Page 42 of The Sinner and the Scholar
“Right,” Wes says, dusting the chalk from his hands and admiring his handy work. He’s got that vibrance about him again. The one I glimpsed in the archives when he was in his element, telling me all the exciting things he’d learned. “I’ll start the chant, but I’ll need four more volunteers to stand at each point of the star.”
“Uh-uh,” Raven says, waggling her finger. “We girls are doing it. We have the beatific-whatever-the-fuck-sight, and it should be us.”
Wesley’s jaw clenches, but he knows he’s outnumbered. I hold my hand toward his book. He hesitates, glances at my neck where the charm should have been, and reluctantly drops the Book of Solomon into my hands.
The look in his eyes is clear—Promise.
Fifteen
Thea
Each Sinner gets into position around the pentagram. The middle, where we assume the demon will appear, is about fifteen feet wide. The center ring makes me feel safer knowing there’s a decent buffer to protect us. According to the book, Asmodeus will appear with three heads—one like a bull, one like a man, and one like a ram. He breathes fire, has a serpent’s tail, webbed feet, and sits on an infernal dragon. But I also saw a depiction of him in another book as a handsome man. I have no idea what we’re in for, but we’re out of options.
Wesley’s story about his uncle being sucked into hell pokes into the back of my mind.
“Light the candles first,” Wesley instructs from behind me as he reads the book over my shoulder. I let him because even though I want to be in control, a part of me is relieved that someone else is taking responsibility in these uncharted waters.
Shame, shame, little Sinner.
I shake off the memory.
Raven pulls out her lighter, flicks the flint, and holds the flame to her red candle. Once lit, she tosses her lighter to Tawny, who does the same. They look to me expectantly when all are lit, and I look to Wesley. I’ve now relinquished the book, and we’re putting our faith in him and the rest of Team Saint upstairs to keep Prue safe.
“Next up,” he says, “we paint Asmodeus’ sigil on your foreheads with the blood of our offering.” Wesley shifts the book to one hand and collects a small bowl of poultry blood Leila organized from our chicken coup. She left the bird for tomorrow’s meal. We’re a self-sustaining compound for the most part.
He paints Asmodeus’ sigil on our foreheads. It’s a complicated circle with a strange squiggle inside. All I recognize is a part that looks like a devil’s tail. Blood runs down our faces, and we look like we’ve stepped out of an Eighties horror movie.
When Wesley is finished, he returns the book to me.
“Read that passage,” he says softly, pointing to a tattered and crusty section as though it’s been used a million times. I shudder to think of the sacrifices made by the original occultists who owned the book. “When you’re done,” he continues, “everyone needs to repeat it, and you chant it like a meditation.”
“Got it.”
He touches my shoulder. “Be prepared. You’ve all been gifted with a supernatural sight that sees the true shape of demons. I’ll likely see something more benign, just as Prue looked normal, so this demon might seem like nothing to worry about to me. So don’t be alarmed if I don’t freak out.”
I give a curt nod. “Be ready for a three-headed, fire-breathing fucker sitting on a dragon.”
I suppose that’s good. If we see his true form, then we’re ready for anything.
Wes stands back and gathers blessed weapons, just in case. I like seeing the confidence in his posture. His shoulders are down, not tense. I search out his eyes to get a hit of dopamine. When he meets my gaze, it’s a tingle in my chest.
Here goes nothing.
“Ayer avage aloren Asmodeus aken,”I chant.
When I finish, the other girls join in. We chant like that for a few minutes, and nothing happens. I study each of my sisters and realize Tawny is mumbling her words. She catches me looking and then blushes. I glare, and she bites her lip.
I know this is scary. We’ve never done it before.
I mouth, “For Prue.”
She nods. I say the words, annunciating carefully, so she understands. She joins in and then increases her volume and clarity. Then we all chant. Within seconds we feel a change in the atmosphere. It’s as though someone has plugged a massive power cable into the room. We’re standing inside an electrical vortex. Air thickens. We taste metal. Tiny hairs on our bodies stand at attention.
The world invisibly tears before us, inside us, and around us. It’s how I imagine it would feel if someone sliced me in half with a fishing line, but then my body mended immediately. I feel torn apart but whole. Wrong. Upside down.
Mercy stumbles. Sweat glistens on her upper lip. She’s struggling more than the rest of us, and I refuse to let doubts climb in. She’s one of us, and she’s helping.
“Don’t leave your point.” Wesley’s deep voice is steady and calm. It’s an anchor for us in the storm. “Hold strong, yeah? Keep chanting.”
