To Spell & Back Read online

  Familiars are blessed (or perhaps cursed) with nine lives, each corresponding to nine witches he or she will serve during their lifetime. With each witch’s passing, the familiar is reborn—until the ninth life is extinguished and true death is met. As if the weight on my shoulders wasn’t already threatening to break my back, it was my honor to serve as Salem’s ninth and final witch.

  For some reason, he was worried I’d meet my end too soon. Go figure.

  Oh, and to dispel another myth, not all familiars are black. Salem is, save for a patch of white hair on the top of his head. In human form, his ebony skin is just as supple as his meticulously-groomed fur, and he sports one blue eye and one green. That shock of white translates to a head of platinum hair.

  As for serving me, that was a relative term. Think of it more like him punishing me for failing to Awaken for so long. An unavoidable situation that left him stuck in cat form and relying on the garbage bin and the kindness of strangers for anything besides the kitty kibble I gave him. I hadn’t meant to torture the poor thing; I just didn’t know any better.

  “I’m sorry. I promise, next time you’re my wing man.” Salem still seemed a bit annoyed, but when I broached the subject reversing the spell on Clara, he perked right back up. “I’m hopeless by myself, Salem. Please?”

  “Oh, all right. Tell me everything you remember about the spells Sylvana and Clara used against each other.” Salem pointed toward the sofa, and I took the hint that it was time to settle down and spill the details.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and focused on replaying the final scene between my mother and grandmother, “Sylvana made what looked like a ball of black witchfire—except it was black witchfire on crack—all lightning and sparks. It crackled between her fingertips while it grew. Clara had something brewing of her own, but there wasn’t any physical manifestation. Then I heard her whisper an incantation.”

  “Do you remember what she said?” Salem stretched in a distinctly cat-like manner and practically oozed into a position opposite where I sat.

  “Not exactly. I do remember the spell looked like a ball of ropes—which is why I assumed it was a binding spell. That’s something, right?” Salem’s level stare cautioned against being overly self-congratulatory. “Anyway, the two spells met in the middle and sort of...I’m not sure how to describe it.”

  Frowning, I tried to frame the description so Salem would get a visual. “They didn’t combine, but each one picked up elements of the other. Does that make sense?” Without even waiting for an answer, I continued, “Sylvana’s spell took effect first, and even though Clara threw up a shield, it was too late.” I described the horror of Clara slowly turning to stone and Sylvana’s explosive exit while Salem listened intently. “Do you think we can restore my grandmother?”

  As much as I knew it might be futile, I’d begun to hope and with hope came something more; a conviction that took me by the throat and demanded I make this right. My grandmother had not deserved her fate, and while I was in no position to win any medals in the good decision Olympics, this one was a no-brainer. If there wasn’t a way, I’d make one. I’m a Balefire; we’re handy like that.

  “Well, there are two ways to reverse a spell.” Salem began to lecture. “Intention and ingredients.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I know.” I ignored the annoyed vibe. “And I don’t see how either of them will work,” I explained my concerns about pinpointing Sylvana’s intention, “whatever she meant to do to Clara, I don’t think it was turning her to stone. I don’t think either of them got what they wanted, actually. All that negative energy probably lit the fuse of a reciprocity firecracker, and they both got burned.”

  “I’d be willing to bet the power of threes played a role, yes. Betraying blood ties packs a punch, and the effects tend to show themselves immediately.”

  While it might seem amazing, having enough power to bend the world to your will is not all sunshine and roses, let me tell you. We witches live by a code: harm none, do what ye will. And not just for the protection of those we might hurt—oh no. Whatever a witch puts out in the world will come back to her threefold.

  Salem explained it better, but what it boils down to is this: all of the energy in the world is connected, and whatever type you choose to work with is what will surround you. And what will come back around to either bite you in the butt or pet you on the head. Could be good, could be bad; but eventually your intention will make its ring around the rosy, and will likely have brought some friends along for reinforcement.

