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Authors: Kalayna Price
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The less she knew, the safer she was. Even though the fae had come out of the mushroom ring seventy years ago, they were still a secretive bunch. But I was feeling guilty enough that if she pressed me, I might just spill more than I should. How had I missed that they’d finally set a date?
I rushed the last quarter of my circle—which in my haste was more oblong than circular, but it would work—and flicked on the camera.
“I’m going to start the ritual now,” I said, knowing that I was only stalling the conversation, not stopping it.
The look Tamara gave me confirmed that fact, and I closed my eyes so she couldn’t see the guilt there. Not much I could do about that right now.
Concentrating, I focused on clearing my mind andcentering myself—not an easy task with Tamara’s news rambling around my brain on top of the grave magic fighting to break out of my shields while grave essence struggled to force its way in. I took a long breath. Let it out. I couldn’t cast a circle with grave magic, and I wasn’t working without one, especially when my magic was behaving erratically. I breathed in again, focusing on my lungs, my body, as I struggled for some semblance of calmness.
It took me longer than I liked to block out the distractions enough to concentrate on the obsidian ring on my finger. The ring carried raw energy drawn down from the Aetheric plane, and unlike my grave magic, which was a wyrd ability and had only one true purpose, this raw Aetheric energy was limited only by the caster welding it. I channeled a thin stream of the stored magic into the circle I’d drawn and a shimmering blue barrier sprang up around me.
The assault of grave essence immediately lessened. It didn’t vanish—after all, I had James’s corpse in the circle with me, which emanated the power of the grave. But the circle did block out the other corpses in the morgue, making the grave essence clawing at me in an attempt to crawl under my skin manageable, if not exactly comfortable.
Of course, letting it in was exactly what I had to do.
I removed the silver charm bracelet that carried my extra shields, and as soon as I unlatched the clasp, my pent-up magic roared to the surface, testing the now weakened resistance between it and the grave essence that raked across my mind. I still had my personal shields, but my psyche had already crossed the chasm separating the living and the dead enough for a howling wind to swirl around my circle, blowing curls in my face. If I’d opened my eyes, I knew I’d see the room in the ruined devastation that existed on the closest layers of the land of the dead. But I wasn’t ready to open my eyes yet.
I still had the most important part of the ritual to complete.
I cracked my mental shields slowly, trying to control the outpour of magic. It almost worked. My magic latched onto the corpse as grave essence flooded my body, filling my blood, my very bones, with the chill of the grave. The invasion hurt. I was alive. The essence looking for a home in my body wasn’t. I might have been cold to the touch for most people, but I still had my own living heat, and it warred with the chill of the grave.
So I released that heat, giving away a part of myself and sending it into the corpse already filled with my power.
Then I opened my eyes. The room had decayed around me, at least in appearance. Though if I wasn’t careful, the seemingly threadbare sheet covering a gurney so rusted a bump might turn it into a mound of red rust could blend with mortal reality, becoming the true state of the objects. That was what it meant to be a planeweaver. I could tie different planes of existence together. And the land of the dead wasn’t the only reality now filling my vision. The Aetheric, the plane of magic, was also visible as it filled the room with swirls of colorful raw energy. If I wanted, I could have reached out and drawn on that magic. A dangerous temptation, very dangerous, as witches were meant to
I rushed the last quarter of my circle—which in my haste was more oblong than circular, but it would work—and flicked on the camera.
“I’m going to start the ritual now,” I said, knowing that I was only stalling the conversation, not stopping it.
The look Tamara gave me confirmed that fact, and I closed my eyes so she couldn’t see the guilt there. Not much I could do about that right now.
Concentrating, I focused on clearing my mind andcentering myself—not an easy task with Tamara’s news rambling around my brain on top of the grave magic fighting to break out of my shields while grave essence struggled to force its way in. I took a long breath. Let it out. I couldn’t cast a circle with grave magic, and I wasn’t working without one, especially when my magic was behaving erratically. I breathed in again, focusing on my lungs, my body, as I struggled for some semblance of calmness.
It took me longer than I liked to block out the distractions enough to concentrate on the obsidian ring on my finger. The ring carried raw energy drawn down from the Aetheric plane, and unlike my grave magic, which was a wyrd ability and had only one true purpose, this raw Aetheric energy was limited only by the caster welding it. I channeled a thin stream of the stored magic into the circle I’d drawn and a shimmering blue barrier sprang up around me.
The assault of grave essence immediately lessened. It didn’t vanish—after all, I had James’s corpse in the circle with me, which emanated the power of the grave. But the circle did block out the other corpses in the morgue, making the grave essence clawing at me in an attempt to crawl under my skin manageable, if not exactly comfortable.
Of course, letting it in was exactly what I had to do.
I removed the silver charm bracelet that carried my extra shields, and as soon as I unlatched the clasp, my pent-up magic roared to the surface, testing the now weakened resistance between it and the grave essence that raked across my mind. I still had my personal shields, but my psyche had already crossed the chasm separating the living and the dead enough for a howling wind to swirl around my circle, blowing curls in my face. If I’d opened my eyes, I knew I’d see the room in the ruined devastation that existed on the closest layers of the land of the dead. But I wasn’t ready to open my eyes yet.
I still had the most important part of the ritual to complete.
I cracked my mental shields slowly, trying to control the outpour of magic. It almost worked. My magic latched onto the corpse as grave essence flooded my body, filling my blood, my very bones, with the chill of the grave. The invasion hurt. I was alive. The essence looking for a home in my body wasn’t. I might have been cold to the touch for most people, but I still had my own living heat, and it warred with the chill of the grave.
So I released that heat, giving away a part of myself and sending it into the corpse already filled with my power.
Then I opened my eyes. The room had decayed around me, at least in appearance. Though if I wasn’t careful, the seemingly threadbare sheet covering a gurney so rusted a bump might turn it into a mound of red rust could blend with mortal reality, becoming the true state of the objects. That was what it meant to be a planeweaver. I could tie different planes of existence together. And the land of the dead wasn’t the only reality now filling my vision. The Aetheric, the plane of magic, was also visible as it filled the room with swirls of colorful raw energy. If I wanted, I could have reached out and drawn on that magic. A dangerous temptation, very dangerous, as witches were meant to
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