Christine McKay - Carnal Magic

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Elaine Feller glanced at the moonlit sky and cursed the falling snow. Snow on Halloween? It seemed blasphemous. Snow was for St. Nick’s and Christmas. Just because the stores couldn’t keep the holidays separate didn’t mean Mother Nature needed to jump on the bandwagon, as well.

There was a blessing to the wintry weather, though. It kept all but the most determined off the streets. In St. Beatrice’s Cemetery, even the dead lay quiet beneath the blanket of snow.

If she had her way, she’d be disturbing one dead man’s rest.

It’d been two years since her Tom had died and of all the inconsiderate things to do, left her behind. She’d gone through the normal stages of grief. To everyone around her, she’d moved on. If she didn’t have a boyfriend, well, it was because she was so immersed in life there was no time for another man.

What she’d failed to tell them was if it was up to her—and she didn’t see why it wasn’t—there wouldn’t be another man. Tom Vaughn had been the love of her life, her childhood sweetheart, her best friend, the man who made her laugh at herself but adored her peculiarities. Her soul.

God, she sounded like she should be a heroine in some over-the-top Shakespearean drama. Too bad she got stage fright.

Fear wouldn’t stop her tonight.

Hefting her shoulder bag, she walked down the cemetery path. She didn’t need a flashlight. She could find his grave blindfolded. Shadows writhed across the sheet of snow, a twisted bit of branch here, a stone cherub’s distorted outline there. Beneath her winter coat, her skin was cold. She’d spent two years as a solitary studying the occult, haunting The Coven’s aisles. Victoria Ramlin, the shop owner, high priestess and queen many times over, had taken her under her wing when she’d needed guidance. The woman had never once refused to answer to Elaine’s questions, nor had she asked any of her own.

Elaine almost wished she had.

Tom’s grave was nestled in a newer portion of the cemetery, beneath the branches of a weeping willow tree. The tree wasn’t actually owned by the cemetery, but bordered the back lot. Much to the caretaker’s dismay, the messy willow was allowed to live. Repeated discipline by the pruner kept it in check on his side of the fence. On nights like tonight, though, the wind whipped its spidery arms over the lot line, taunting.

She set her bag down behind Tom’s stone. Out came a runner of black fabric, cut from the dress she’d been wearing the night he died. The dry cleaner never could get all the blood out. Might as well put the dress to good use. She draped the runner over his stone, anchoring each side with a fat pillar candle, one black and one white. Next came a fir branch. The wind played with it, scraping its needled fingers across the smooth granite. Nestling a small vase between the branches, she filled it with a white iris, a red rose and a chunk of clematis vine.

Swallowing hard, she stepped away and walked a small circle around the grave. It was more oblong than completely spherical. She hoped it didn’t matter. When she reached the front of the site, she paused, fingers itching to trace the name carved there. She bit back a small sob, tears stinging her eyes. She’d shed too many tears already. Now was the time for action, not misery. Finishing the circle, she returned to the altar.

Shrouded in leather, her fingers were still cold. Pulling off her gloves, she tucked them in her coat and retrieved Tom’s cigarette lighter. It was a simple silver rectangle, worn smooth by his touch. She used it to light the candles. They flickered and guttered, nearly going out when a gust of wind swept through. She’d anticipated the wind, though, and carved a depression around each wick, providing a shelter of wax for the flame.

It was now or never. She shucked her coat and mules, standing nude and barefoot in the snow.

She faced the north. “I invoke Earth, Mother of mystery and growth. Guard me tonight.” With a trembling finger, she sketched a pentagram in the air. She turned. “I invoke Air. Give breath to that which I seek to create.” Another pentagram drawn, another turn.

God, it was friggin’ cold. Her breath came out in a puff of white air. She fought the urge to shiver. “I invoke Fire. May I have success in my endeavor tonight.” Her hand again trembled as she drew her pentagram.

Last turn. Last pentagram. “I invoke Water. Bring him back on a tide of love.”

She was facing the back of the gravestone again. Maybe she should have stood in the front. Maybe she should have stayed the fuck home and not tried to tackle what no one else had ever successfully done. Who did she think she was? A voodoo priestess? A witch queen?

Taking a deep breath, she tried to block out all the distracting thoughts. In theory, it sounded simple. But in reality, her brain was accustomed to the constant stream-of-consciousness bombardment of life. Keeping still was like trying to pry the needle out of an addict’s hand. Again, in theory, possible, but more likely than not someone was going to get stabbed.

“I, Elaine Feller, align myself with Persephone, Goddess of the Underworld. I ask you to bring Tom Vaughn back to me.”

Kneeling in the snow, she pulled a pretty cut-crystal container of crimson fluid out of her bag. She lifted it over her head. The moonlight kissed its facets. “Blood of my love.” Lowering it, she pricked her finger with a needle and squeezed the skin until a drop of blood formed. Her hands were shaking so badly she was afraid the drop might fall on the snow, instead of in the glass. “Blood of his love.” Her blood dripped into the glass, smearing the rim. She bowed her head. “Please bring him back,” she whispered.

On Samhain, the beginning of the witches’ New Year, the veil between the worlds was at its thinnest. She prayed it’d be enough. There was no room for failure. She didn’t care how he came forth, be it zombie or spirit or whole. She just couldn’t live without him. Hot tears spilled over her hands, which were clutching the glass.

“Please.”

Willow branches flogged the cemetery fence. The candle flames guttered and nearly went out. Her vase toppled, the sound of glass breaking loud in her ears. Her flowers plunged over the edge of the gravestone.

She didn’t know what she should have expected, but it was too damn cold to kneel for long in the snow. Standing, she started to follow her footsteps counterclockwise around the grave. Breaking the circle. Breaking her heart, as well.

“You’re more likely to catch pneumonia than a spirit that way.”

She froze, glancing around wildly. The wind chased clouds across the star-spattered sky. Shadows danced on the snow, grotesque parodies of the cherubs and angels guarding their sleepers. “Who’s there?” She was fairly certain it was a man’s voice, not Tom’s, but then again, it’d been so long since she’d heard it.

A human shape disentangled itself from the shadows near the willow, one hand resting on the waist-high wrought-iron fence. Someone from the Historical Society, no doubt. She didn’t think any functions were planned tonight at the old church sharing the cemetery border.