Chapter Three

STORM WHILED AWAY the hours pretending to play chess with DJ. For every move, he offered advice about how to block out the voices, how to placate them when the ghosts wouldn’t leave and techniques on how to help friendly spirits pass on, if he was brave enough to try. Since no one else was teaching DJ about his unusual ability, Storm figured he should.

Grace avoided him, convinced her ability would help during the ceremony, but Storm guessed Gladys would bear the real weight of the spell. If Grace did anything, she’d be learning from her matriarch, and Storm was selfishly relieved that he would either be in the past or unconscious whenever Gladys kicked the bucket and was gone from his life forever.

Storm savoured the final taste of his last cigarette. In a few minutes, when the moon hit the right spot in the sky, they’d perform the ceremony, and he would be eighteen. When the cigarette was done, he ground it into the ashtray on the porch wall and pushed away from his perch.

Gladys was doing something with salt, muttering to Grace about the proper etiquette of the spell. DJ had asked to be excused, preferring to sit in the field of white flowers with his back to the ceremony. With the whole Glade coven gathered—three families of grandparents, parents and their children—power lingered in the area. Whatever the outcome, Storm would face it like a Tera. He was done running from the past. This time, he would dive in head-first.

Stepping over the threshold of mason jars full of Christmas lights, Storm offered Gladys a raised eyebrow for the theatrics. He was surprised they weren’t candles or other Hollywood shit.

“These eyes aren’t what they used to be,” she said, glancing around to make sure no one else was listening. Gladys grabbed his arm and urged him into the centre of the circle the jars had created.

Storm stepped into the perfect central position as Gladys stepped away to accept a book from Grace.

“Keep your mind focused on what point of time you want to return to,” Gladys called out as the rest of the coven took their place, one to each of the mason jars. “The coven will speak the spell, and I will repeat your focus words. If I falter, Grace will continue without me. You need to focus on the timeline. Repeat the time and date to yourself,” she advised, despite having been through the plan a dozen times during the day.

The waiting had been the worst part, knowing what needed to be done but having to wait for the coven to arrive, for the moon to rise and everything to come into place.

Storm stood in place and focused his mind. “Take me to the night of my eighteenth birthday.” That was when this started, when he came into his power, decided what magic to learn and began his training. If they had any chance of making this work and changing fate, he had to undo everything that followed that night: the fighting, the training, the lack of dedication he’d put into his magic. He had to relearn everything and hope to hell it worked.

Gladys walked the circle, weaving magic in her wrinkled hands with every step. “The gods who gave us the Fates…the gods who created this dark being…lend us your hand, your power, your will and send him to the night of his ascension. Send him back in time. Break the laws of the Fates and help us save those who come after us,” she said, her voice strong and unwavering for the first time during his short visit.

A crackle of white light appeared between the hands that twisted and formed the spell with light. “Allow him to fulfil the prophecy that will save us…you…and magic. Give us one chance to right this grievous wrong, and pray he can make a change worthy of your sacrifice.”

Storm’s words faltered as dark clouds swept in from the west, the wind rushing to his ears with whispers of “magic” and “gods” and a suggestion of the Fates’ anger. A drop of rain splashed onto his forehead, offering peace and replenishment, promising to wipe the slate clean and start anew. Storm managed his first smile in hours. The rain had come to cleanse this place, to accompany Gladys home when the spell was over, to wash away the dark magic woven in his palms. He hadn’t tapped into his magic consciously, but as always, the black mist in his veins responded to the storm and Gladys’s words.

“Keep going,” Gladys shouted, until her coven chanted Latin words asking for all she’d spoken, in a language the gods understood. While they took over—looking ridiculously un-witch-like in their jeans, cable sweaters and work clothes—Gladys gave Grace a nod and the two began the last part of the spell.

“Denver. Foley. Ithen. Storm.”

Closing his eyes, he cemented them into his brain, drawing a mental image of each boy as their name was spoken, focusing on what time and place he wanted to appear. If the spell went to plan, he’d come out the abyss during November second at ten o’clock at night, just as the ceremony of his ascension was starting. The worst case was that he’d step from the abyss just as his past self was leaving the same hallowed place after gaining his full powers, marking the end of the ascension ceremony rather than the beginning.

Either way, Storm had a chance to make things right. If he arrived at any time other than an hour previous or post his ascension, he was screwed.

“Denver. Foley. Ithen. Storm.”

The power beneath his skin prickled with heat in an unspoken demand to be used or released. The storm brewed above, violent and angry as the rain poured, soaking them from head to toe. When Storm would normally be exempt from the effects of the rain that had always been a friend, he was drenched in seconds along with everyone else.

