Dark Magic

32

Holly slipped her cell phone into her pocket. She sat at the dining room table in her aunt’s apartment, enjoying a breakfast of fresh fruit salad and an omelette au fromage that Milly had prepared for her. Her aunt sat across the table, eyeing her intently.

“Is something wrong?” Milly asked.

“Peter said the story on the news isn’t true. Wolfe’s alive, and he’s gunning for us.”

“You make it sound like we’re in a Western, my dear.”

“I didn’t know what other expression to use.”

Milly put her fork onto her plate, and wiped her mouth with a napkin.

“What did Peter suggest we do?” her aunt asked.

“He wants me to warn Reggie. Peter also wants us to stay in the apartment, and hide like defenseless women.”

“You sound put out with him.”

“I hate when he talks down to me.”

“There is no shame in hiding, especially when someone is trying to kill you. Perhaps we can watch a movie together, or play canasta.”

Holly folded her napkin, and placed it beside her plate. “We can help catch Wolfe, if Peter will let us.”

“How do you propose doing that?”

“We could set a trap for him, and use one of us as bait.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. Wolfe is a monster, and so are the people he works for. Peter is correct in telling us to stay out of sight. It’s for our own good.” Milly rose from the table, her own breakfast barely touched. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take a hot bath. Invite Reggie over for lunch, will you?”

“Of course, Aunt Milly.”

“And stop being in a huff with Peter. He’s just doing what he thinks is right.”

“Yes, Aunt Milly.”

Her aunt walked out of the dining room, leaving Holly to stew by herself. She didn’t like being treated like a child. She supposed being the youngest in the Friday night group had something to do with it, but that still didn’t mean that her ideas didn’t have merit. She could catch Wolfe. She was absolutely sure of it. She rang Reggie on her cell, but got no answer. Maybe he was still asleep, or taking a shower. She called again. Still nothing.

“Damn it,” she swore to herself.

What was she supposed to do if he didn’t pick up? Sit here, and bite her fingernails to the quick? She was a witch. She didn’t need to rely on a stupid cell phone to contact him.

She quickly came up with a plan. It was sneaky, and made her skin tingle with excitement. Her aunt was going to be furious with her if she found out. Better to beg for forgiveness than ask permission, she thought. She rose from her spot at the table and headed down the hallway. Reaching the master bathroom, she stopped, and stuck her ear to the door. She heard water running, while her aunt sang an opera to herself. Perfect, she thought.

Her next stop was the kitchen. From the refrigerator, she removed a plastic container filled with black dirt. The dirt had come from the root and herb garden of Mary Glover, the witch from whom she was descended. Dirt was an important part of a witch’s ritual, and provided a spiritual connection to the earth. She placed a small handful onto a paper towel. Pouring a glass of water, she picked up the towel by the corners, and headed for her aunt’s study.

“Forgive me for stealing your precious dirt,” she said quietly.

* * *

Her aunt’s study was on the other side of the apartment. The blinds were always closed, the room in perpetual darkness. Holly positioned herself at her aunt’s desk, flicked on the lamp, and placed her props in front of her. She gave Reggie another call; still no answer.

“Don’t want to pick up your phone, do you?”

She went to work. Dipping her fingers in the water, she began to sculpt the dirt into a small figure, or poppet. Poppets allowed a witch to become connected to someone, even if the person was thousands of miles away. Holly was molding a likeness of Reggie. Reggie was built like a scarecrow, so she made the arms and legs unusually thin. He was also a dapper fellow, and liked to dress well. Grabbing a pencil, she used the point to add a bow tie, and lines for his perfectly combed hair. Finished, she placed the poppet on the blotter so it faced her.

“Hello, little fellow,” she said.

Now came the hard part. Picking up the glass of water, she held it a few inches from her face, and focused on the water’s shimmering surface. The ritual was called scrying, and would allow her see Reggie wherever he was. Long ago, witches had used large pools of water to scry on people, while today it was more common to use a glass of water like she was doing.

“Water, oh so bright, let me see Reggie Brown in your perfect light.”

She waited for what seemed like an eternity. A bubble rose to the water’s surface, then another. To her delight, an image of a man appeared inside the glass. It was Reggie, lying in bed in striped pajamas. He was yawning, and appeared to have just woken up.

“Wonderful, he’s home,” she said, feeling relieved.

She watched Reggie climb out of bed. A minute later, he was at his kitchen sink, sipping a hot drink. He was a confirmed bachelor, and the counter and sink were cluttered with dirty dishes. He went into his living room, and switched on the TV. The news came on, with Wolfe’s death the lead story. Reggie pumped the air joyously with his fist.

“Oh, no,” Holly said.

She called him again on her cell. In the glass, Reggie glanced at the ringing phone in his kitchen, but did not answer it.

“Pick up the phone, damn it,” she swore.

Reggie still did not answer. Instead, he returned to his bedroom, where he selected a pair of dark slacks and blue blazer from the closet, and tossed them onto the bed. Next came a sporty dress shirt and solid blue necktie. He was planning to go out and celebrate, not knowing that danger might be lurking around the corner, ready to take him down.

Holly kept calling his apartment, and Reggie kept refusing to answer. Panic set in. She had to do something, and she was not about to call Peter and beg for his help. This was her time.

Rising from the desk, she crossed the room. In the corner of the study was a small closet. She flicked on the overhead light and entered. It was empty, except for the safe set into the wall. Many of the building’s apartments had safes just like this one. Her aunt had entrusted her with the combination years ago, and she recited it from memory while spinning the safe’s dial.

The safe clicked open, and she pulled back the door. The interior was lined with shelves filled with witch’s tools: a human skull, a cracked mirror, a jar of chicken bones used to cast spells, a box of talismans for removing spells, and the most precious item of all, a braided lock of Mary Glover’s hair. These items had been passed down among the Glover witches for centuries, and would someday be hers.

She decided upon the lock of hair. Shutting the safe, she hurried from the study.