Page 7 of Kick the Candle (Knight Games 2)
"That's the spirit."
We jogged downstairs to look for something to offer the familiar's spirit. Unlike when Logan lived here, the house was a mess and there was nothing in my pantry but coffee grounds. I opened the refrigerator to check if food had mysteriously appeared there while I was in the attic. It hadn't. The contents consisted of a box of baking soda, a half empty bottle of ketchup, and the remains of Valentine's take-out from two weeks ago with dodgy looking fuzz growing under the lid. I tossed the take-out but grabbed the coffee grounds. Michelle appeared in front of me with a bottle of wine from the cellar.
"This should work," she said.
"Wine? Is that necessary?" I asked, not thrilled about wasting a bottle.
"The book said you needed an offering. The connotation is that you sacrifice something important to you. You don't want to use blood and there's nothing more important to you in this house than wine and coffee, except maybe me, and I'm not sitting in that bowl."
"Wine and coffee it is."
We returned to the attic, and I pulled out the wooden trunk containing my magical paraphernalia. On top was my blade, Nightshade. Made from the femur of the patron saint of cemetery workers, Nightshade could only be wielded by me. I set her aside to dig beneath her space in the trunk. Under her was a silver bowl, salt, candles, a few shrouds, and a bell. My predecessor had left the witchy toolkit, and I was becoming more comfortable with it day by day. I selected the bowl.
Cross-legged on the floor next to the wine and coffee, I closed my eyes and tried to clear my mind. I flexed my shoulders toward my ears, inhaled, then released the breath, slumping forward. I tried to relax as much as possible, concentrating on the flow of breath at the back of my throat. When a thought threatened at the corner of my consciousness, I pushed it aside.
They say when you enter deep meditation that you visualize a light of some sort moving toward you. I did. A green light that seemed flat at first until I reached it and then expanded into a tunnel. The light branched out and formed leaves. And then, in my clear mind, I was in a garden. Even though I logically knew my body was sitting in my attic meditating, I was physically there, nestled in blades of cool dewy grass with my bowl and offering beside me. The sun was warm upon my face, and the leaves of the plants rustled in the sweet-smelling breeze.
From a grove of trees, a naked woman stepped toward me. Large dark eyes and silky black hair contrasted sharply against the light that shone behind her head. She stopped just short of my bowl.
"Hecate," she said. "Welcome to my garden. Make your offering."
I wanted to know more about this woman and this place, but my intuition warned this was not the time to ask. Maybe it was the way her skin glowed like it was radioactive and the light broke around her torso. Reflexively I reached for the wine and poured half of it into the bowl. I sprinkled coffee over the top.
The woman laughed, a sound as pure and clear as a choir of bells. My eyes started to hurt so I looked away from her, back at the bowl. It was empty.
"Yes, I know who you seek, and I send him to you with my blessing. He is yours and will teach you what you need to know."
The woman opened her hand. A black butterfly bobbed toward me, growing fast and spreading out until it barreled into me. I somersaulted backwards from the impact, eyes closed against the onslaught. Everything-the garden, the woman-disappeared in a wash of darkness.
"Grateful!" A hand slapped my cheek. "Grateful, snap out of it!"
I opened my eyes to see Michelle hovering over me.
"D-did it work?" I stammered.
The corner of Michelle's mouth tugged upward. "Um, yeah. It worked."
"So what is it? A cat? An owl?"
"Maybe you should see for yourself," she said.
She helped me up to a sitting position. Behind my silver bowl was a huge black ball of feathers. I reached for it and a pair of beady black eyes popped open to peer at me. A large hooked beak snapped the air and two shiny black wings stretched on either side of a lissome black body.
"It's a crow," I said with distaste. On the spectrum of magical creatures, I hadn't expected a yard rat. The thing looked like something I'd shoo off the garbage cans.
Michelle took a step back. "That's not a crow, Grateful; it's a raven. And I think it just pooped on your floor."
All Charged Up
Eww. My familiar had, in fact, pooped on the floor, and defecating appeared to be the extent of his talents. I spent a solid minute staring into his beady black eyes but no shooting stars or magical tingles came to pass.
"What are you going to name it?" Michelle asked.
"Hmm, what do you name the creepy, hooked-beak, bird of death? I'm not sure."
Michelle lowered her voice to an Alfred Hitchcock bass. "Quoth the raven, nevermore."
"Nevermore is too long, and too obvious." I snapped my fingers. "Of course, Poe! I'll name him Poe."
