Chapter 12

 

A cell phone’s persistent ringing rattled around in my sleep-riddled skull. Thank magic, there were no scary images and creepy dudes in it. Groaning, I lifted my face off the pillow and squinched my eyes open. Pale sunlight leaked through the bedroom blinds. Still drowsy, I realized it wasn’t my cell phone’s ring tone. Raphael scrambled out of bed hurriedly and he picked up his phone. The conversation was brief. Raphael’s responses were mostly one-syllable words. Soon, he hung up the phone, ending the call. Without even a warning, he abruptly switched on the lights in the room. I grumbled, hurling obscenities at the archangel as the flash of light assaulted my eyes, making them itch. I glanced at my wristwatch. It showed almost 6 a.m. but given how exhausted I had been feeling—courtesy of the short demon’s sorcery that had entered my body, plus the recent fight—I pulled the blankets over my head to cover my eyes. I needed more sleep. Amused, I thought I was turning into a zombie, but whatever: sleep topped my priorities.

“Wake up, Aiya,” Raphael urged, his voice flinty and demanding. I let out a deep sigh and finally opened my eyes, just in time to see him as he put on his clothes and fixed the belt on his jeans. I had to concede the view was excellent: he looked deliciously sexy in his tight pants.

“I know you’re tired and messed up, but we need to take action. Durga has arranged a meeting with a blood sorceress. She can dissolve whatever that is inside you.”

In several minutes, I had fully dressed myself. I put on an old pair of jeans, a pink tank top and a long-sleeved shirt above. Since it was early in the morning, I wasn’t hungry; I usually had my first meal for the day at lunchtime. Raphael teleported us to the blood sorceress’ address, which turned out to be in the suburbs of Oregon.

The archangel and I stepped on the sidewalk of a line of nice and cozy houses, a wide mountain range in the background. This neighborhood belonged to the very wealthy class, given the spacious and well-kept gardens in front of the houses. The occasional car was parked in the street, but I was sure they belonged to visitors since all the houses had garages.

“This way,” Raphael said, pointing toward the first house left of us. He strode forward and I came in tow. The house was a white two-story building with a wooden veranda and a tall metal fence circling it. As Raphael reached the fence, he pressed the bell attached to the fence. A hoarse male voice spoke on the intercom, asking what we wanted. Raphael said we were friends of Durga, and the voice paused, then the line snapped shut. In a few seconds, the metal fence beeped, cracking open and we entered the blood sorceress’ residence.

Two lines of flowers paved the way to the cozy house, and I took a look at them as we passed them by: roses, violets, daisies, and many more grew in the garden, enjoying the bright sunlight. I think I even spotted African Daisies. They looked like regular daisies except their florets were light purple; I knew about them from grandma Onawah. It was still early in the morning and the sun wasn’t blazing hot but shined benevolently. On some of the flowers’ stems I recognized dew; they filled the air with fragrant aroma and my senses relaxed. When we reached the house, the front door stood ajar, and an older butler waited for us inside.

“Please, come in. Lady Morgana is coming soon,” he announced with a faint British accent and closed the door after us. Inside the house, we found ourselves on a black and white tile floor in a long corridor. The butler led us through the corridor and opened another door, this one with a wooden frame and glass paintings in the middle of it. We arrived in a spacious living room, my feet stepping on a Persian carpet. Large, beautiful paintings of landscapes hung on the walls, and a crystal chandelier adorned the ceiling. The game here was opulence: this Morgana gal was everything but poor and, apparently, she liked to demonstrate her wealth.

As I took a good look at the living room, inhaling the air of it, I figured out the magical signature of the place: it was neither light nor dark, rather something in between. It had the scent of ink mixed with ripe fruits with the vague taste of slightly rotten cheese. I’d bet this Morgana sorceress was dabbling in both white and dark magic, and considering her house, it was only a matter of how much her clients were willing to pay for either of the magic arts.

Raphael and I slid into the fluffy couch that stood in the middle of the room and waited for the sorceress. She came slower that I’d have liked it, carrying herself with the grace of a queen, dressed in a dark blue evening gown. The sorceress had a perfect, dark make-up and I wondered if she hadn’t just woken up, but instead, she’d been awake all night long, and would probably soon go to sleep. Morgana was a tall, dark-haired woman in what appeared to be her early 30s; her dark make-up contrasted her olive-white skin. She carried herself with an air of grace and stateliness that I was sure all monarchs had in the past.

“Hello,” she courtly greeted us when she arrived in the living room, closing the door behind her. “Durga explained the situation to me, but I’d need to check you first.” She drew near me and inhaled deeply. She placed her hand on my arm, looking me directly in the eye. It lasted for a few long seconds, then she abruptly withdrew her hand from my body and motioned for us to follow her. I was dying to ask her questions, but I knew better than annoy her: her kind wasn’t prone to idle talk.

“Before we proceed to the practical part, how much will your service cost us?” Raphael asked abruptly, making her stop in her tracks.

“Oh, sweetheart, it’s free for you.” A broad smile warmed the sorceress’ face, making her aura more positive. Seeing our confusion, she added, “Durga has taken care of the payment, don’t worry, guys.”

Owing a debt to a sorceress, less alone a blood one was immensely dangerous. They could demand all sorts of things if you hadn’t been smart enough to craft a specific type of payment contract for their services. Many times, wanna-be human magicians tapped on sorcerers, not even the devil, and hence the myth of “selling your soul to the dark side” had originated. Of course, the majority of sorcerers belonged to the Black Court, so in a sense this myth was true, but still partially incorrect.

