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“You didn’t ask,” he said, grinning.
While Delilah finished digging the hole, I ringed the yew with salt and then prepared a cup of salt for the grave, mixing in a generous dose of sage and, for good measure, I added a few of the yew needles.
As I took out my dagger and sat on the wet ground in the lotus position, Morio knelt behind me, his hands on my shoulders. I could feel the warmth of his hands through the chill that enveloped my skin, and it traveled down through my breasts, down into my stomach.
When his energy hit my tailbone, it merged with my own and I felt our conjoined essences begin to rise, to cycle through both of us—through me, into his hands, through him, into the earth, then they were spiraling through dirt and soil and rock to root deeply within my legs and travel up through my tailbone again. A circle—a Möbius strip of power, we were joined by both magic and soul.
Since we’d undergone the Soul Symbiont ritual, our rituals had become stronger. Now, we seldom needed words to know what the other was going to do. Morio couldn’t reinforce my Moon magic—that came from the Moon Mother herself and was solely mine, and he couldn’t strengthen my work with the unicorn horn, as far as I knew. But the death magic had taken on a force of its own and together we were far more powerful than either of us alone.
As the magic cycled through our bodies, I began to force it outward, to send a ripple of energy out to encircle the yew tree, to ride on the wind and soak into the very land. Morio backed me up and the ripple became a cleansing wave as he fed me the energy and I directed it. The wave splashed over the aching souls and wounded bones and I heard a chorus of cries begging for release.
Inhale deeply . . . another long breath as Morio infuses me with the power to guide the spirits to their path . . .
Exhale slowly, as the magic reaches out to scatter the souls, to free them from their shackles to the bones . . .
Inhale again . . . the energy flares and everything within the circle shines with a brilliant golden light. So many people think white is the color of purity but white is the color of death. Gold purifies, silver protects . . .
And exhale . . . feel the souls fleeing the land, racing off to rest and return to their ancestors. The anguish is diminishing . . . and there—there is the goshanti, asleep, for it is her time to sleep, but she knows something’s wrong and seeks to wake . . .
“Camille! Camille! Snap out of it. We have to hurry,” Morio said, shaking my shoulders.
I blinked, the vibrant colors of the magic blinding me until they settled into the surrounding area, sinking into the land without so much as a whisper. The yew tree let out a long, contented sigh and I quickly poured the sage and salt mixture over the bones. Then, Morio, Delilah, and I stood beside the tiny grave and chanted the litany for the dead.
“What was life has crumbled. What was form now falls away. Mortal chains unbind, and the soul is lifted free. May you find your way to the ancestors. May you find your path to the gods. May your bravery and courage be remembered in song and story. May your parents be proud, and may your children carry your birthright. Sleep, and wander no more.”
When we were done, there was another soft hush as a gust of wind rushed by and carried the last vestiges of the souls to their destiny. I arched my back and watched as Delilah filled in the hole and we drew a binding rune on top, that nothing might disturb their slumber.
“Now, we take care of the goshanti,” Morio said. He motioned to me and I picked up the bag of salt. “Delilah, would you keep watch for us? Stand right at the edge of the sidewalk.”
She took her place and I glanced at Morio. He nodded, and I began to slowly circle the lot, casting handfuls of salt to form a ring of white, a circle of clarity. The salt sizzled as it hit the ground, smoking in some places. The land was hot with turbulence. I closed my eyes, guiding the energy that trailed from my body to form a barrier left in my wake that shimmered and glistened. It, too, was white—white and red. Death and power.
And then, I came back to the beginning and Morio met me, escorting me into the center. I would be the focal point, the lens, and he would use me to focus the energy. I went down on my knees, arms spread out to the side. Morio stood behind me, legs firmly planted to either side of me, his hands raised to the sky. I waited, feeling for the energy, and there it was—the cord spiraling from him to me. Attaching to my aura, the cord slid into place and I shivered, anticipating the flow of power to come.
Death magic was sensual, passionate, addictive, and yet the process was cool and aloof, taking us to the edge of that stark barrier through which every mortal creature eventually had to pass. Even the gods died, at some point. As Morio and I merged into the same channel, I gasped and my head dropped back. I could feel him, alert, magnificent in his pose.
He wavered for a moment and then—as quickly as the energy caught us up—it grounded us deep into the shadows of the trees, the shadows of life, and we were walking on the outskirts of the Netherworld, between realms, in the wash of spirits that passed by us silently. They did not see us, nor did they realize we had slipped into their domain.
I inhaled, letting Morio lead me. He grabbed the threads of magic that ran rife at the gates to the Netherworld and whispered something, and then they were attached to him, and through him—attached to me. We were ready.
“Open your eyes,” he said softly.
I opened my eyes. The lot had taken on a vastly different look. Everywhere I looked, I could see by their auras which plants were dying, and which were thriving. I could feel the bones we’d planted at the base of the yew tree. I could see the aura of the yew itself, glowing like the Blue Light Special at Kmart. And I could see the blood that had fed this ground—long ago soaking deep and drying, but still here, still attached to the land.
“Do you see?” Morio asked.
“I see.”
“Then seek the goshanti.” His arms were still raised above his head. Mine were wide at my sides still, and I directed the energy to spread from my fingertips, to search and find the devil. It trailed out like smoke, swirling through the trees, seeking, probing, searching for the signature of the goshanti.
Like a mist, the vapor carried my vision with it and through a haze I could see a cat hiding under a fern, a garter snake gliding through the foliage, insects and birds looking for food. And then, the mist stopped in a patch of Scotch broom. There. Behind the thick-branched weeds. The swirl of color that marked the goshanti. During the day she showed as a ball of energy, at night she could take form.
“Found her,” I whispered. “Use me.”
Morio drew on the threads from the Netherworld, mixing the energy and binding it to his own, forming the spell to send the devil back to the realm from which she’d come. The power darted along the cords, sparkling like lights. Morio swayed to the music of the realm that pulsated along with the magic. As it hit his hands, he channeled it down through me, sweeping his arms down to fasten his grasp on my shoulders.
The sudden flush caught me up in the dance. Together we soared in the astral, our bodies still firmly grounded Earthside. We spun around each other, mating snakes entwining. Morio laughed, throaty and raw, and his joy raced out to include me. The power of the dead, the power of that dark realm was so much more than it appeared. A fire raced through my body, sending me into an orgasm.
Morio stroked my chin and whispered, “I love you. I love you more than I love life, Camille.”
