Page 15 of A Bond with the Dark

I look at my aunt imploringly. “And you know this off the top of your head?”

“I've done it a time or two.” She sniggers, a knowing smile hiding behind the laugh.

“I've done a few myself and still need to check books for reference.” I laugh. “Okay, I think I have all the supplies. The bay leaves would be in the kitchen, though, in the spice's cabinet.”

Hilda grabs it while I gather the other things she needs for the spells, picking up Mama's wand for good measure. There's a power in it that I don't quite understand. It's light but heavy, if that makes any sense. The wood feels alive, like touching a live tree and feeling it breathe. There's a slight sound of high-pitched ringing every time I bring it near me, and it smells like earth, soil, and magick. The base of the wand is dark brown and ombres into a very light, almost blonde color.

When I return, we huddle in a circle in front of my altar by the window.

“Okay,” Maggie resumes, her face steadying in concentration. “First, set the candles out and put the picture of your folks in the middle. Now, hold the stones, and put all your energy into them, thinking with all you have for the safe passage of Fran and Dan and for us, healing from this pain. We'll pass the rocks around to each of us and do this.”

I take the quartz and hold it in my hand. Imagining the crystal's power has accumulated from all the world's wonders, I ask that power to help guide my mom's spirit into the next realm. The warmth of my hand is pressing into the rock, and I give it all the strength I have left. When it feels like all I am and will ever be drains into it, I pass it to Hilda, taking the tiger's eye stone in return from Maggie.

I do the same with this one.

“Now put the rocks next to the picture,” Hilda instructs after the crystals have been anointed with our magick.

I place them on the altar concentrically, next to the picture of my parents that I used in my spell last night.

“We shall now anoint the candles with the rose oil and light them,” Maggie says, twisting the top off the rose oil.

It's a tiny bottle. Mama had gotten it for my last birthday. It smells divine, like the most potent rose I've ever smelled, bottled up and sealed to preserve the heavenly nectar. I use it sparingly and only for significant life events. A new job. A spell for a friend to get pregnant. A death.

We each take a candle and anoint it with the rose oil from base to wick, the saccharine smell enveloping us with the decadent aroma. After rubbing the excess oil on my pulse points, I take the orange lighter and light the candle.

“As they burn,” Maggie adds, “take the white cloth and put the bay leaves, sea salt, and dirt in it?—”

I add the ingredients to the fabric in my hand.

“—and then light the incense.”

I twist the material so the ingredients are tucked neatly inside and set it on the altar. Hilda lights the incense with the fire from the candle and then holds out her hand for Maggie and I to take on each side.

Maggie sets her jaw.

“It is with love in our hearts that we call on all the forces we've come to know,” Hilda chants, “water, fire, earth, and air. Gods and Goddesses. Powers within we three. The power within Fran and Dan. Help them find their way to the light, peace, and garden of daffodils. Help us heal from this pain and help Sayah and Gauge find peace and move on. Protect them with our love even when we aren't near her. And protect us from missing our sister and her husband. This is our will, so mote it be.”

“So mote it be,” Maggie and I repeat in unison.

Letting go of my hand, Hilda dangles the cloth in the smoking incense. She holds it there for a few seconds, her lips mumbling inaudible incantations.

I watch as the smoke billows up and wraps around the satchel. The smoke is the intention, a palpable representation of our inner desires. The herbs inside the satchel are our wishes—what we want from the energy we manipulate. When the smoke binds to the satchel, our dreams and objectives collide, setting a force into the energy around us, a silent plea to the world to help us heal.

Hilda grasps my hand and sets the little package of magick into it. I close my fist around it and picture healing as a tangible thing, something you could pick up, put in your pocket, and save for later, drawing on it when you need to borrow some strength.

I will cradle my grief tenderly, letting this spell ease some of the burn while I get used to the way it settles into my bones.

I hold the satchel tightly and put it to my heart.

The energy in the room is peaceful, and the heaviness from the day lightens a bit. I watch the candles burn for a few minutes with my aunts doing the same. I picture my mom in that white dress, flowing through the field of flowers, touching them with her delicate hands. The light is backlighting her, setting her blonde wildly curly hair alight, beckoning her to come toward it. She looks in my direction, smiling like she is in the picture, light and full of happiness—no curses, no darkness, just light, love, and weightlessness. As the light gets brighter, Mama looks toward it, then back to me, and mouths, 'I love you,' then walks toward the blinding light. It becomes so bright I can't see anymore, and when I open my eyes, I'm shocked that it's dark. I expected the sun to be outdoors by how bright the vision got, but alas, it's night.

We're still standing before the candles, and my aunts are by my side, their eyes opening with a softness on their faces as though they, too, feel the peace.

He's standing on the deck of a lake house overlooking the dark crystal water with his back to me. I know it's him because his black hair looks wind-kissed at the tips that curl around his ears, and the black jacket has the collar flicked up to mingle with the black tresses. His toxic beauty swirls around him, even from behind.

My heart is racing.It feels like a strange dream with the mist around us—which I know it is.

Why am I dreaming of him again?

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