Under Witch Aura (Moon Shadow Series) (18 page)

Possessed or used as a spy
or not, cats
tended to know things—like when they were the subject of a
conversation. The cat swiveled its head, lifting it slightly as
though paying closer attention. It didn’t help that Lynx hissed
at me, “What you mean?”

“That’s exactly what I
mean,” I replied. “It’s been hanging around lately.
I see it when I’m not expecting it, weird places. Can you tell
if it is possessed?”

Lynx inhaled quickly,
sniffing. “It
looks like a cat.” His eyes narrowed. “I followed it.”

“How would that answer the
question?”

Lynx shrugged. “Maybe it’s
an answer. Maybe not. I owe you.” He scratched his ear and then
it flicked on its own. “For the thing with the door.”

I rolled my eyes. The thing
with the
door indeed. Breaking and entering. I let that go because as far as I
was concerned, it was resolved. “If someone is controlling it
or using it as eyes, it doesn’t have to return to that place to
deliver the info, Lynx.”

“It’s got to eat. If
someone is controlling it, they'd keep it fed. Dead cat won't deliver
much info.”

He had a valid point. “Can
you do
me a favor?”

“I did already!”

“Just take it some food,
would
you?”

“I did that already too.”
He scooted away, light on his feet as always.

I was far from convinced
that the cat
wasn't possessed, but then again, Lynx was probably right, assuming
he had followed the cat long enough. If no one was feeding it...hmm.
Whether Lynx had fed it or not, I put more food on the porch.

Dallying was, no doubt, a
mistake. The
instigator had already been on her own in my house for far too long.

Tara waited innocently by
the lab
doorway. The ghost text I had been reading was open on the table, but
she couldn’t read it, even if she had gone in the lab. The
slight smell of molten silver, a common smell in my lab, hung in the
air. Nothing appeared out of place.

She trailed in behind me
and took the
stool where I had been reading. It didn't take long for her to ask,
“You spell all your books like this?”

“Yes. I’ll teach you
sometime. In fact, the spell I'm working on now is a bit like it only
in reverse. To keep someone from reading, the words are tuned to me.
What I want to create today is a dream catcher with Sarah as the
focus. It will keep everything Sarah out. Same sort of principle as
letting only me in, just reversed.”

“Who is Sarah?”

Talking to Tara about
ghosts and
training reminded me to shut the door to the hallway. Leaving it
open was a bad habit. The door had special, heavy wards on both
sides—no spells in and no spells out. Of course, Tara hadn’t
shown any real proclivity toward magic. What were the chances she’d
suddenly find power and set it loose?

“Sarah’s the ghost.”
I outlined the barest details of the explosion up on the mountain and
Sarah's visit.

Tara listened, but snorted
skeptically.

I ignored her opinion. “I
want to
make sure she can’t get into the house or my dreams. The
crucifixes, along with salt inside the adobe, are quite likely enough
to prevent mischief. But I still want the added protection of a dream
catcher.”

“I have three dream
catchers. I
bought them though, I didn’t spell them myself.”

“I have a large one myself
with
smaller ones attached. Each piece targets different evils and
spirits. We’ll make one with Sarah as the target. Since she is
a ghost, we’ll also treat the weave with a mixture of salt and
holy water.”

I arranged the ingredients
and dipped
the cotton netting in the holy water and salt. “We'll thread
sweet grass into the edges under the leather. It’s not strictly
necessary, but every little bit helps.” I handed her the frame,
the netting and the leather strip.

She was a quick study, but
as she wove
the sweet grass, she lacked any semblance of focus or passion.

I frowned. At this rate,
I’d have
to redo it. “Think about the spell while you’re weaving.
Some call it meditation. There’s an essence that has to be
embedded, almost a prayer that ghosts and spirits stay away.”

“You want me to chant or
something?”

“No.” I stifled a sigh.
“Some witches use words to help them focus, but it's not the
words. Feel the magic in your fingers, tie yourself to what you
need.” How to teach someone to care? “Be aware of the
aura of the spell. You have to see it so you can bend it.”

