Magic Burns(78)

Andrea sighed. “It makes sense, I suppose.”

“One big problem with this theory. I have no clue how the Shepherd and Red’s necklace fit into it. Everybody wants the necklace, but nobody will tell me why.”

“Where is it now?” Aunt B asked.

“I put it into Curran’s hand. He promised to keep it safe.” I rose. “I’m going to chat with Morrigan’s bowman. Andrea, you wouldn’t watch my things for me while I do my hop and dance, would you?”

She got up, moving the chair back with a screech. “You don’t even have to ask.”

“Why not just ask the bowman?” Raphael said.

I smiled. “Because he’s a thief and a liar. The Witch Oracle is neutral and will tell me the truth.”





* * * *


Behind the Bouda house lay a nice wide field. In the middle of the field grew an old oak. Massive, its branches spread so wide they almost touched the ground, it cast a deep shadow in moonlight. Perfect.

“This isn’t complicated.” I headed to the oak, carrying a big ceramic bowl and a pitcher full of water. “I’m going to do some weird dancing. If all goes well, I should disappear.”

“What do you mean, disappear?” Andrea followed me and Raphael followed Andrea.

“Go into the mist. A calling is a very old spell. It’s used by witches to find their familiars. Usually it’s done in the woods. The witch dances and her magic draws the most compatible animal to her. There are many variations of the spell. Some are tailored to draw a man, although in my experience nothing good ever comes from that one. Some draw the caster to a specific person. It won’t work with a normal person, otherwise I’d be where Julie is right now, but Bran is so saturated with magic, he should be able to pull me to him.”

I unzipped my leather vest and put it under the oak. Next I unbuckled Slayer’s sheath and handed it to Andrea. Boots and socks followed the leather. Technically the dance worked best when done naked, but I didn’t feel like prancing in the nude into Morrigan’s Hound’s arms. I’m sure he’d be thrilled to see me.

I stood with my toes touching cool slick grass and took a deep breath. I knew how to do a calling. Someone had taught me a very long time ago, so long, I couldn’t even remember who or when, and I’ve seen a couple of them done. I’d just never done one myself.

Andrea sat in the grass. Raphael landed next to her.

I poured water into the bowl, unbuckled my belt, and sprinkled the herbal powders from the compartments into it: lady fern and ash for clairvoyance, and a touch of wormwood to keep interference from curious things to a minimum. A bit of oak, for masculine reference. I had done a shabby job grinding the oak and instead of fine powder a few leaf sections floated on the surface.

I didn’t bring my spinner but a few weeks ago I had happened on a very good staff of European ash and promptly defaced it by carving small chunks from the shaft and loading my belt with them. European ash was one of the best woods for a holding enchantment. I dropped one of the ash chips into the water and whispered the incantation.

The makeshift spinner shivered. It trembled like a fishing float when a fish nibbles at the bait, and spun in place, at first slowly, then faster and faster.

“What is it for?”

“It connects the herbs with magic.” I pulled my throwing dagger out and gave it to her. “If something goes wrong, drop the dagger into the bowl. Please don’t try to dump the bowl or take the spinner out.”

“How do I know when something goes wrong?”

“I’ll start screaming.”

I took off the wrist guard I wore on my left arm. There go the silver needles. The other throwing knife, the three shark teeth, the r-kit…

“How much hardware do you carry?” Raphael raised his eyebrows.

I shrugged. “That’s about all of it.”

I stepped into the oak’s shadow. I was stripped down to my T-shirt and pants, no belt, no sword, no knife. Except for the blood collecting kit and the knitted square of hair and nettle, I carried nothing. I imagined a wide circle in the oak’s shadow and dropped the knitting in the middle.

I returned to the imaginary circle boundary and began to dance.

Step by step I made my way around the circle, bending my body, following the dance. Midway through the second circle, a tight line of magic snapped from the small knitted square and clutched at me. It flowed through my head into my feet, splitting into smaller currents where my skin touched the ground, as if I had become a tree. It led and pulled me.

Vaguely I saw the boudas gather from the shadows, drawn to me like moths to a flame. They watched me with glowing red eyes, swaying gently with the silent music of my dance. And then I heard it, a simple distant melody. It grew with every second, heart wrenching, sad but wild, pure but imperfect. It caught me and wormed its way into my chest, filling my heart with what my Russian father called toska, a longing so intense and painful, it made me physically ill. It weakened my knees; it sapped my will until only melancholy remained; it made me miss something, what, I wasn’t sure, but I knew I missed it keenly and couldn’t take another breath without it.