Dark Flame (Immortals 4)

A look that prompts me to snatch the envelope right out of her hand, careful to handle it by its edges as I smile weakly and tackle the stairs. Hands shaking, body thrumming, as the contents reveal themselves to be a paycheck I definitely earned but have no intention of cashing, along with a brief note asking if I’ll please let him know if I’ve no plans to return so that he can hire another psychic to replace me.

That’s it.

No: What the heck happened?

Or: Why did you go from nearly kissing me to tossing me across your yard and into the patio furniture?

But that’s because he already knows. He’s known all along. And while I may not know just what he’s up to, he’s clearly up to something. He may be ahead of the game for the moment, but unbeknownst to him, I’m about to catch up.

I toss the envelope toward the trash, figuring my lack of response should be answer enough. Directing it in a complicated choreography of loops and circles and one very perfect, spot-on figure eight, before bringing it down with a soft, barely heard thud and heading into my walk-in closet where I retrieve the box from the top shelf—the one that holds my supplies—everything I need to undo what I’ve done.

The time is right—providing for a fresh new start, the perfect opportunity (the only opportunity according to Romy and Rayne) to break the spell I unwittingly cast when I accidentally summoned the dark powers to aid me. The moon is now waxing, which means the goddess is rising, making her ascent, as Hecate, the one I mistakenly called upon before, plummets to the underworld where she’ll mark her time until a month from now when it all c

omes full circle again.

I reach into the box, retrieving the candles, crystals, herbs, oils, and incense I’ll need, taking a moment to organize them neatly and placing them in the order in which they’ll be used. Then I shed my clothes and lower myself into the tub for my ritual bath, bringing along a sachet filled with angelica for protection and hex removal, juniper for the banishing of negative entities, and rue to aid in healing, mental powers, and the breaking of curses, along with a few drops of petitgrain oil that promises to banish evil and remove all negativity. Sinking all the way down ’til my feet hit the far edge and the water fills up around me, grabbing a few clear quartz crystals from the ledge and plopping them in too, as I chant:

I cleanse and reclaim this body of mine

So that my magick may properly bind

My spirit reborn, now ready for flight

Allowing my magick to take hold tonight.

But unlike the last time I indulged in a soak, I don’t envision Roman before me. I don’t want to see him until I’m ready, until it’s absolutely necessary. Until it’s truly time to undo what I’ve done.

Any earlier is a risk I can’t take.

Ever since the dreams began, I can’t trust myself.

The first night I woke in that cold, clammy sweat with images of Roman still dancing in my head, I was sure it was just a result of the horrible night that I’d had—learning the truth about Jude—turning Haven by giving her the juice. But the fact that they’ve returned every night since, the fact that he intrudes not just in my night dreams but in my daydreams as well, the fact that they’re accompanied by this weird, foreign pulse that’s constantly strumming inside me—well, it’s pretty much convinced me that Romy and Rayne are right.

Despite my feeling perfectly fine just after the spell was complete, later, when everything began to unravel, it became pretty clear that the damage I’d done was nothing short of major.

Instead of binding Roman to me—I bound myself to him.

Instead of him seeking me out in order to do my bidding—I’m shamelessly, hopelessly, seeking him.

Which is something Damen can never know. No one can know. Not only does it prove his earlier warning about the downside of magick, insisting that it’s nothing to be toyed with, and that amateurs who immerse themselves too quickly often wind up in way over their heads—it may be the end of his patience with me.

It may be that last and final straw.

I take a deep breath and sink even lower, enjoying the way the water laps at my chin, as I soak up all the healing energies that the stones and herbs are meant to provide, knowing it’s just a matter of time before I rid myself of this unholy obsession and put everything right. And when the water begins to cool, I scrub every square inch of skin, hoping to wash away this new tainted version of me in order to recover the old, then I climb out of the bath and straight into my white silk hooded robe. Tying the sash snugly as I head back into my closet and reach for my athame. The same one Romy and Rayne criticized, claiming it was too sharp, that its intent should be to cut energy not matter, that I’d made it all wrong—urging me to burn it, melt it down to a stub of metal, and hand it over to them so they could complete the banishing ritual, not trusting such a complex task to a misguided novice like me.

And though I agreed to burn it before them, running the blade through the flame again and again in a sort of magical sanctification, I shrugged off the rest of their plan, convinced they were just seizing the chance to make an even bigger fool of me. I mean, if the real problem, as they claimed, was my weaving a spell on the night of the dark moon, then what difference could a simple knife make?

But this time around, just to make sure, I add a few additional stones to its handle, adorning it with Apache’s tear for protection and luck (which the twins are convinced I’ll need plenty of), bloodstone for courage, strength, and victory (always a good combination), and turquoise for healing and strengthening of the chakras (apparently my throat chakra, the center of discernment, has always been a problem for me). Then sprinkling the blade with a handful of salt before running it through the flame of three white tapers, I call upon the elements of fire, air, water, and earth, to cast away all dark and allow only light—to push out all evil and summon the good. Repeating the chant three times before calling on the highest of magical powers to see that it’s done. This time sure that I’m calling on the right magical powers—summoning the goddess instead of Hecate, the three-headed, snake-haired, queen of the underworld.

Cleansing the space as I walk three times around it, incense held high in one hand, athame in the other, pulling up the magick circle by visualizing a white light flowing through me. Starting at the top of my head and working its way through my body, down my arm, out the athame, and into the floor. Weaving and curving and circling around and around, encouraging thin strands of the brightest white light to entwine and grow and reach ever higher until joining as one. Until I’m wrapped in a silvery cocoon, a complex web of the brightest, most shimmering light, that completely seals me in.

I kneel on the floor of my clean, sacred space, left hand held before me as I trace the blade down the length of my lifeline, sucking in a sharp intake of breath as I plunge the tip deep into my flesh and a great swell of blood rushes out. Closing my eyes and quickly manifesting Roman sitting cross-legged before me, tempting me with his irresistible, deep blue gaze and wide inviting smile. Struggling to get past his mesmerizing beauty, his undeniable allure, and straight to the blood-soaked cord tied snug at his neck.

A cord soaked with my blood.

The same cord I placed there last Thursday night when I created a similar ritual—one that seemed to work until everything went tragically wrong. But this time, everything is different. My intent is different. I want my blood back. I intend to unbind myself.

Hurrying through the chant before he can fade, singing: