thorough job. Nothing left of the ghost for him to call forth, just the echoes of his end in the cards.
That was fine; he wasn’t finished yet.
He rubbed his hand clean on his jeans and took a piece of chalk from his pocket. He was good with tarot cards, but ritual work was where he
excelled
. He supposed there were more formal ways to do what he did; the few times he’d sat down and chatted with other practitioners, they’d been dubious of his methods. Most of them followed specific traditions: Norse mysticism, Kabbalah, Vodoun. Cavale’s training was informal and haphazard, pieced together from what Father Value had taught him and hours spent deep in library stacks. He pulled from wherever seemed appropriate, and it
worked
.
By the time he was done, the side of the table closest to him was covered in symbols, and half the ectoplasm Elly had collected was gone. All he needed to do now was activate the spell. He had half a jar of lamb’s blood in the fridge but dismissed it. Old, dead blood was usually perfectly good for cursory magic, but he had one shot at this. He needed something more potent.
The closest knife was atop the stove, where he’d set out the things he’d need for the casserole on a cutting board. He snatched it up and jabbed at the fleshy part of his palm, at the base of his thumb. It wasn’t dramatic, as cuts went—he didn’t need more than a splash—but it stung something fierce all the same. He gritted his teeth as he squeezed drops out over each candle’s flame. Four hisses as his blood hit, filling the air with the smell of hot copper.
He reached into the container with his wounded hand, blood and ectoplasm mixing as he closed his fingers around what was left inside.
It was faint, this sensation of someone else’s magic. Like the whine of electricity beneath a television’s normal volume, it was hard to pick up beneath Cavale’s own workings. He closed his eyes and concentrated on that whine, chalking the sigil Elly had seen onto the table. He pulled his wounded hand out of the ectoplasm and slapped it down atop the rune.
Everything slick and oily and cold, footsteps in an empty room, a thready heartbeat pumping its last, a dying breath caught in cupped hands, owls screeching overhead and the cloying scent of lilies.
Then he was choking, something thick and grainy filling his mouth, closing off his airway. With no breath to blow out the candles, he swept his hand across the table, smearing the runes and symbols into nonsense as he fell to his knees. Tarot cards fluttered around him as the spell broke, the whine dissipating with the last of the ectoplasm. The blockage went away, leaving him gasping and sputtering as he dragged in breath after sweet, sweet breath.
Something coated the inside of his mouth, his tongue, his teeth. Cavale spat, and his saliva was dark with dirt.
Grave dirt,
he thought.
That’s grave dirt.
He pulled himself to his feet and poured a glass of water from the tap, desperate to get rid of the taste. He rinsed, spat, rinsed again, and gulped down two full glasses before he turned back to the mess he’d made.
All of his cards had landed facedown.
All but one, that was.
It showed a man sneaking away from an encampment, a bundle of swords clutched in his arms. He looked back furtively, as if checking to see if he’d been discovered, or if anyone was in pursuit.
The Seven of Swords.
Or, as Cavale sometimes described it to his customers, the Thief.
4
T HE NICE THING about having a night-shift-type job in Boston was, Elly didn’t have to fight rush-hour traffic. She drove north at a decent speed, feeling only marginally bad for the people behind those miles and miles of headlights headed in the other direction. Still, she wasn’t entirely enamored with driving itself, despite the freedom the car represented. Strange, how the
idea
of flight kept her steady. She was doing okay in Crow’s Neck, living with Cavale. She didn’t want to go, but knowing
That was fine; he wasn’t finished yet.
He rubbed his hand clean on his jeans and took a piece of chalk from his pocket. He was good with tarot cards, but ritual work was where he
excelled
. He supposed there were more formal ways to do what he did; the few times he’d sat down and chatted with other practitioners, they’d been dubious of his methods. Most of them followed specific traditions: Norse mysticism, Kabbalah, Vodoun. Cavale’s training was informal and haphazard, pieced together from what Father Value had taught him and hours spent deep in library stacks. He pulled from wherever seemed appropriate, and it
worked
.
By the time he was done, the side of the table closest to him was covered in symbols, and half the ectoplasm Elly had collected was gone. All he needed to do now was activate the spell. He had half a jar of lamb’s blood in the fridge but dismissed it. Old, dead blood was usually perfectly good for cursory magic, but he had one shot at this. He needed something more potent.
The closest knife was atop the stove, where he’d set out the things he’d need for the casserole on a cutting board. He snatched it up and jabbed at the fleshy part of his palm, at the base of his thumb. It wasn’t dramatic, as cuts went—he didn’t need more than a splash—but it stung something fierce all the same. He gritted his teeth as he squeezed drops out over each candle’s flame. Four hisses as his blood hit, filling the air with the smell of hot copper.
He reached into the container with his wounded hand, blood and ectoplasm mixing as he closed his fingers around what was left inside.
It was faint, this sensation of someone else’s magic. Like the whine of electricity beneath a television’s normal volume, it was hard to pick up beneath Cavale’s own workings. He closed his eyes and concentrated on that whine, chalking the sigil Elly had seen onto the table. He pulled his wounded hand out of the ectoplasm and slapped it down atop the rune.
Everything slick and oily and cold, footsteps in an empty room, a thready heartbeat pumping its last, a dying breath caught in cupped hands, owls screeching overhead and the cloying scent of lilies.
Then he was choking, something thick and grainy filling his mouth, closing off his airway. With no breath to blow out the candles, he swept his hand across the table, smearing the runes and symbols into nonsense as he fell to his knees. Tarot cards fluttered around him as the spell broke, the whine dissipating with the last of the ectoplasm. The blockage went away, leaving him gasping and sputtering as he dragged in breath after sweet, sweet breath.
Something coated the inside of his mouth, his tongue, his teeth. Cavale spat, and his saliva was dark with dirt.
Grave dirt,
he thought.
That’s grave dirt.
He pulled himself to his feet and poured a glass of water from the tap, desperate to get rid of the taste. He rinsed, spat, rinsed again, and gulped down two full glasses before he turned back to the mess he’d made.
All of his cards had landed facedown.
All but one, that was.
It showed a man sneaking away from an encampment, a bundle of swords clutched in his arms. He looked back furtively, as if checking to see if he’d been discovered, or if anyone was in pursuit.
The Seven of Swords.
Or, as Cavale sometimes described it to his customers, the Thief.
4
T HE NICE THING about having a night-shift-type job in Boston was, Elly didn’t have to fight rush-hour traffic. She drove north at a decent speed, feeling only marginally bad for the people behind those miles and miles of headlights headed in the other direction. Still, she wasn’t entirely enamored with driving itself, despite the freedom the car represented. Strange, how the
idea
of flight kept her steady. She was doing okay in Crow’s Neck, living with Cavale. She didn’t want to go, but knowing
Similar Books
