Page 39 of The Bairwick Witches
“I’m sorry, Cal. I’m sorry our community has been so cruel to you that you can’t love yourself anymore. I’m sorry you’re so hurt, and that I wasn’t a good enough friend to see it sooner.
“As much as you may think otherwise—this isn’t really about me, Cal. It’s about you.” Schuyler swirled his hands around, softening the angry red energy into a gentle, loving, candy red glow. “You don’t see yourself, your worth, and until you do, no onewillsee you. I hope this helps.”
Schuyler released the red energy, sending it to Cal, which then wrapped around him like a shawl as he collapsed, sobbing. The spell would hold him through the night, help him to feel less alone, and in the morning, he would feel better, a little wiser for the wear.
Chapter Fourteen
Schuyler hadn’t been alone in days, as such, he welcomed hisfriend, solitude, with open arms upon waking to find that both Beau and Marshall were at the shop. He replied to Issac’s messages, asking for space and time to deal with the information presented, and then promptly ignored his phone.
Just as he’d ignored his life the past week.
One of the many thoughts he beat himself up over as he paced around his bedroom for most of the morning. Eventually moving on to pace around nearly every other room in the house, overthinking until his brain hurt. He hoped that a change in scenery would help alter his thoughts.
It didn’t.
Adrift in a sea of unknowns, Schuyler was uncertain about what to do next on any front in his life. As he paced the small library, he came to the decision to forgive Cal. In the game room, he lay on the billiard table, staring at the ceiling, thinking about what to write next, where to go with his career. But there was no forward momentum on those thoughts, either. A move to the garden tub in the bathroom brought no respite. The bath only stirred thoughts of Issac.
He missed him.
It was the first morning in a week that he hadn’t woken up next to that gorgeous smile, or heard his off-key singing in the shower. The persistent thought that he’d been betrayed stopped him from delving too far into those feelings.
By late afternoon, the bombardment of unresolved thoughts continued to tumble around in his brain. That is, until Schuyler found himself in the seance room: a circular alcove, large enough for a table, chairs, and standing room for a couple of others, lit by an antique crystal chandelier. Hung on the dark plum wallpaper with black accents were numerous spirit boards, some of them centuries old. Schuyler chose his favorite, one made from the trunk of a Willow tree, the hand-carved alphabet and numbers covered by glossy lacquer. The shine on it was one of the reasons the board was his favorite.
I am a simple homosexual.
The other reason was that he’d had the most success with that one. He placed the board on the center of the antique round table once owned by the Creery Sisters, infamous 19th-century British mediums. Beau had outbid his rival, Dolores Deladarden, for the piece; she’d yet to forgive him.
“Spirits high, spirits low, I wish to commune with one I know. Spirits high, spirits low, Devion Kincaide, let thyself be known.” With his hands on the planchet, Schuyler circled the board, waiting for the tug which would send the pointer toward a letter or number.
He wasn’t sure why he was trying as Dev never answered. He’d attempted this multiple times over the years, and the result was always the same: nothing. Schuyler continued to move the planchet, hoping forthe pullto come through and take the pointer to theHELLOat the top of the board. “Spirits highand spirits low, I seek to commune with one I know: Devion Kincaide.”
There was still no pull.
A big part of mediumship was controlling emotions, and Schuyler was losing to his. Anger was growing—anger wrapped in grief, wrapped in sadness over the situation with Issac. “Spirits high, spirits low.” Tears began to run down his face. “Dammit, Dev, answer me.”
He felt spirits gathering around him in the small space, shadowy figures in the corners of his eyes, though none stepped forward.
His hands shook as he circled the planchet. “Spirits high, spirits low, I seek to commune with one I know.”
Nothing.
Schuyler repeated the incantation, each time more desperate for an answer. The room grew crowded, shoulder to shadowy shoulder around him, but still no spirit stepped forward. He shouted the incantation, demanding a response, and with agitated fury circled the planchet around the board, waiting for the connection.
Why wouldn’t Dev come forward? Why, in all the years, had he never appeared, not one message or dream visitation, nothing. Did he not miss Schuyler? Was there nothing to say? He’d worked through his feelings on this once before, but a certain thought always lingered: had Sky grieved for nothing? A love like theirs should carry from this plane to the next. It hurt him to think otherwise. Schuyler would have never not responded if the situation were reversed; he wouldn’t have left Dev hanging in doubt, unanswered, questioning everything. Part of him hated Dev for that.
He thought he felt a pull, a lurch in the pointer towardHELLO, but there was nothing. Just his own hands swirling the wooden planchet in front of him.
“Say something.”
Nothing.
Schuyler screamed out at the lack of response, flinging the board onto the floor and slamming his fists before flipping the table over.
He stormed out of the room, porting himself as he crossed the threshold so that once he exited, he stepped onto the gravel path within the Witches’ Garden Cemetery.
The muscles in his face twitched and trembled as he withheld both the penitent anger of years steeped in silence and the sadness of weathering grief without a word from Dev. Schuyler’s skin burned as he marched down the path he knew all too well; red energy flared off of him as if he were the sun. Non-stop tears flowed from his eyes, sizzling and evaporating the moment they touched his heated skin. His feet smoked as he stormed forward, leaving a trail of burnt gravel behind him.
The yellow-orange energy glided over his skin, pulsing and popping, ready to erupt. He heard nothing but his own breath in his ears—not the spirits calling out to him, ready to help a witch with unchecked emotions. His flares were scorching gravestones and trees as he passed, which the spirits quickly extinguished.
