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Kristy texts me when we’re on our way to the warehouse, wanting to know if I’m okay. She’s been texting me every now and then since we left the Covenstead. I appreciate her checking in while also giving me space.
“What do you need to astral project?” Easton asks.
“Technically, nothing. I say a spell to project out, but I really should lie down in a salt circle with candles for protection. I’ve gone without the candles before, and I have Binx to help protect me. And I did find out that I can’t be possessed by a demon, but that was when I was in my body.” I tip my head, wondering how that would work. Astral projection in itself can trip you up if you think about it too hard. Some witches believe you’re just directing your consciousness out of the physical limitations of your body while others believe your soul is temporarily gone.
I’ve always believed the first, but it’s not something I’m willing to risk.
“The bed of the truck would work. And if I can’t do the salt circle, light some sage and wave it around me to keep rouge spirits away. Demons can’t possess me, but I think I could still be a ghost-host.”
We drive the rest of the way in relative silence and stop at the crossroad near the warehouse. It’s on a corner and is surrounded by a tall chain link fence. There’s one car parked out front, and a light is on in the front of the building.
“So someone is keeping watch,” I say.
“My money is on a younger Order member. Or an older one, like someone retired. If anything was that valuable or dangerous, it wouldn’t be in the warehouse.”
“Right.”
Easton drives past the warehouse, letting me get a good visual of it. Then we go a full block away and pull over in the back of a hair salon parking lot. I pull what I need out of my bag and sit in the bed of the truck. The liner is uncomfortable under my butt, and the mosquitoes are out in full force tonight, but it’ll do.
Binx settles in my lap and I close my eyes, waiting for Easton to light the sage. Then I whisper the incantation and feel my body start to slump to the side. The spell takes hold and I project myself onto the walkway leading to the door of the warehouse. I stop and look around, waiting a beat to see if I triggered any sort of alarm system. Nothing happens, so I walk to the door, stop, and listen.
I can hear what sounds like a TV playing, and multiple voices. There must be a little office or sitting area or something right inside the door. Not wanting to project in and be seen right away, I go a few paces down and walk through the wall, entering the warehouse.
The place is dimly lit, and even in astral form, I can feel the magic coming off some of these objects in waves. I’m standing in the beginning of an aisle of metal shelves. Each one is about six feet tall and crammed with things the Order has deemed haunted or cursed. I take a step forward, looking at an old-fashioned coo-coo clock. It’s sitting in a pan of salt, and a little note card is fitted in a holder in front of it.
“‘Item#H4210: Haunted Clock. Spirit still attached. DO NOT TOUCH,’” I read out loud and fight the urge to poke it. Ghosts have never scared me, but I don’t have time to deal with a vengeful spirit right now. At the bottom of the card is the date the item was acquired, and I move to the next one, a haunted hair pin, and look at the date. It came in years after the clock and is resting in an iron bowl. Next to that is what I’m guessing is a murder weapon since there’s still dried blood on the knife.
“Oh,” I say out loud to myself, realizing that the “H” in the item number must mean haunted. I need to find the cursed items.
“If I was a mystical oracle from ancient Egypt, where would I be?” I whisper to myself as I go down an aisle. Thankfully, everything else is well organized and categorized, which I’d expect from a place like the Order, who claim to be superior when it comes to dealing with the supernatural.
Though I do see several objects that shouldn’t be next to each other, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Two aisles later, I get to things that are labeled as “cursed”. Some are, I can tell without even having to touch them, but a few others are magical tools that weren’t used properly and had dangerous results.
Light spills out into the warehouse, and I step to the side, half my projection going into a shelf, and whirl around. The door to the office opens, and I watch a teenage boy scurry across an open area and go into another room, turning the light on before shutting the door behind him. I stay still for another minute or so, and then hear a toilet flush.
The boy comes out, pausing for just half a second to look out at the warehouse and then rushes back into the office. I close my eyes and project myself right outside the office door. A TV is on, but the volume is turned down low.
“Don’t be such a pussy,” someone says.
“This place creeps me out.”
“You better not let Carl hear you say that. He’ll never send you out on an assignment.”
“It’s different,” the other counters. “I can fight a monster. The shit in here is here because it couldn’t be fought.” He has a point, actually, though if stored properly, everything in here should be neutralized. “I need some fresh air anyway,” he goes on. “The constant smell of burned sage is giving me a headache.”
In astral form, I don’t notice any smells. Burning sage makes sense and is a smart thing to do when you’re trying to suppress dark energy.
“Fine. It’s just down the block and then we have to come right back. ETA is about five minutes.”
“Thank god. I’m fucking starving.”
“Same. At least it’s nice out. I hate having to walk down the block for food when the weather is shit.”
I take a few steps back, guessing that the Order members aren’t allowed to have anything delivered right to the warehouse but instead have to give a different address to have takeout delivered.
“Five minutes,” I echo and go back to slowly walking up and down the aisle. According to the emails, this oracle was acquired by the Order several months ago. I cut through several shelves but go too far. I stop, eyes landing on a gold ring with a large green stone across the aisle, displayed in an open red ring box. It’s too dim and I’m too far to read the little notecard, but I can tell I’m past the cursed objects.
Mentally counting the minutes tick by in my head, I hurry down another aisle, slowly when the item tags start with “C” again. I almost miss it since it’s so unassuming. It’s just a dark, oval-shaped rock inside a glass box. It’s not flashy or inlaid with gold. Instead, it’s a gray rock in the shape of a scarab and the etched details are almost worn off.