The sorceress led us out of the living room into another dimly lit corridor and down into a smaller room. It was full of potions, archaic tomes of books, herbs, and even stuffed animals. I cringed as I took in a large stuffed fox. A few skulls adorned the shelves behind the door. The signature of darker and twisted magic assaulted my senses. The smell of decay and bile wafted in the air, but I stifled these sensations down into the center of my thread. Raphael reached his hand to me, wrapping his fingers with mine. Warmth, and his distinctive magical vibrations, poured onto my skin. Lightness fluttered in my chest, my legs standing easier in this strange room. Morgana went to the far end where a table stood together with a few scattered chairs. She motioned for us to sit down while she prepared a bowl, taking various ingredients from her overstuffed shelves and strewn boxes.

“Now, I want you to think of the man who shot you with the sorcery stuff,” she said, opening a small bottle with dark liquid. Was this blood?

I cleared my throat, fighting the panicked thought that she might force me to drink this up, and asked, “You mean, the greenish glue-like substance the masked guy shot me with?”

“Whatever,” she waved dismissively with her hands, and I noticed the crimson polish on her nails. “I don’t care about details, dear. Think about the culprit while I pour the blood of bats into the bowl.”

Oh, so this was blood after all, but at least not human or supernatural. The tension eased in my chest, and I opened my mouth to ask her another question, but she quietly motioned for me to remain silent. Her lips moved soundlessly, and I figured she was chanting an incantation. She lit a small candle, too, and placed it in front of me.

“Give me your hand,” she ordered matter-off fact, her voice devoid of any emotion. I glanced at Raphael, and he gave me a slight nod. I reluctantly complied and did what she asked me to do. Her fingers cupped my hand and with her other hand, she took a small, sharp knife from the shelf behind her.

“I want you to stay calm. I just need a little of your blood,” she clarified before she plunged the blade into my open palm. She barely scratched my skin, but a stream of blood poured out of the wound, and she collected it in her bowl with the bat blood. I winced as I realized what she was mixing.

“Good. Now give me something of value to you. Even better if it isn’t material.”

I raised my eyebrows, but Raphael whispered into my ear, “Do you have pictures of your family in your wallet? Something like that works well with blood sorcery.”

“Yes, this is an excellent choice,” Morgana said, raising her voice. “Blood ties are the most powerful ones in the magical community.”

I wrinkled my nose, thinking hard whether I still carried Dara’s photo stuffed in my wallet; thank fates I did.

“This won’t harm my sister, right?” I asked as I passed the old photograph to Morgana.

A broad smile danced on her face, and she turned to Raphael. “She is new to blood sorcery, isn’t she?” Not waiting for a response from the archangel, she turned to me. “No, sweetie. Your sister will be perfectly fine, I just need a token of something you hold dear to push away the dark spell you are tainted with.”

As she took the photo, she dropped it in the simmering bowl, together with the bat blood and my own. The photo disintegrated into the mix with low hissing sounds, the liquid inside the bowl turning dark blue. Morgana kept silently chanting but had also connected to her own inborn magic. The thread in my center felt a magical wall rising, spreading toward me. Morgana had closed her eyes, her face immovable, deep in concentration. The liquid inside the bowl had turned electric blue and small circles of steam and smoke rose from it. Morgana strained her facial muscles and the steam and smoke increased, growing larger and stronger. They swirled, hissing around, engulfing me; a runic symbol formed, shimmering in the air before my chest. I didn’t recognize this particular rune, but I could feel it in my bones and veins. It was for protection.

Morgana opened her eyes and ordered, “Repeat after me: ‘blood of my blood, heart of my heart, banish all evil spirits from my body, mind and soul’. Say this three times.”

I followed her instructions, and I barely uttered the last words when the bowl exploded in dark hues, fire swallowing the contents of the bowl. A thick mist of smoke permeated the space for a few seconds, but soon the air cleared. Interestingly, the bowl stood intact, but empty: there was no trace of the blood on its bottom. Morgana studied the empty bowl, and Raphael and I drew nearer. Something like a thick layer of ingredients covered the bowl’s surface, forming a symbol. Shivers ran across my skin as I recognized the symbol: it was the same one I’d seen in Inferno Hall—the inverted pentagram.

“Hmm, interesting,” Morgana muttered and looked up at me. “You know what this means, right, girl?”

I let out a nervous laugh: even nonmagical humans knew what the inverted pentagram stood for. Thank Hollywood for that! Morgana blearily narrowed her eyes at me, her lips pouted in contempt. Raphael fidgeted next to me and whispered into my ear, “In the end of a ritual, when the sorcery is dissolved, you can see who the culprit is. That is who cast the spell on you.”

Ah, this one! Well, I wasn’t aware of these technicalities. Morgana arched her brow at me as if asking if I was embarrassed or ashamed of my ignorance. I stood my ground and stared back at her.

She ignored my stare and said, “The sorcery that vibrated inside your body is dissolved, but quite soon you’ll feel tired. I strongly recommend you sleep. Deep sleep will totally heal you from any remaining side effects of the spell. You’ll need between 12 to 24 hours of sleep to heal completely. Probably less, but 24 hours is the maximum time it should take. It depends on your magic and powers,” Morgana said and fixed her flowing, curly hair, throwing it in waves behind her shoulders. Oddly enough, I wasn’t feeling tired at all. On the contrary: energy was bursting out of my body, making me feel I could climb Mount Kilimanjaro or swim the Pacific Ocean. This was even stranger considering the early hour. I’d always been a night owl, that’s why I used to like my job as a bartender.

Morgana scratched her chin, still engrossed in studying the bowl’s surface. Slowly, she said to me, her head hovering over the bowl, “You’ve made yourself enemies at the top of the supernatural hierarchy.” She averted her gaze from the bowl and looked me in the eye. “The person responsible for the sorcery spell you got infected with is directly working for Lucifer.” She hesitated for a second and added, her voice barely audible, “Or maybe it was even Lucifer himself.”