Spell of Summoning (16 page)

“Yes, but those are trade secrets.” Damian shrugged good-naturedly. “Sorry.”

“When do we start?” she asked.

Damian tucked away his papers. “First, the more relaxed you both are, the better results we’ll see. A tense mind is not an open mind.”

Becca glanced at Holden, knowing those words were meant for her. She took another sip of wine. “I’ll try to calm down.”

“Good idea, ma’am. Why don’t you sit and do some deep breathing while I set up?” Damian mimed closing his eyes and waving breath in and out with his hands. “That will help you find your center.”

“Oh.” How many times had she sat down with anxious clients to ease their worries? About a thousand. She’d never been on this end of things. Though she’d also never advised an antsy client to find her center. Whatever that was.

“Do you have a folding table or something we can move into the bedroom?” Damian asked.

Becca gestured to the patio. Holden led Damian through the kitchen, leaving her, the ball of nervous energy, alone.

This was ridiculous. She finished her drink and poured another glass, sinking into a comfortable wine buzz. But the longer she sat there listening to the men quietly discuss the dimensions of her plastic patio table and how it would fit Damian’s tablecloth, she wondered if some deep breathing wouldn’t help.

She leaned back in the chair, the tension in her neck and shoulders drooping away. She closed her eyes, inhaled through her nose, and released the breath slowly. Yeah, she felt better. So she took another one. Then another.

The table banged into the slider. Buster barked, and she jerked upright. “Everything okay?” she called, wincing at the thought of repainting before she left this rattrap.

“Yeah,” Holden grunted. “We got it. Are you open-minded yet?”

“Mind your own business,” she shot back, but she couldn’t wipe the goofy smile off her face.

Holden carried the table to her bedroom while Damian scrambled to wheel his crate after him.

“Be right there.” Becca finished her wine and set her glass in the bottom of the sink. Her head spun, and she wobbled a little leaving the kitchen, but she wasn’t scared anymore, and that felt really nice.

In her bedroom the men had set up her patio table at the foot of her bed and covered it with a black velvet cloth that pooled on the floor. With a decorative knife Damian carved symbols into three red wax candles before pushing them into a triangle atop the table.

There’d been no mention of deadly weapons on his website. “What are you doing?” Becca nodded toward the knife.

“Don’t worry. I’m putting it away, ma’am.” He slipped the blade into a leather sheath and dropped it into his wheelie crate. “It’s a special knife. I carved the names of the two victims, one on each of these candles.” Damian tapped the candles in question. “But I’m afraid what I carved into the third candle is another trade secret.”

“I see.” She stroked one finger against the velvet tablecloth, oddly unnerved by all the magic mumbo jumbo suddenly invading her previously mundane life. Magic candles and blessed knives? It was a big departure from disclosure forms and escrow fees, but she adjusted because she no longer had any doubts about the summoning spell hanging over her head. Magic was real. She’d seen it.

“How does this all work?” Rebecca asked.

“In a moment,” Damian explained, “we’ll kneel around the table, link hands, and I’ll call the presence I felt in this room to reveal itself. Hopefully we’ll make contact.”

“What is ‘contact’ exactly?” Like in
Poltergeist
and the
Exorcist?
Or like blood appearing by magic in the palms of her hands? Becca had an inkling she should be more scared than she was, but the wine had successfully silenced all her uncertainties.

“Don’t worry, ma’am. I’ve done this many, many times with absolutely no unhappy customers.”

“But you’re going to try to get the presence to leave?” She glanced at Holden. They were all on the same page—the “presence” needed to go away and never come back.

“Yes.” Damian rapidly popped every one of his knuckles. “That is the goal. Hopefully there won’t be any resistance.”

“Okay.” She sent Holden another “are you really, really sure about this” look.

He nodded
yes
and approached the table.

She hoped this guy would solve all their problems by accident. Then everything could return to normal. Becca could move to Raleigh, and Holden could go back to his own home. They’d continue on with their lives as if nothing otherworldly had ever happened.

She frowned at Holden, suddenly irrationally hoping the demon hung on a little longer. Because it was going to be hard, maybe impossible, to go back to whatever passed for normal after seeing all this.

