“I have a theory,” Avery answered nonchalantly. “But I’d like to check something, before looking foolish. Do you feel comfortable going in?”
“I think so?”
Avery released her, and the two stepped into the bedroom. It seemed normal enough, in the same vein as the rest of the apartment. Again, fairly monochrome, but stylish and magazine-like.
“How long have you been practicing witchcraft?”
The question struck Saga as both strange and surprising. Did this mean the detective was also a practitioner? Was it mere conversation or related to the case? Were they going to be investigating local new age stores about the aforementioned herbs? Could witches be responsible for this atrocity—meditating, tarot-reading,trying-to-find-their-own-peace-in-the-world witches? She’d always known the community to be closer to book clubs than anything that would involve violence or… They weren’t the kind of witches often depicted in fiction. True, there were some who might be labeled as bad eggs,24 but what community didn’t have those? She couldn’t imagine Avery being prone to the fantastical and false ideas of about a practitioner. “My grandmother raised me in it… We had a statue of Brigid in the home. She tried to teach me what herbs helped draw what when using them in spell work or even cooking. Though, I admit, there was a giant gap in my practice from university to…a few months ago.”
“So, by your own words, you might say you’re a tad out of practice?”
Saga shrugged, feeling oddly defensive. “Sure. I guess. Why?”
Avery walked farther into the room, searchingly. She sniffed the air and then raised a hand delicately above her head, splaying her fingers as if trying to decipher a breeze. “Simple matter of sensitivity versus armor.”
Saga frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“Well.” Avery lowered her hand and examined her fingertips, then lightly touched the tips to her thumb as if feeling a residue on them. She paused. “Would you mind closing the door? I don’t want to risk her witnessing anything she shouldn’t.”
Saga did as she was asked, then folded her arms, uncertain of what the inspector was going on about.
Avery reached into the inside of her coat and produced a container resembling a cigarette case. “I’m talking about the chaotic energies of the universe.” She popped the case open and produced a sage green, almond-shaped leaf. “Now, if you’re an active practitioner, you’re used to keeping up your guard. You’re well-versed in the competing energies of the world and, in turn, know how to prevent yourself from absorbing all of them;it’s second nature. But fortunate for us—it’s been some time, and you’re perhaps a little out of practice.”
Saga wondered if perhaps whatever had passed over her might have been some kind of chemical or gas leaking. Magic was, at most, what she often described as “spicy psychology”—it was a way of reframing your perspective. It was calming and helped make sense of the wild world—it promoted compassion and helped focus intention. What did this detective think she was capable of doing? “How is that fortunate?”
Avery smiled. It was enigmatic and mischievous, and charming—the same grin that had beckoned Saga along on this journey in the first place. “Because if you’d been properly warded, we might have missed this.” She snapped her fingers, but she must have also produced a lighter, because a flame began to absorb the leaf between her fingers.
The air filled with a wafting scent of something herbal, a familiar perfume between oregano and thyme. As it burned, Saga recognized it: bay leaf.
“What are you…”
The words were barely whispered when she realized that the smoke was pooling above them against the ceiling. Far too much smoke for a single leaf was somehow still billowing. And the more she watched, the more she realized it was burning between Avery’s fingertips. Yet the flame did not singe or harm the woman, and as it danced, it flicked sparks shaped like symbols—runes.
As the bay leaf burned away into nothing but gold sparks, the last of the smoke rose above them. It was impossibly black and had formed a ring above the bed. Crackles of gold intermixed through the smoke, occasionally spitting out sparks that exploded into small sigils like tiny fireworks, and as it churned above, it drew the shadows in the roomintoit.
Saga’s breath caught at the supernatural lightning storm above them. She could feel the shift in the air—like a tug upward. Frozen in shock and fear, she was unmoving but felt some kind of force lift not only her, buteverything in sight nearly a full inch off the ground before that hold let go and everything fell back into place.
With that release, the smoke, shadow, and flame fell like sand to the ground, materializing into the translucent outline of various shapes.
Saga trembled, looking at Avery, who had not moved even when all else in the room had been commanded by some unseen force. It didn’t make sense. Surely, she’d fallen. She’dinhaledsomething. Something had occurred that she wasn’t aware of that was altering her state of mind. She was dreaming. Clearly, something was amiss with her perceptions, and yet she could not help the words that spilled out of her. “What the hell was that?”
Unfazed, Avery locked her eyes on the bed and the shadows that had formed around it. “Simple divination. Reveals any source of lingering magical imprints. What happened here happened a while ago, but it left a nasty scar. That’s probably why it affected you so intensely.” She shook her head, trying to make sense of the shadows. There was some kind of ring around the bed, and eight groups of short cylinders that resembled candles were placed outside of the circle in clusters. “I don’t know who was doing what, but this confirms the council’s suspicions that magic was definitely involved. There’s no scorch marks, so I’d wager they probably weren’t summoning an infernal. The room itself is relatively untouched, no sign of a struggle… It’s hard to tell if Valentina was the summoner or if it was one of us.”
“One ofus?” Saga repeated, aghast.
Avery laughed. “No, notliterallyone of us. I’m not saying we’re suspects, I’m saying one of our kind, someone from our world…” The woman’s voice trailed off as she finally looked at Saga. She took in her companion’s expression, and her face fell. Horror dawned. “Are you…notone of us?”
“That depends,” Saga whispered. “What the hell are you?”
23The word “bowery” comes from the Dutch word “bouwerij,” an archaic word for farm, thus continuing the perplexing tradition of affluent housing employing quaint names to seem more relatable.
24Since there has been religion, skill, or talent, there have been charlatans keen to swindle or fabricate to their own advantage.
