Page 162 of A Bond with the Dark

I’m utterly exhausted, like I’m twisting up in a convalescence.

Arriving in Seattle around two in the afternoon, when my aunts see me and my two trailing companions, the look on their faces is a little bit of shock and whole lot of careful distance.

There’s not much talk of anything important on the drive to their house in Anacortes.

The city of Anacortes is a beautiful, insular community in the upper northwest corner of Washington state.

The house they live in is an impressive five-story house located on the side of a mountain that overlooks the oil refinery. In the distance, majestic Mount Baker stands domineering and ominous, a volcano in slumber but threatening all the same.

They live here with my cousin Francine, her husband George, and their three children. Hilda and Maggie have their own apartment in the basement, separate from the big house.

My cousin’s husband owns a local hotel, so luckily for us, the two of them are gone all day. I don’t have enough energy to make small talk and feign niceties right now, so I’m thankful for the respite. My cousin and I have never been close. She’s been a revolving door my entire life, tolerating me when I go out to visit and downright viscousness and hatred when I’m away. I was hopeful my mother’s death would help close that door for me once and for all, but alas, here we are.

Upon arriving at their house, the aunts invite us all in—which is weird considering they’re with us and they literally stopped at the front door and said ‘Bash and Dom, won’t you please come in—and then we head down to their apartment, where they pull us into a back room off the main floor, a room they use for storage.

Atop the cardboard boxes are the remnants of what I know to be a summoning spell, and my heart leaps at seeing my mother again, even if it is in the spiritual realm.

Black and white candles sit beside a mirror, salt, a picture of Mama and Janet, and sage. The room still smells of it.

Piles of what look like my grandmother’s grimoires are lying haphazardly in one corner, and one is open on that same makeshift table.

The room is dark save for a small lamp in the corner covered with a red cloth, lending the space a formidable ambiance.

“So,” Bash’s cynical voice slices through the preamble, “what kind of witchy voodoo are we gonna do here?”

Hilda’s gaze at him could have cut him. “We’re doing a blood knot séance.”

Even the words of it chill me.

“Oh,” Bash adds, sauntering around the room, peeking in boxes.

Maggie slaps his hand away. “Sit,” she commands him.

I know Bash won’t hurt them, but still, to have a murderous vampire in such close quarters sits on the edge of me with unease.

Bash gets as close to her as he can, but Maggie’s not swayed by his gaze. I wonder what the whole story is about Maggie’s brush with a vampire and who that vampire was.

They’re from around the same area, maybe it was one of the Sangravelli Vampires.

Entertaining the idea in my mind, Bash sits on one of the boxes in the corner.

Dom sits down beside me.

Hilda takes a knife and carves an intricate knot in her hand, wincing.

“Maggie,” she beckons.

Maggie approaches her and takes the knife as Hilda lights the candles.

“Sayah,” Maggie says when her knot is carved.

I hold out my hand and let Maggie carve the knot into it, watching as it fades as soon as she marks it.

“Well, isn’t that interesting?” Maggie breathes.

“You’re going to have to will it to stay open, Sayah. Long enough to make contact.”

“What happens when it heals?” I ask.

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