Page 28 of The Bairwick Witches
He dismissed the thought, unable to stomach such an invasion of privacy himself. The journal was not his business. Neither was the spell really; he’d help as much as he was asked, and that’d be it. Nothing about Issac felt nefarious or caused him alarm, and the young man clearly didn’t yet understand the depths of his power; there was no real way for him to have touched the dark energies required to wreak destruction.
A text from Sister Superiora was among the many on his phone unanswered, but hers contained an important follow up on theLa Flor de la Medianoche del Diablo.The petals possessed immense properties across the entire spectrum of magic and amplified any spell being performed—one of the reasons the tree was harvested to near-extinction. Primarily used to commune with ancestors and the spiritual realm, the petals had a multitude of uses, from love spells to demonic rituals.
What was the true purpose of this spell? Schuyler had no idea andunknownsin witchcraft were dangerous.
Next, they needed a twice-blessed coffin nail. While he knew of coffin nails, it was theblessingaspect that threw him. Twice blessed? He’d reached out to his friend Orenthal, a Voodou Priest. They’d inquired about that part and were set to meet the next day to discuss. The nail was another component with a wide range of potential uses.
The third item: graveyard dirt. Schuyler needed clarification about this from Issac. There was cemetery dirt, which could come from anywhere, or grave dirt, which came from a specific grave. Orenthal might also be able to procure that for them, but the item was not a solid clue to the spell’s significance either, and the necromantic properties of cemetery dirt concerned him. Did Issac remember the Edicts they’d discussed? There weresubstitutes for graveyard dirt, not as strong, but they were out there. The spell rested on Issac’s intention and Schuyler felt to his core that Issac’s wasn’t negative, but he wondered, nonetheless.
As much as his wired-to-be-worried brain wanted to stay hooked on the idea, he released the thought of a horrible outcome. Maybe Issac would ask him to join in the spell when the time came as the full moon approached. Truth was, the spell didn’t concern him—it was about family, and he was not.
His own was annoyed at him, as Beau made clear during their Wednesday Night Check-in via FaceTime, when Schuyler reluctantly introduced Issac to his uncles from the safety of the hotel room. There were messages he hadn’t answered, emails he’d ignored. But watching Issac roll over, sheets sliding off his fuzzy ass, the same onehe’dworn out hours earlier, he deemed the trouble worth it.
But his attraction went beyond the young man’s body; Schuyler enjoyed the person Issac was. The more time they spent together, the more he learned, and the more he liked. They shared multiple interests: a mutual love for comedy and horror films, and while they read different genres, they agreed on a few authors across the spectrum, like Jackie Collins and Constance Debré. They had similar music tastes, including both having a love-hate relationship with Pop; they adored Ariana Grande, but held an appreciation for other genres. Issac did not care for house and dance, and Schuyler never could fully get behind country.
Sky shared his writing woes: the lack of inspiration, the unknown path he faced in his career. Was there anything left forAngelique Spicer? Issac was a good listener, never offering any unsolicited advice, always encouraging.
Inspired by the nurses who cared for his dying father when the doctors did little to nothing, Issac had been gearing up for his second year of nursing school—until he got sidetracked by witchcraft
There were bratty moments, times when Issac’s only-child attitude and selfishness came through, but his heart and soul continuously redeemed him. Feelings were brewing, no matter how much Schuyler did not want to admit them. Their time was brief, and he wanted to focus on enjoying that time.
Schuyler ached for sleep. His body tired, trapped by a racing mind that refused to release him. He could use the sleep spell again, but part of the issue was his heavily increased use of magic. The residual energy kept his mind and body wired and would continue to do so until he readjusted to using magic regularly again. The respite from the mystical arts had proved nice, but seeing the joy in Issac’s face, those big eyes going so wide whenever he conjured something complicated, made the discomfort worth it.
How? How had he fallen so fast?
Orenthal Boukman, orPapa Oddieto his community, ran a Voodoo shop on Main Street that played up the theme in its catering to the Tourists. On the west side of Bairwick, he was also the proprietor of a small grocery store providing Afro-Caribbean produce, grains, and meats. In the rear of the market, he served the community as theirHoungan, or Priest.
“How do you know him?” Issac asked as they wandered the produce section of the market, which had been enchanted to resemble, smell, and feel like a fully outdoor market.
“Well… we’refriends.” Schuyler and Orenthal had committed a few months in their youthful twenties to datingeach other properly, realizing afterward that they were better off as friends—with an amazing array of benefits—than as a couple.
Issac let out a short but elongated “oh,” which Schuyler couldn’t quite interpret.” He paused; had there been an overstep somehow? Should he have stated their friendship without the saucy infliction. Did there need to be a discussion about this before? Did Issac’s generation consider him gauche for doing such things? Or was it a jealousy-tinged “oh?” A curious “oh?”, like let me see what came before?
“Well, of course it’s cool,” Issac added, as if knowing his reactions were unreadable, “just as long you don’t tell me it’s that tall, hot guy in the tank top and very loose-doesn’t-hide-anything Bermuda shorts, over there by the…I don’t know what fruit that is, this market is crazy and I’m living for it. But I’m legit drooling over him.”
Schuyler casually turned in the direction Issac motioned with his eyes. The beautiful, bald adonis, with glistening skin sheened with sweat as if he’d just rolled in from a day in the sun, walked toward them. His smile was big, teeth bright, and his piercing eyes fixated on Sky.
“Schuyler Croy.” His voice carried a baritone that sent reverberations deep within the libido. “Welcome home.” Orenthal reached his bulging arms around Schuyler and pulled him against his delicious chest. Their bond had remained deep over the years and as strong as the embrace. And as they held each other, Schuyler heard Orenthal’s heartbeat in his chest. Then his own. Then both. The embrace lasted until their heartbeats synched.
“There,” he affirmed, “all is well. Together, again, my love.”
“It’s so good to see you.” Schuyler enjoyed the embrace. “Babe, you’ve bulked.”
“A body is a temple, constantly remodeled. This is one of many forms. I am pleased with it.”
When he’d last seen his friend, three years prior, Papa Oddie had a full head of hair, and a swimmer’s build.
“Your temple looks like a jungle gym I wanna climb,” Schuyler playfully panted as they released. He wrapped both hands around Orenthal’s bicep, astounded by the size. “You look good, as always, no matter the temple.” They kissed, more than friends, less than lovers, but enough to make Issac clear his throat.
“I am standing right here.” Issac’s eyes darted everywhere else, slightly embarrassed. Schuyler had previously noted Issac’s reluctance to engage in public displays of affection throughout their time together.
“Apologies beautiful young man, it’s been so long since I’ve seen my friend.” Orenthal planted another passionate kiss upon Schuyler’s lips. “And I would like to show him how much I have missed him.”
Schuyler took Issac’s hand and brought him in closer. “Issac, this is Papa Oddie.”
Orenthal nodded at the young man but made no movement to extend a physical greeting. “Ah yes, Issac. The rumors around town are true.”
“Small damn town,” Schuyler muttered.
