Page 22 of Heart, Haunt, Havoc
“I’m perfectly situated, thank you. But we do require the help of a modern mystic,” Colin said. He plucked a tchotchke rose quartz skull from a crowded shelf and turned it over in his hand. “You wouldn’t know anyone, would you?”
“If you’re looking for a mystic, ring the yoga studio down the street. If you’re looking for a witch…” She trailed her banded fingers over a tall fiddle-leaf fig and came around the counter, straightening incense sticks in a narrow, upright display. Her eyes transferred from Colin to Bishop, Bishop to Colin. “I know a few. What’s the job?”
“We’d like to shoo some spirits,” Colin said.
Bishop stood beside a table filled with tumbled stones in various oblong bowls, awkwardly rocking on their heels, attention flitting from one place to the next. They cleared their throat. Fidgeted with polished labradorite pebbles and jasper flat stones.
Tehlor fixed Colin with a suspicious smile. “You can’t handle a few ghosts?”
Witches.Colin’s small smile tightened.Arrogant as the devil.
“Not these ones,” Bishop said. They tossed a smooth, shiny onyx into the air and caught it. “I can pay you.”
She laughed, a single, egotisticalhah. “How ‘bout this,” she purred, folding her arms across her chest. Her ankle-length shawl drooped over her shoulder, revealing another wave of red ink breaking across her light ochre skin. “I’ll come sniff out whatever dust bunnies you two can’t seem to chase away, and you let me keep whatever I find. That’ll be payment enough.”
“Keep…?” Bishop furrowed their brow.
“For Níðhöggr,” she said. Her throat worked around familiarity, stretching open for deep, round sound.
Ice shot down Colin’s spine.‘No’leapt to his lips, but he clamped his mouth shut and turned his back to Tehlor, pretending to browse a cramped row of books.Harnessing Magick, The Old Way, Lewellyn’s Kitchen Witchery. His throat turned to sandpaper. It’d been a long time—years, really—since he’d stumbled upon a Norse witch, and he hadn’t expected to find one in Gideon, Colorado. He drew a careful, steady breath and set the pink skull on the shelf where he’d found it.
“I prefer to release,” Colin said. He spun around, feigning a smile.
Tehlor hummed. “Sure you do, holy man,” she rasped, smothering another laugh. “And yet you’re here, asking for my help instead ofreleasingyour pesky spirits. Take my offer or find someone else.”
“What do you meankeep?” Bishop asked, their forehead tensed with confusion.
“She intends to trap the misplaced energy living in your home and use it to sacrificially power her spells,” Colin said. He straightened his spine, staring at Tehlor down the slope of his nose. “Unfortunately, her deities require payment.”
Tehlor shrugged one bony shoulder. “All gods require payment,” she said. Her eyes fell to Colin’s chest where his rosary sprouted from beneath his scarf. “Especially yours.”
There was little Colin could do to argue that. He cataloged her slipper-shoes and torn jeans, the crystal jewelry around her neck and the Scandinavian tattoos scrawled across her skin. In a sense, she was right. He remembered Isabelle straining against the ropes tied around her wrists and ankles, shackling her to a rickety chair. How the light had left her eyes, and day by day, her soul had chipped away, weathered like an old building in unforgiving climate. Love hadn’t saved her. Sacrifice hadn’t saved her. Christ hadn’t saved her. For years, Colin had tried to find truth in God’s plan, desperately searched his heart for grace and forgiveness. But faith was a hard, mean, vengeful thing at times, and losing her had calloused him.
“It’s not my house,” Colin said. He turned his attention to Bishop and waited.
Bishop set their mouth, shifting their jaw back and forth. Rhythmic trance flitted through the shop, thick wicks popped on rustic candles, and their damp boots squeaked on the clean floor. They met Colin’s eyes and tipped their head, defeated, before aiming a curt nod at Tehlor.
“Are you free tomorrow?” They asked.
Tehlor pulled her mouth into a sly smile.
“I’ll bring Starbies,” she said, popping her lips. Her nautical eyes flashed between Colin and Bishop. “Anything I should know?”
“Are you a dog person?” Bishop asked, dryly.
“Are there people who aren’t?” Tehlor laughed. Confusion moved across her face.
“Be cautious and vigilant,” Colin said. He nudged Bishop with his elbow and made for the door, glancing over his shoulder. “Since you’re bringing coffee, I assume you’ll arrive in the morning?”
She nodded. “Send your address through the contact form on Moon Strike’s website. I’m the only one with access.”
“Will do,” Bishop said. They followed Colin into the cold. At the truck, they snatched his forearm, tugging him around. “So, we’re letting a witch play animal control in my house? She’s seriously going to trap the ghosts, phantoms—whatever—and keep them? Like, in an aquarium? In a trash bag? How the hell do people cage a non-corporeal being?”
“From my understanding, every witch and practitioner has their own standards when it comes to creatures outside this plane of existence. She’s a Norse witch, and I’m betting ritual sacrifice still plays a major role in her life. The name she used, Níðhöggr,” he said, wrinkling his nose at the clumsy pronunciation, “is a corpse-eating serpent. If I had to guess, I’d say she intends to impress him with whatever loot she catches at your house.”
They pulled their slack jaw shut. “And you’re okay with this?”
“Do we have another choice?”