  “I still don’t see how knowing the ingredients is going to help us. The magic came from within both of them. There were no ingredients.”

  “Once again, you’re wrong. And this is exactly why—”

  “I know, why I should be focusing on our training sessions. You do realize that being snarky is going to circle its way back to you, right? I’m focusing now, so just instruct.” Salem’s eyes widened and then slid away from mine—cats tend not to dwell in guilt, and Salem was no exception.

  “Er, sorry. But it’s not as complicated as you think. All spells have a signature, and just because you didn’t see her mix a potion doesn’t mean Clara didn’t gather a variety of components to create the desired effect.”

  He rose to prowl the room.

  “We’re talking about the use of all three branches of magic at the same time here. Everything around us is full of different elements; not just earth, air, fire, and water, but the chemical material all matter is made of. There’s your Elemental component; as for the Mental, she used telekinesis to pull all of those molecules together; and of course, the acts of binding and enchantment affect the will of the spell’s target, so there’s your Arcane branch.”

  “Okay, I get the theory, but how does that help us figure out what was going on in her head?” I said.

  “What would help is if you could remember what colors came off the witchfire. The sparking type is powered by the essence of a deity, which means Sylvana invoked a particular god or goddess to help do her bidding. I’m guessing it wasn’t a benevolent one.”

  “Got it. I distinctly remember purple and white.” I grinned, proud of myself for having retained something helpful, but my smugness was short-lived.

  “Now if you can tell me what words Clara spoke, we might have a shot in Hades.”

  My heart skipped a beat, and my face fell, “I wish I could, but I was a little distracted at the time. I’d know the words if I heard them again. Maybe there’s something in the Grimoire.”

  I approached the podium where the large, weathered, leather-bound tome rested. As always, I ran my fingertips over the embossed pattern of the Balefire family emblem. An intricately-wrought tree with flame where the leaves and branches should have been.

  I laid my hand over the top of the book and called on the power of the Balefire. Blue flame leaped across the room, danced upon my outstretched palm, and strengthened my desire to locate the phrase Clara had uttered. Nothing happened, not even a flick of the pages.

  “I guess I’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way,” I sighed, settled into an ancient, tufted settee, and began leafing through the pages.

  Several hours later I’d scanned every last page, and the headache building in my temples was now carving out a space to squat behind my eyes. I pinched the bridge of my nose and set the book back down carefully. Had it been a less sacred volume, I might have chucked it clear across the room.

  “It’s hopeless. We’ll have to figure out another way.”

  “Not necessarily,” Salem stroked his chin, “there’s one final option, but it’s advanced magic. Something we’ve never tried before.”

  A long silence followed Salem’s statement as I looked at him expectantly.

  “The bond between a witch and familiar goes deeper than what we’ve explored so far. I am tied to you and you alone, and the same connection that allowed me to find you all those years ago can be used to share a memory.”

  “Sounds intrusive.”
/>   Salem shrugged, but not in a way that made me think I had been wrong.

  “What are you planning to do, pull the words out of my subconscious?”

  “Sort of. It’s all there somewhere, but this way I’ll be able to hear and see it along with you. I’m going to use a form of hypnosis to guide you to the information, and then hitchhike with you on the trip.” Sounded simple enough that the reticence in his voice seemed out of place.

  “I don’t see the problem. Let’s do it.”

  Salem rolled his eyes, but his expression softened. “Usually, tethering takes training and practice, but you’ve excelled at so many disciplines with only intuition on your side that I’m willing to try off the cuff. You trust me, right?”

  “Always.” Having come into my powers ten years late, and without the benefit of a mentor’s wisdom, Salem’s word and what I could glean from the books lining the workshop shelves were all I had to go on. Trusting him wasn’t a choice, but a necessity.

  At Salem’s instruction, I lit five white candles and walked clockwise around the casting circle, placing one in the center and at each of the star’s four shoulders to represent earth, air, fire, and water. “Calling the corners helps keep our energy confined to the circle—where we need it,” he explained. I invoked the deities representing each of the basic elements in turn, under my breath and at a speed the guy from the Micro Machines commercials would have envied.