They knelt and clasped hands around the table. Holden’s fingers slid between hers, his warm skin stretching her fingers wide. His hands were solid, tough, the kind of hands that said, “I got this. I’ll take care of you.” She gave him a friendly squeeze, but he stared at her window drapes, distracted by things she couldn’t see or hear.

Oh, right. The other side called.

Chapter Eleven

Holden clutched Rebecca’s hand, not as confident as he let on. He loathed being crammed in the room with two other people and a table along with all of Rebecca’s bedroom furniture. He stayed put, but sweat bloomed like a second skin under his clothes.

Damian spoke in what sounded like Russian. Or Arabic, maybe.  For all Holden knew, it was a made-up language. Whatever it was, Damian spoke rapidly and with great emotion while keeping his eyes closed and his hand tight around Holden’s fingers.

Grams stood by the window, but no other spirits appeared. Damian wasn’t a well-schooled necromancer if he didn’t have a spirit companion. At least that’s what all the websites said. But the guy had power. The air in the room shifted under his spell. The atmosphere warmed several degrees, and the spell marks around Rebecca glowed a deep red.

Whatever Damian was doing was affecting the summoning spell. No new spirits appeared. But something was building.

Damian kicked up the tempo of his nonsensical plea, and Becca’s fingers squeezed Holden’s in occasional nervous pulses.

Damian burst out in English, startling both Holden and Rebecca, who physically jumped, “Make yourselves known to us, spirits. Make yourselves known!”

Silence. Not a bug croaked, not a curtain rustled. No one seemed to even breathe. But the room swelled with a threatening presence.

“Do you feel anything?” Grams asked, circling the table. “Because I’m getting a bad vibe, bubba. It’s never a good idea to poke a rattlesnake.”

Buster seemed to agree. He barked and barked, bounding the length of the balcony and then back again, his long claws clicking. He paused at the sliding glass door and howled.

Holden had never seen his dog act like this. The big guy was sensitive to spirits and magic, but not even sniffing Rebecca’s demon had freaked him out this badly.

There was a grumble in Holden’s bones, and his insides vibrated with an uncomfortable and unfriendly power. Big-time, scary power. Way more than he’d ever felt before.

Jesus Christ
.

Damian wasn’t channeling an unseen friendly spirit. He was tapping the demon directly. Holden hopped to his feet, breaking Damian’s human spell circle.

“Grams, protect her,” he shouted.

Someone—or something—screamed.

Becca touched his arm, and he spasmed like she was made of electricity.

He flattened his hands against his ears, his knees giving way. The sound speared through him like an electrical surge. His brain went fuzzy as he pressed his hands tighter and tighter to his ears. But it didn’t do any good. The inhuman bellow only increased in volume.

A hand touched his shoulder, and he flinched, a full body shudder. Wrong, wrong. Everything was upside down and inside out. He panicked. He hadn’t been this close to the black since he was fifteen.

“Holden!”

Rebecca’s voice reached his ears, but barely, and it was like a lifeline. She was okay. And there. He wasn’t alone, and he wasn’t under the ice. He inhaled, and the dizziness faded.

On the floor on the other side of the table, Damian lay curled on his side, bleeding from both ears. Whatever power he’d channeled had blown his fuses.

“Holden?”

The pain wouldn’t cease until Rebecca’s demon finished rattling its cage. Holden couldn’t be in the same room with her until that thing over her shoulder finished its little games.

“Rebecca,” he gasped, his eyes screwed shut, “Get. Out.”

* * *

The Prince stumbled over a patch of rough asphalt outside the convenience store, a  flicker of heat catching him at the base of his spine. Something was wrong. Something was happening to his summoning spell.

He righted himself and slid into his car before setting his chili dogs and carton of Marlboro Reds in the backseat.

“Did you feel that?” he asked.

Robert appeared beside him in the passenger seat. “Someone is tinkering with your spell.”

“No shit.” He started the engine but didn’t shift into gear. “Where is the new guy?” It irritated him that his new power source wasn’t there at his beck and call. He didn’t like thinking Ned was conferencing with the Dark Caster when he should be here sharing info with him.

“Do you want me to find him?”

“No,” he grumbled.

