trembles against mine as he tries to regain his equilibrium. A low groan issues from his large frame, and he turns his head into the crook of my neck. Inhaling deeply, he calms himself.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
His head moves against my neck. Up and down.
“We should go down,” I say, anticipation crawling up my body and chasing away the magic zipping through my veins.
“Don’t you think we should give them a moment to collect themselves?” he asks.
Down below, the witches pull together around Aunt Mo. A seat has been brought out from another room for her to sit on, and though she attempts to laugh off their concern, there is no hiding her relief in the action. Someone brings out a glass of water, and the other witches flutter out of the way of the delivery. It’s Charity. She presents the water to her mother on bended knee.
I squirm in Atticus's hold, and he releases me with a scowl marring his beautiful face. I peer at him beneath half-lowered lashes then flick my gaze back downstairs.
“What’s so important that you can’t wait to get out of here?”
“I—” A thrill of excitement races through me. “—I recognized something in the mirror.”
Atticus stares at me dumbfounded.
“What?”
“The tree. I know that tree, Atticus.” His scowl returns, but I don’t wait to face his skepticism. I escape from his hold and head down the stairs as fast as my feet can carry me.
The witches glare as I intrude upon their space, but an unseen force pushes me through their small ranks. I kneel beside Charity and place a hand on Aunt Mo's knee.
“I know those places,” I say.
Murky blue eyes, so much hazier than the day before, stare straight through me. Aunt Mo’s lips thin to two lines. “Yes,” she murmurs. “You saw?”
I nod, unsure if she can see the action. “I did. The paths they walked are our roads now. The river bend with its boulders is the same as where I played as a child. And the tree….” The large birch with its golden autumnal leaves. “I grew up climbing in that tree. We hold festivals nearby throughout the year. Couples carve their name into its trunk.”
“Good.”
A moment of silence passes, and then Charity rises. “What did you gather?” she asks of the witches who stood closest to the mirrors.
The three share a look, and then a girl with glossy dark hair and pretty almond eyes steps forward.
“Not enough,” she replies. “The sacrifices took place at the same tree and on a full moon in each instance. To undo what has been done, the reverses of the hexes will need to be done at the same tree and on a full moon. The problem is the hexes themselves. They were difficult to decipher and determining what hex belongs to which curse will take time.”
“Make a record of what you witness while it’s still fresh in your mind, then go home. Take the bath salts we made earlier and soak yourselves for at least an hour among them. We don’t want the darkness staining your souls.”
The three girls nod and hustle off to another part of the house. The Eldritch witches begin to whisper among themselves, no doubt waiting for their own instructions. Charity dismisses them, directing them to use the set of oils in the kitchen to cleanse themselves. When they depart, Charity drops to a knee once more before her mother.
Her blue eyes shine like sapphires. “What would you have me do?”
“We will wait to contact Diana until the girls give us their record,” she responds, exhaustion in her voice.
“And then?”
The floor creaks beneath tentative feet, and a look over my shoulder reveals Atticus. He stands nearby, hands tucked into his pockets. He stares at Aunt Mo with a solemn expression haunting his face.
“Thank you,” he says, his gaze flickering over her depleted form.
Aunt Mo summons a brilliant smile. “All is well, and the end is near,” she professes with relief.
“Is it?” Charity inquires, reaching out and taking her mother’s hands.
Aunt Mo nods, but her smile dims. “I have a feeling there is an element to our efforts we have forgotten,” she confesses. “But I cannot fathom what.”
Charity takes a moment to ponder her mother’s words. “You’re right,” Charity says. A frown tugs her lips down. “It will take precious time to decipher the order and words used to compose the hexes.”
“Go home,” Lydia says, joining the conversation and eyeing Atticus and me with thinly veiled interest. “We’ve still much to do tonight, including recording tonight’s events.”
Atticus comes to my side, holding out a hand for me to take. I do so and rise with a small hiss. The throbbing at the back of my head grows more substantial, but there is a comfort to be found in the simple skin-to-skin contact with him.
“We’ll be in touch,” Atticus says and pulls me toward the front door, leaving the three witches to quietly converse.
I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but the circumstances make it somewhat unavoidable. Even as I process what has just happened and the ache pulsing in my body, their words reach my lycan hearing.
“We need a direct bloodline,” I hear Charity insist. “You know exactly what we should do—”
“Hush, now,” Aunt Mo snaps before a small, pained moan escapes her. “That path lacks the proper strength behind it. Besides, there are more ways than this to achieve our goal.”
Aunt Lydia snorts, but it is Charity’s voice that speaks next. “Yes, Mother,” she says somewhat caustically. “All we need is someone who can speak to trees. Then we’ll get the account word for word.”
A dose of cold hits me in the face as Atticus opens the door. His hand has once more found mine, and he tugs me forward, but my feet dig in to the ground. I turn to the witches, my face losing all its color.
“I know someone who can speak to trees,” I say, my words louder than I anticipated. Three sets of eyes pin me in place, but only two of them widen in acknowledgment.
Atticus brushes past me with a single step. His frame half blocks me from view. His blue eyes peek over his shoulder at me briefly, and then back to the trio of witches.
“Who?” he asks.
The clock begins to chime from one of the other rooms in lieu of our hush. The docile noise strikes four times, and in the process, knocks me back a step. Has an hour really passed? The spell couldn’t have been longer than ten minutes or so.