  “Cardea, Aradia, and Nuit of the east, the primordial goddesses of air. Isis, Aphrodite, and Marianne to the west, representing the water element. Vesta, Hestia, and Brigit in the south, with your connection to fire. Persephone, Rhea, and Ceres, who hail from the north and identify with the earth element! Heed my humble plea and lend your aid.” Each name felt as familiar as an old friend’s on my tongue, and I wondered if after centuries of invocation I might consider them as such.

  A whoosh indicated the closing of the circle, and an iridescent dome of magic ran around the band connecting the five points of the star. I stood in the center and called on the element of spirit. With one final click, the protective barrier shimmered to translucent silver and became tactile. When I ran my finger along its curve, the dome expanded slightly before snapping back into place like a rubber band.

  Salem and I knelt on the floor, about two feet apart and faced one another. “Take the other end of this string,” he instructed, handing me a piece of thin, white twine, “close your eyes and focus. Play through the memory in your mind’s eye. Listen to my voice, and close your mind to distractions.”

  Of course, as soon as you’re told to not think about something, that’s the first thing that comes to mind. I struggled for a few moments but finally forced myself to concentrate. I thought about Clara’s stoned figure and how maybe she’d been cognizant this whole time—forced to watch life pass her by, trapped for no good reason other than she tried to protect her family. The notion sobered me, and I began to relax, allowing Salem’s steady voice to lull me into a trance state.

  I replayed the events of that day in as much detail as possible, several times until finally, automatically, at Salem’s persuasion I paused right before Sylvana wound up the black ball of power. I opened my eyes and willed the next part of the memory out through my fingertips and watched a flicker of bright cerulean blue work its way across the twine and into Salem’s outstretched hand.

  “Ligabis, Ostium, Carcere,” he repeated the words that were now forever etched into my conscious mind—I certainly wouldn’t forget them a second time—while I basked in the high that always comes when I use my power in a new way.

  “That was so cool, Salem!” I grinned, and he beamed.

  “See, sometimes I’m useful.”

  “Ligabis, Ostium, Carcere,” I repeated the spell. “What does it mean?”

  “It means your grandmother wasn’t fooling around. She meant to put Sylvana into a position where she wouldn’t be a danger to anyone.”

  “A prison in the underworld?” That was harsh, even for Sylvana.

  “Well, she probably didn’t mean to send your mother to hell’s nexus specifically. That one’s probably on Sylvana for funneling darkness into her witchfire. And now we have what we need. It’s a good thing, too, because we’d never have figured out which goddess your mother invoked—though it should have been obvious, I mean, she turned Clara to stone. Duh.” Salem hopped to his feet and began scurrying around the sanctum, gathering ingredients while he mumbled and ranted.

  “Hello, lost over here.” I waved my arms exaggeratedly.

  “It’s the Eye of Ra. Egyptian Goddess Tefnut. Presides over humidity—and also the lack thereof.”

  In a twisted way, it made sense. Drying out a witch might look a lot like turning her to stone.

  “You’re not going to make me call on her, are you?” I wasn’t thrilled about handling certain potion ingredients, to begin with; the thought of calling up some scary-ass Goddess turned my knees wobbly.

  “What? No. We’re going to use...” Another cabinet door slammed open. “Canary feathers!” Salem’s cusswords cracked me up sometimes.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “We need Van Van powder, and you used the last of it when we put together that batch of Fae-proof laundry soap.” Things get magically messy when the godmothers engage in one of their famous battles. When five washings with mundane products failed to render my favorite pair of jeans wearable again, I’d resisted asking for help and hit the Sanctum to put together something with a little more kick. Worked like a charm (no pun intended), but used up my entire stock of powder. So much for hiding my impromptu shopping trip from Salem.