I observed her wind a few
more threads,
but she was mechanical; following the technique, but completely
lacking the magic. She was too self-conscious to give anything of
herself.

“Let’s add Sarah's essence,
and I’ll finish the weaving later,” I said.

Sarah’s spell was still in
the
green stoneware container. I had no intention of releasing the spell.
Not only would it contaminate the lab, I needed to keep the essence
to track Sarah or…for whatever else might come up. “I’ll
push this silver prong through the cork. The silver has notches where
some of the spell will stick. When I pull it out, the cork fills in
behind the prong and keeps the rest of the spell from escaping.”
I showed her the small pits I had made along the length of the spike.

“Then you put the silver in
the
dream catcher.”

“Exactly. I’ll cap it with
a piece with wood, making it a miniature of the original awl. It’s
important that it look right. When you create magic you want it to be
sophisticated and draw only beauty to itself, not reflect neglect or
shoddiness.”

I positioned the jar on the
table.
“Hold it carefully so it doesn’t move around.”

“Okay.”

I pushed the spike in,
turning it like
a corkscrew. Usually, I attained a near trance-like state, feeling
the world around me through my hands and body, but Tara's energy
distracted me.

When I was certain the awl
had gone far
enough, I droned softly, “Hold your thumbs tight on the cork
now. Envision the magic coming out through the middle of the awl, a
line of light traveling along the length, like mercury in a
thermometer.”

Instead of turning, I
gently rocked the
awl back and forth, a slight reverse turn, then more rocking. “Hold
tight,” I warned.

The awl came free. I smiled
triumphantly. The barest puff of dust hit the air and scattered like
a sparkler during the Fourth of July. From outside, a yowl from the
depths of a cat’s soul bellowed.

Tara yanked her hands away
from the
stoneware jar. “Eeek!” Her screech wasn’t much
different than that of the cat. She stood, but one leg tangled around
the bottom rail of the stool. It clattered over, trapping her foot.

I blinked, coming out of my
concentration.

Tara hopped, trying to free
her foot. She fell forward and caught herself against the edge of the
counter
top, bumping the stoneware jar.

It skittered sideways,
rolling. Slowly, like a spinning top, it teetered on the edge.

I lunged for it, but it was
too late.

The jar was quite pretty,
an almost
opalescent green. It resembled water, catching the light as it
turned, shimmering as it tumbled through the air.

When it hit the concrete
floor, it
shattered. The chemicals mixed instantly.

“OhmyGod, I’m sorry, I’m
sorry!” Tara screamed.

I reached for silk to
contain it, but
it was past saving. Greenish blue smoke wafted up gently. It was the
sky on a spring day with the forest beneath it. My head tilted,
expecting the twitter of birds. The smell of juniper and pines filled
the room. The smoke shifted, forming the shadows from overhead
branches. No one shape was really there, just bits and pieces with
light filtering down through a fragrant canopy.

The blue stayed above the
green,
spreading behind it, a vast horizon of possibilities. When the smoke
touched my fingers, I smelled the loam and richness of Mother Earth.

The shadowy trees stretched
and grew,
their boughs gently swaying. Behind them, dimmer shapes implied more
forest. The witch in me knew the illusion, even as I appreciated its
beauty.

A huge sadness engulfed me,
one that
had been absent when I first realized Sarah had died. Her death had
been violent. Her visit had left me frightened—for what had
happened to her and what could happen to me. With the spending of the
spell, I may as well have called her ghost, only instead of the
frantic, pained waif, I felt the passing of a woman who had created
something beautiful, meant to bring happiness and peace.

Sarah hadn’t spent her life
creating these types of spells and then suddenly hired herself to
Claire to draw a sand painting meant to bind. Whatever part she had
played, she hadn’t been the one to open a gate to the west.

“I hope you’re free,”
I whispered, watching the traces in the spell grow lighter. There
were clouds, the gentle promise of a summer rain, the clean fresh
smell of morning.

“Free of what?” Tara
whispered back.

I didn't answer. The smoke
drifted,
slowly losing shape and suggestion. The smells would linger. I should
open the outside door and let it drift, but I hated to do it. It was
the last of Sarah.