The Prince checked the time glowing from the car’s stereo. 10:15 p.m. He’d planned to take the night off, but with Ned busy kissing the Dark Caster’s ass and someone messing with his magic, he decided to cast instead.

* * *

“Oh God.” Becca ran, shutting herself into the bathroom. Not even bothering with the light, she sank onto the cold linoleum and hugged her knees. “Stop it,” she hissed into the empty room. “Please. Stop.”
Please stop. Please.

Her insides sizzled with power. Or was it magic? Or just Grams folding her in a spirit bubble?

She caught sight of herself in the narrow floor-to-ceiling mirror. That couldn’t be her. The woman staring back with the tangled hair, the flushed skin, and wide eyes was not Rebecca Powell. Her always perfect blonde hair didn’t look so perfect right now. Her makeup was faded to almost nothing.
Things in her life were slipping into unknown territory.

All that adrenaline crashed through her, and she sagged against the tub.

It hadn’t occurred to her the spell on her might hurt anyone else. But seeing Holden on the floor in agony, begging her to leave…

The door opened and Holden stood in the doorway refusing to come inside, looking as wild and rumpled as she felt. But he was on his feet, thank God, and though his expression was tight with what she guessed was lingering pain, he was okay. Relief rushed through her, and her throat clenched.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

He hesitated, his toes on the line between the carpet of the bedroom and the linoleum of the bathroom. Finally he sucked in a breath and sat with his back to the mirror, facing her.

“Holden?”

“Damian needs an ambulance,” he answered in a monotone. “I called 911.” His face had lost all color, and his eyes were glassy.

“How are you?” she pressed.

“Damian’s in and out, but he’s alive.” Holden stared vacantly in the direction of the door.

 “Look at me, please.”

He closed his eyes. “That was…”

“What?”

He finally met her gaze. “You couldn’t hear it?”

“Hear what?”

“It was angry and loud and…”

Rebecca’s stomach roiled, and she clutched at her waist. “You heard a voice?”

“Are
you
alright?” Holden asked.

“I don’t know.” Her whole body vibrated on a frequency even stranger than usual. “What did your grandma do to me?”

“She shielded you in case—” Distracted, he glanced over his shoulder.

“Of what?” she prompted.

“Power.” He swung back toward her. “The demon could have used Grams.”

“To hurt me?”

“Or weaken you and break through.” Holden drew up his knees and covered his head with both arms. “This is so bad.” His voice shook.

If anyone was having a panic attack, it was him, not her. He’d entered very small quarters to support her mini meltdown.

“Holden?” She laid her fingers on his arm, and he flinched. “Talk to me.”

He bolted to his feet. “Sorry. I can’t.” He left like the room was on fire.

A loud, heavy knock sounded from the front of the apartment. The paramedics. Becca tried to pull herself together and answer the door, but Holden beat her to it.

By the time she emerged from the safety of the bathroom, Damian was on a stretcher headed for an ambulance ride to the hospital, and a still-agitated Buster barked at her through the sliding glass door in the kitchen.

A uniformed policeman let himself into her apartment, over-sized clipboard in hand. “I’m Officer Green.”

He examined Becca from head to foot. “I’ll take your statement first, ma’am.” He glanced at Holden, who stood, arms crossed, in the very center of her tiny living room. “Sir, have a seat, please.”

Holden didn’t budge.

The cop took a step in his direction as if he was going to
make
Holden sit. “Is there a problem?”

Becca put herself between them, hands up. “Give him his space. I’ll answer your questions.”

“Fine,” Officer Green grumbled. “Which of you beat the crap out of that guy? Is it some kind of love triangle?”

Buster leaped against the slider, clawing the heavy glass, yipping and barking. But Holden didn’t seem to notice, and Becca would not open that sliding glass door on a bet.

“No.” She smiled, trying to ease the tension in the room and failing. “Of course not. I hired him to hold a séance.” She produced Damian’s signed contract. “See for yourself.”

The last thing she wanted to do was play hostess to Officer Green. Holden looked awful. He needed her more than the cop did. But she showed him her bedroom anyway so he’d leave faster.

Damian’s cloth and candles still covered her patio table. The smear of blood on her awful beige carpet interested the officer the most. He took a picture.