  “Good thing I went to Athena’s.” Reaching into the corner where I’d stashed it, I grabbed my pack full of goodies and rummaged around to find the bottle of Van Van, which was not only good for cleansing but for drawing out negative energy. Those hoodoo priestesses really know their counter-curses. “I just happened to remember we were out.”

  “How you manage to suck up and gloat at the same time is beyond me.” The bottle landed on the table with a thump. Salem moved fast when he was annoyed. For the next hour and a half, he had me pounding, grinding, slicing, and dicing ingredients for the spell before he was satisfied we were as ready as we would ever be.

  Dipping low on the horizon, the sun tipped the trees with fire and bathed Clara in a warm glow. I’ve always loved the time of day when everything looks magically warm and pink. Mother Nature—who, by the way, Terra swears is the biggest gossip in all of the Faelands—knows how to paint a pretty picture.

  “Breathe into the magic,” Salem instructed after I’d downed the potion. For once, it tasted halfway decent—like herbal tea—and proved wrong my theory about how all potions were designed to taste awful to discourage witches from getting addicted to them. Two minutes after the liquid hit my belly, though, it also proved there’s always a downside to drinking potions. This one functioned to, shall we say, create water—and create, it did. Sweat shot out of my every pore, and I’ve never had to pee so bad in my entire life. In fact, I wasn’t sure I could build a ball of witchfire with my legs crossed.

  “Lexi! Control yourself.” Akin to a ruler on the back of a hand, Salem’s schoolmarm voice worked the same. I snapped out of it and concentrated on the spell I was supposed to weave.

  Witchfire grew from the spark I carried in my heart, arced between my outstretched hands, and built to a roiling ball of yellow flame with occasional glimmers of green. When the time felt right, I opened the floodgates (pun totally intended) and let the liquid pour from me into the golden flames. The sweat dried in an instant and my bladder did a happy dance when the burden eased.

  Wet fire. Whodathunkit? Technically it was pee-sweat fire, but that can be our little secret.

  “Now.” Salem’s voice rang in my ear, and I let the fireball fly straight at my grandmother’s head where it hit with a splat and sizzle. I hoped she’d forgive me for pelting her with the disgusting mess.

  For a
minute, I thought we’d done it. Expelled by my fire, moisture left a dark stain as it crept across Clara’s face and down over her neck, shoulders, and arms. Stepping closer, I watched the liquid draw into the stone and waited for it to plump up her skin, her muscles, her bones. I guess my face was roughly six inches from the end of her pointed finger when something finally happened.

  With about the speed and velocity of a high-end shower, the water erupted from her finger, hit my forehead, and fountained off every which way. Salem, who hates getting wet as much as the next cat, stood right in the path of the spewing liquid and was drenched before his agile reflexes could carry him out of the line of fire. Or, more technically, the line of water.

  Hissing and spitting, he glared at me balefully and, even though I was upset that our spell had failed, I pressed my lips together to hold back a laugh. “Don’t blame me; this was your idea.”

  Chapter Six

  KNOWING WHAT I NEEDED to find to fix the Bow of Destiny, and having the first clue where to find it were two very different things. I should have asked Lamiel for more detail. Stupid me.

  With no obvious next step ahead of me or any new ideas on how to free Clara, I turned to my business for a distraction. I’d owned FootSwept Matchmaking for several years, and in that time, amassed an inches-thick book of wedding photos to prove just how potent my Cupid-given abilities were, even before I Awakened as a witch—or knew how much my heritage had brought to my work.

  The broom and stars logo and the tagline Get Swept Away was a nod to my heritage. An inside joke among those in the know. I hadn’t intended to tell Kin my deepest secret until— well, the twelfth of never seemed appropriate.

  About a minute into our relationship, I’d found myself without any other choice.

  It probably would have come out eventually, as truths tend to do, and better he heard it straight from the witch’s mouth rather than catching me in the act of spellcasting. That kind of shock is enough to send a person running for the hills, or even worse, pushing a shopping cart up Main Street while wearing a tin-foil hat and muttering things that could get him committed.