Page 11 of The Preachers' Promise
My hand makes a thwacking sound on my cock as I beat myself harder and faster. Not so long ago, touching myself like this would have been accompanied by me whipping myself as punishment. There’s a part of me that misses it—that sting of pain to heighten the rush of pleasure. If I were to do it again now, though, it wouldn’t be as punishment.
“Fuck,” I curse as I come with a suddenness that takes me by surprise.
I aim my cock into the bowl and watch, panting, my legs tensing and relaxing, over and over, as I spurt thick ropes. When it’s over, I sag for a moment, letting myself get my breath back.
I get to my feet and take my robe from a hook on the back of the door and wrap it around myself. Then I add the things I need to the bowl. Drops of the mixture of Ophelia’s blood and hair. The flowers. A sprinkling of sage. A few drops of spring water, and finally a pinch of salt.
The candles I use for practice are varied, and, for protection, I select a thick black candle. I drop to my knees and light it, loving the burned match smell that fills the room. As the candle crackles, the wooden wick makes a comforting sound. I watch the flame for a while.
Realizing I’m almost falling asleep, I roll my shoulders and focus on the task at hand.
With the candle lit, I gather the photos of the ancestors I want to call upon. Laying them out carefully, I pick up my stirring rod as I begin to chant the incantation I need. Stirring as I speak, I once more feel the strange trance-like tiredness wash over me. I find my eyes drifting closed as I connect with those who came before me.
Then something changes and I sense them, a disturbance in the air around me, a whispering in my ears, the way the birds outside the window suddenly stop singing.
My ancestors. I welcome them. Their power fills me, warming me.
Letting the ancestors inside is risky—some say it’s a darker form of magic—but I welcome it because I need them to do something for me. Something of great importance. I begin to slow the chanting, and, finally, I stop.
“Ancestors,” I say, in English now. “You have a lock of hair, and a drop of blood of the woman I need you to protect. I offer you my seed and ask for help. Go to her, fill her with your power, your light, your collective wisdom and strength. I ask of you that you give her the comfort and determination she needs to survive this.”
As I listen, I am sure I hear them answering. It’s a whisperedyeeeeeson the wind, carrying through the open window. A rustling of the leaves that sounds very much like,it is so. A lone bird calling that seems to be saying,she will be safe.
Blowing out the candle, I stand and quietly ask the gods for wisdom and guidance in this task we have before us.
Please don’t let me fail her.
5
MALACHI
By the timeI get back to the tower, Cain is sitting in the living area, where he’s staring into space. He looks dejected.
“How did it go with your dad?” I ask.
“He said no.” The way Cain repeats the words makes it sound as if he can’t believe it. I’m not surprised. Our parents are fucking assholes; it’s what brought us all together in the first place.
There are already people buzzing around the outside of the water tower, checking it out and keen to get to work.
“You moved fast,” I say to Cain.
He smiles. “When you’ve got cash, there are always contractors who can work at a moment’s notice.”
“Are they good contractors, though?” I laugh a little, a strange excitement washing over me at the fact that we’re doing this for our Little Ghost.
“They get great recommendations. They’ve received instructions to make a feminine space upstairs for Ophelia, and to make this place look a little less freaky. We don’t know if her parents will let her come back with us, but if they do, they might visit here and panic if it looks like this.”
At first, I was reluctant to agree to this madness, this crazy cross-country dash to bring her back with us. However, over the last hour or so, that has changed, as a dark sense of urgency has been building within me. It started when I found a shaded spot outside, propped myself against a tree to think, and promptly fell asleep for thirty minutes, and dreamed of Ophelia being bundled into a van outside a fancy modern mansion and driven away. She was crying in the dream and begging her parents not to send her away.
It might have been a dream, nothing more, but I’ve got a godawful feeling that something bad is going to happen to Ophelia. I have no fucking idea where it’s come from, but it is insistent and powerful. And Roman always tells us to listen to our intuition, so I am.
I’m no longer happy with waiting, and, instead, I want to go tonight. It will be dark soon, and I can’t shake this sense of dread.
I don’t understand it, but when your gut is screaming that something is wrong, you ought to listen to it.
“So, we have some men to fancy the place up, but no guards?” I ask, disappointment flooding me.
“I can get guards, just not from my father,” Cain says. “That bastard says he can’t spare them, and even if he could, it isn’t his place to intervene with what a father wants for his daughter. My friends at the fight club can.”