Instead, I knelt and chose
a piece of
the stone jar. The chemicals were almost completely gone. Sarah
probably hadn’t made the jar, but there would be residual
ingredients on the inside.

I set the largest piece
aside and swept
the other fragments into a silk pouch. They might be of use later. If
not, I would bury them. Maybe up on the mountain.

I walked to the door and
reluctantly
set Sarah free. The wind easily captured the colored dust particles.
In no time at all, the smell of the woods faded completely.

At the doorway, I bowed my
head and
said a prayer that she would go as freely as her smoke.

It took me a few moments to
compose
myself enough to face my trainee. I was sad for Sarah and sad for
Tara. Tara had so much potential, but there were an awful lot of
obstacles.

“I skipped lunch,” I said.
“Let’s get something to eat.”

Tara mumbled, “I already
ate.”

“You’re young. You can eat
again.”

Finding the forgotten beans
quite cold
on the stove I went to the fridge and hauled out bacon, cheese,
tortillas and a jar of salsa. “Burritos it is.”

When she saw the jar of
salsa, she
asked, “Don’t you make your own?”

“You mean from tomatoes?”

“Yeah, fresh ones, with
onions.”

I laughed. “Who has time
for
that?”

She shrugged. “We always
make it
that way at home. If you have tomatoes, I can make some.”

“I bought some for a salad.
Go
for it.” Given my habits, tomatoes usually rotted in the drawer
anyway.

She hesitated, but I left
the
refrigerator door open. She found the tomatoes easily. “Cilantro?”

“Only dried. Not much good
in
cooking.”

She wrinkled her nose in
agreement. “No
taste after it’s dried.”

“Your mom probably makes
fresh
tortillas too.” When she nodded, I sighed wistfully. “Mine
too. When I make them they have arms and legs and look like a spell
gone wrong.”

She started to reply, and
then lowered
her head, juggling the tomatoes anxiously. “I—what was
that awful noise? I'm so sorry. I messed it all up.”

I hadn’t been referring to
the
current lab disaster. Heck, for the first time since I’d known
her we were almost speaking like normal people. “That
blood-curdling scream was a cat. It's been hanging around lately. I'm
not sure if it has anything to do with Sarah or not.” I
didn't know what to say about the jar, so returned to the food. “I
warm tortillas from the store or steal them from my mom.”

“You’ll never take me on
the scene now, will you?”

“The what?”

“The scene, the real stuff.
Where
you do magic for clients for real.”

I sawed at the frozen slab
of bacon,
wondering what she was talking about. “Tara, the spells we’ve
been working on are real.”

She helped herself to a
knife and the
cutting board by the sink. Her words were punctuated with the
chopping of onions. “This isn’t the
deal,
the real
deal.”

“It’s not?”

She shook her head. “Lynx
told me
you go to meets. You take the spells to the clients and work the real
magic.”

My eyes narrowed. “The
magic in
the lab is real. I do basic consultations, but only when absolutely
necessary and only after Lynx has done reconnaissance. I prefer to
remain anonymous.”

“Yeah, Lynx says he
delivers a
lot of the time, but he said you do real meets where you perform the
spell right there in front of them, the important stuff!”

“Tara, I do exactly the
same
thing whether in the lab or the field. Most of my clients don’t
need to know who I am or watch me work. It’s better to provide
the spell and let them take responsibility for implementing it.”

She sniffed the tiniest
bit. “Hard
to get famous and make a lot of money that way.”

“Easier to stay alive and
avoid
witch hunts.” Avoiding direct contact with clients had always
been my preference. “I don’t hurt for business very often
either.”

She chopped away, her
fingers flying.
“You could make a lot more if you used your reputation. You’d
have people coming to your door day and night and offering big money.
Even Lynx said you could do more business if you wanted.”

“If I
wanted.
”
I
finished mashing the beans into the bacon grease. “But some
business isn’t worth having.”

“Maybe you just don’t want
me to see your clients. I guess I don’t blame you after today.” Her
voice was quiet, all trace of attitude gone. She focused on the
onion chunk as if it required careful examination before she could
proceed.