Page 80 of The Witching Hours

“I think it would be hard for kids that age to keep this to themselves.”

“I know.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow night when I’m checked in.”

“Thank you. I really can’t thank you enough.”

“Your faith in me is so flattering, but unfortunately, your gratitude is premature. See you soon.”

I ended the call and turned my head toward the bank of three triple armoires lined up in my living room. They held my treasure trove of magickal tools, books, herbs, oils, artifacts, crystals, candles, and the extra odd item here and there.

There was no internal debate about the first thing to do. I headed toward the center drawer of the center cabinet where I knew I’d find my most precious possession, my master grimoire. It wasn’t mine in the sense of a journal or diary, or even in the sense that I’d done the compilation. But it was mine in the way a Christian might view a Bible.

An acquaintance of mine had spent a lifetime collecting magickal spells from antiquity and every culture on the globe. The volume was impressive. The work was magnificent. So much so that I wanted to help her publish it. So, I partnered with her in exchange for editing. The final result was my proudest accomplishment. Unfortunately, she passed away just before it was available in print. She had no heirs. Ownership became mine, but the credit remains with her.

I don’t just own the rights to it. I’m also a confirmed user.

I dived into the index, which was familiar since I’d created it myself. On occasions such as this, I was glad I’d gone to the extra trouble. I jotted down page references to hauntings, poltergeist activity, physical phenomena, and so forth then spent the next three hours sorting through options and making choices.

There was a part of me that wanted to hire a small moving truck and just load the three armoires up. My concern was that, no matter how carefully I narrowed my choices, I would arrive without the one thing that would’ve made all the difference. But I couldn’t allow negative thinking to contaminate the success of ousting these intruders from David’s home. So, I did a simple combination spell/meditation to make sure I had the right stuff.

At some point both he and I had begun referring to the cause of the disturbance in the plural, as if we sensed it was more than one spiritual presence.

As soon as I pulled a rolling night case down from my closet, Wolf showed up to supervise. He knew what the night case meant.Have magick. Will travel.His yellow eyes were intense set against the black as space color of his fur. He had absolutely no markings of any kind anywhere and was the definitive black cat.

I’d come across him by accident at the SPCA. I was picking up a friend whose car was in the shop. I arrived early and decided to walk around while waiting. Wolf, as precious tiny kitten, practically called to me.

As I began packing, I said, “Sorry. You’re sitting this one out ‘cause it’s not local and youhatetraveling.” With that he turned one ear backward in the most comical way.

I pulled out my phone and called Patrice. “Hi, there. I’ve got to be out of town for a few. Can you look in on Wolfie?” After confirming that his food and water schedule were the same, no new meds, I’d just struck a top of the list item off my leaving-town-to-do.

The next most important item was packing. On the bottom I layered white tealight candles and crystal holders. I went with all white because I didn’t want to pull a muscle trying to choose otherwise. Magick can squirm and come back on itself if the wrong color is introduced. Better safe than sorry. If there’s a question, go with good old neutral white.

Likewise, all my candles are unscented. Scents can play havoc with spells, potions, notions, charms, etc. Especially if they’re competing with the aromas of herbs or oils, or both. Yeah. It’s complicated.

On top of the candles, I placed a makeshift piece of cardboard to create separation and began layering Mother’s Wort, St John Beans, Nightshade, Spikenard oil, Dragon’s Blood, Cedarwood, a fresh lemon with peeler, my favorite Irish sea salt, my pendulum crystal that I use for scrying, and myrosewood wand that looked like a twisted bit of branch. I had four rosewood wands in various shapes and stained colors, but my hand usually went straight for the one that was least attractive and most menacing.

My taste in wands was confirmed by the fact that Wolf always responded like it was catnip. He came trotting over, jumped onto the table where I’d set the travel case and began to purr while rubbing his cheeks against the wand.

I chuckled. “Yeah. I like it, too.” Sigh. “I wish you could go.”

He meowed as if to say, “Don’t take jobs that are not here.”

“Good advice,” I replied as if he’d spoken aloud.

I sat down at my computer and pulled up an online map. He jumped into my lap, curled up and began purring.

The coastal route was longer than the straight-north interstate, but some things are worth extra time. So, I plotted an ocean-view route through Charleston, Myrtle Beach, and Wilmington where I’d turn northeast and take I40 to where it merges with I74 for the rest of the trip.

I stroked Wolf’s fur absently while staring at the map. “Just one more thing to do. You’re gonna have to get up.”

I set him down on the floor and headed to my closet to pack clothes. He promptly trotted to the bed and jumped up for a spectator’s view of everything.

When I was satisfied that packing was done, I said, “Now then. Let’s see what leftovers we have in the refrigerator that have to go down the hatch or out with trash.” I managed to make a halfway appetizing plate of hodgepodge perishables. Wolf and I ate at the same time while I watched bridge news broadcasting from the local TV station.

“I guess I’m going to be eating restaurant food for the next few days,” I told Wolf. He said nothing, but finisheddinner and cleaned his face. “Yeah. Well, why should you care? Your diet will be consistently yummy and healthy.” He stopped, presumably to track something invisible flying around the room at the speed of light. “Stop that. You know it creeps me out,” I chastised. “It is not April Fools.”

Wolf was big on April Fools. He never missed the opportunity to prank me. This year he found a hiding place so good, I couldn’t find him or get him to respond for most of the day. I was on the verge of tears, afraid he’d either left or died. The good scolding he got for it didn’t bother him at all. For three days after, his whiskers were stretched into a wicked smile that said, “Gotcha.”

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