Gladys blinked the water from her eyes as calmly as he did, ignoring the weather to focus on her words. Around her, the coven faltered, their voices growing weak with cold or fear. If they weren’t careful, they would add an unexpected layer of fear to the spell that could ruin their intention.

The thunder rumbled loud enough to drown them out and a flash of lightning split the moon in the sky. Grace squealed and rushed to cower behind a woman who must have been her mother. Lacking her voice, her power, Gladys faltered.

Storm curled his hands into fists and closed his eyes tight. “Denver. Foley. Ithen. Storm.” A breath, a beat, a roll of thunder and the chanting began again. “Take me to the day of my ascension,” he said, adapting his previous chant due to the time constraint. He couldn’t do both chants and be precise; they didn’t have the time. Half an hour would see the end of the moon’s peak and the close of the magical window.

Their voices blended in the night, Storm’s strong and insistent, while Gladys sounded weak and tired. The words became a mantra, spoken over and over again until they were perfectly in sync.

Storm could feel the spell weakening. If they didn’t get another boost of power soon, this would end with nothing more to show for their efforts than a raging thunderstorm. Storm didn’t realise how badly he wanted this to work until a quiet voice repeated the chant; a sweeping voice with not an ounce of demand or violence, yet the entire world responded. The storm sucked in a breath, paused for a split second and broke abruptly, leaving DJ standing beside Gladys, taking her hand with a warm smile. His words grew in strength and power as his voice joined theirs.

“Denver. Foley. Ithen. Storm.”

Storm nodded to the brave kid, though DJ seemed embarrassed by the recognition. Bolstered by the tangible effect of his added power, all three voices grew louder, stronger, until they were shouting into a now calm sky: “Denver. Foley. Ithen. Storm.”

“Take me to the day of my ascension,” he added, needing the specific command to get him to the place he was needed.

The words rolled through his mind, in thought, in voice; Gladys’s voice pleading due to her weakened state; DJ shouting the words with a command the sky would gladly obey.

Storm held his breath, hoping and praying they’d done this right. This was his last chance to be the Chosen One, not the screw-up he’d become.

*

STORM WAS ENVELOPED in darkness, the strength of DJ’s will sending him into the abyss: the dark place, the home of necromancy. There was no better confirmation that phase one had worked than standing here, surrounded by endless night.

A sharp-tipped talon dragged along his shoulder blade, and Storm shivered, closing his eyes to avoid seeing what creature was approaching. The touch brought a memory unbidden to the forefront of his mind, of being twelve years old and watching talon-tipped fingers creep over the edge of his bed in the middle of the night. Untrained as he was, he hadn’t understood what they were asking, knowing only that they wanted to latch onto him. He had some vague sense that the demon needed to feed on his strength and would give him everything his heart desired.

Thank the gods he’d been too terrified to agree.

Those nights still haunted him but not as badly as the night he lost the war. Storm pushed the image aside, not knowing whether he’d conjured the demon with his thoughts and fears or if they’d been waiting until he was weak enough to offer anything for their power.

Another scrape of the talon flicked against his hand by his side. He instinctively looked to see if the contact had left a mark and saw the door he needed, a shimmer of magic in the nothingness of the dark. He almost thanked the demon for the guidance, but prudence made him bite his tongue. Nothing good ever came from being grateful to a demon, and he wasn’t interested in getting involved in a pact or trade.

Storm kept his mouth shut and looked around, searching for a path to the doorway. More shapes moved in the darkness, indecipherable one minute, a bloody scar, withered hand or a sneer barely visible the next. The doorway seemed far away and close, the distance indistinct in the darkness. Storm crouched to touch the surface he stood on, solid and secure but invisible to the eye. He traced his fingertips across the platform, using both hands to find an edge to guide him. Two side steps and he may have fallen off the ledge by accident. Bloody demon.

Scrunching his nose against the deep-seated fear of heights he’d never confided to anyone, Storm closed his eyes and slipped his right leg over the edge.

He didn’t want to do this, but he wasn’t staying here in limbo. Shuffling around, he held on to the ledge with both hands and swung his legs over the edge. He maintained a death grip, wondering what would happen if he fell into the nothingness; would he disappear and cease to exist, or would he fall for an endless eternity, never to find ground again?

This was too important to fail now.

“One,” he counted, shaking his head at the thought of what he was about to do. “Two.” He eased his grip on the ledge and took one final breath to calm his nerves. “Thr—” Storm let go before he’d finished the word, knowing if he got to the end of three, there would be a four and a ten and a never-ending cycle of doubt. He let go mentally and physically, falling through the depths of the abyss, hopefully heading toward the door leading to his past.