Page 5 of Raising Hell: MMF Edition

“Chin up, dear. What’s meant to be will always find a way.”

Bullshit.

That’s one of those phrases people use when everything sucks, but they can’t outright say it’s terrible because it would be rude. Just say it!It really fucking sucks and you’re going to have a shitty day and even shittier week now, and I can’t do anything about it. Neither can you, really, so get over it.

That’s at least the truth.

We hang up, and I slump into my seat, staring at the phone in my hand that I’m gripping like a dead man’s switch. Agitated, my foot kicks impatiently beneath me, teetering on the edge of a decision that could possibly be a giant mistake.

“She’s right, you know,” I whisper to Shadow, who only tilts her head at me. My sight falls to the spellbook sitting on the table.

Mind made up, I charge over and steel my spine as I slide the key into the tiny padlock, twisting until the click tells meit’s unlocked. The cover falls open and I flip towards the end, stopping when I find the page I’m searching for.

A Spell for Summoning Good Luck.

All hesitation is gone as I read the words again. I’ve studied it so many times it feels like I have it engraved in my memory, every word etched into my mind.

I nod, my conviction growing the longer I do it. “What’s meant to be will always find a way.”

Hair frizzy and eyes watering, I blink a few times to clear my vision from the smoke that billows around the kitchen like an early morning fog. This is the most intricate magic I’ve attempted… far more complicated than it looked at first glance.

Each step of the spell is meticulously timed, leaving me stuck waiting for step twelve to boil for exactly seventy-four minutes, stirring once every minute.

I’ve had to pee for an hour, but I can’t leave for… I check the stopwatch ticking down on my phone. Sixteen minutes.

Another beep goes off and I swirl the wooden spoon through the mixture a single time as I restart my timer.

My eyes glide across the page, studying the remaining steps. The draught has to cool for an hour, and I’m in a minor panic about the directions that follow. In typical Ruby fashion, I got too excited and failed to plan ahead. The timer sounds, and I stir again, using my sleeve to wipe my eyes as the smoke turns them scratchy and irritated.

When the final alert dings, I pull the concoction off the heat and jet into the bathroom, groaning as I relieve myself before hurrying up the stairs to the attic.

“Step thirteen… inscribe the rune on a space not less than four feet by four feet.”

That doesn’t sound that big, right?

Well, it is.

It’s fuckinghugeand I’m an idiot for not doing this before I started.

Panic flutters in my belly as I realize that I only have fifty-four minutes left to get this right or all the work I’ve done over the past seven hours is a waste. Not to mention, I depleted my stores of ingredients that I have no way to replace.

I mean, where does one get Eye of Howler?

WhatisEye of Howler?

What’s aHowler?!

The attic is the reasonable place to do this, with the large, open space that’s only covered by the rug. Dust particles mushroom into the air and tickle my nose as I grab one end of it, and I sneeze. After a clearing shake of my head, I glance down and freeze.

Crimson-painted markings peek out from the wooden floor underneath, and I roll the rug into a giant burrito, revealing the pattern. “No way,” I whisper, shoving the rug aside and running to grab the spell book off the desk. I stare at the drawing on the page, and then back at the ground.

It’s identical.

My eyes skim the circle, the swoops that move through, and the rough marks that line the edges. Back and forth, back and forth, I double, triple, then quadruple check, disbelief poking and prodding at my brain.

I don’t get lucky.

Ever.

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