Page 100 of Samhain Savior
Unfortunately, my witch was also very smart. She knew that no matter how much I disliked the situation, she was exactly where she needed to be, and I had to resign myself to the knowledge that if anyone or anything harmed a hair on her head, I would burn the fucking world down to exact my vengeance.
With that calming thought in mind, I settled myself to watch Delilah work. Standing before the gates, she took a deep breath, the bond letting me know she wasn’t quiteas confident as she had made herself out to be. A fizzle of nervousness buzzed behind my ribs, and I did my best to send calm, patient feelings back in return. We were both so new to this mate thing, it was impossible to know if that was even how it worked, but from where I stood, it appeared that her shoulders relaxed, so whatever I had done must have worked.
Delilah carefully knelt before the iron gates, laying her grimoire out beside her, opened to a page that appeared well used. She read the passage over with a small frown on her face, then nodded to herself, seemingly satisfied. From there, she reached into her satchel, digging through the depths of the bag until she came out with a handful of items. First, she swept a hand across the cement before her, clearing away any debris before she unfolded a square of silk about the size of a sheet of paper. Laying this on the ground, she then placed the acorn in the center, then laid the other items around it in a semi-circle. First there was a vial of clear liquid, then a second full of what looked like salt, and third, a match stick. At the bottom, closest to her knees, she placed a small, wickedly sharp looking knife.
Staring at her work, Delilah’s thoughtful expression turned to a frown as she dove deeper into her bag, muttering to herself as she did.
“Damn it. I thought I had more.” Huffing out a breath, Delilah turned around, her nose scrunched as she looked past me and up to the treetops.
“Mal?” she called, smiling when he cawed in response. “Would you mind? I thought I had an air offering, but I don’t.”
With another loud call, Mal took flight, his big body swooping out of the tree and flying as low as the barrier would allow him to, dropping a single black feather on to the sidewalk next to Delilah as he passed.
“Thank you!” she called, offering him a grateful smile as he took his place in the tree once more.
Finally happy, Delilah smiled down at her makeshift alter, closed her eyes, and began.
“Spirits,” she called, her eyes closed and her arms held high. “I kneel at your threshold today and ask that you hear our humble plea. We beseech you to bless our party and grant us leave to pass through your gates. For your graciousness, I present to you these tokens.”
Reaching down, Delilah gathered Mal’s feather, holding it high before brushing it reverently over the acorn three times.
“Air. From the gentle breeze to the deadly tempest, I offer you the strength of Air.”
Out of nowhere, a gust of wind blew down the street, swirling the fallen leaves into miniature cyclones that danced before the gate. Delilah stared at them in wonder, mouth open, and I wondered if her lack of access to her magic meant that her previous consecration rituals had been far less dramatic. From the look of shock on her face, I thought that might have been the case.
Setting the feather down again, she then picked up the match, struck it against the concrete, and held it high. Somehow, it stayed lit, even in the swirling breeze. Bringing the match down, Delilah touched it three times to the top of the acorn, leaving behind small scorch marks as she did so.
“Fire. From the tiniest spark to the raging inferno, I offer you the heat of Fire.”
Without warning, the small flame of the match turned into a narrow pillar of fire, and Delilah squealed in surprise as the flames rose several feet into the air, just as they had last night in the chalet when she’d lit the candle.
I felt a smile crawl across my face at the thought that my witch might have a special affinity for fire. It made sense, considering fate had mated her with a demon from Hell.
She truly was made for me.
Dropping the spent match to the silk alter cloth, Delilah picked up the first small vial, uncorking it and pouring the liquid over the singed top of the acorn.
“Water. From the babbling brook to the mightiest tide, I offer you the force of Water.”
Thunder boomed above as the sky opened up, a heavy rain falling from the low hanging clouds. Delilah threw her head back, a smile of pure joy across her face as she let the rain wash over her face. Through the bond, I could feel her euphoria, the purity of the emotion almost overwhelming me as it flowed from her to me.
I’d never experienced anything like it—or if I had, I’d long since forgotten—and I knew in that moment that a feeling like that could very easily become addictive, and that I’d do anything within my power to keep my witch as happy as possible.
For her sake and for mine.
Still smiling wide, she reached for the final object, the vial of salt. Pouring some into her palm, she quickly sprinkled three pinches over the acorn, letting the heavy rain wash the rest away before she spoke, her voice raised now to be heard over the tempest she’d created.
“Earth. From the deepest caverns to the highest peaks, I offer you the longevity of Earth.”
Beneath our feet, the ground rumbled, a gentle tremor that had birds taking flight in alarm. Beneath Delilah, a narrow crack formed, snaking out from under her altar cloth and heading straight for the gates she knelt in front of. It wasn’t wide—barely noticeable amongst the rest of the urban decay that decorated a major city—but it was there, and my witch had caused it.
My newly revived heart soared with pride.
Finally, Delilah reached for the final item. The knife.
Taking a deep breath, I clenched my fists against the need to go to her, to offer my own flesh up instead, but she had asked to do this—asked for my trust—and I knew that I had no option but to stand by and watch.
Pressing the blade to the meat of her palm, Delilah sliced, quick but shallow, and I felt an echo of her pain across my own palm. Not faltering, she held her hand over the acorn, letting three drops of her fresh, hot blood land on the acorn before her.
