Page 44 of The Bairwick Witches
Next, Issac opened the altar; a waist high wooden table appeared at the foot of the grave. On the top of it, a large black cauldron attached to a swinging arm, and beneath, an already burning fire. Issac opened the other balls, setting all the ingredients around the cauldron. He then enchanted the journal to remain open to the spell pages and float around at eye level, always where he could see it.
Schuyler was impressed. Despite not appearing to pay much attention at the time, Issac had indeed retained everything fromtheir practice. Issac gripped his wand and took a strong stance at the cauldron and then froze.
Seventeen minutes remained before moon rise, according to the timer on Schuyler’s phone. He estimated the potion would take only ten to fifteen to be ready, but there was no certainty. And no time for pauses. He wondered what was wrong. The cauldron was heated and ready. Everything Issac needed was at his fingers.
Issac looked at all the items laid out in front of him: the cauldron, the ingredients, the fire, the grave, and glanced back at Schuyler. “Um,” he stammered meekly, “how exactly do I start?” He asked the question with an adorable grin and a confused expression.
Schuyler chuckled and stepped up behind him. “Take a breath,” he whispered into his ear. “Clear your mind and focus on your intention for the spell. Then, start at the beginning.” He motioned to the journal and the spell before backing up and standing at his side.
Issac closed his eyes, doing as instructed, before grabbing the large jug of moon water and pouring the entire contents into the cauldron. “Backwards, backwards.” He waved the wand in a clockwise manner. Within the cauldron, the water began to spin and churn with every swipe, until the water moved in a fierce current—counterclockwise.
Issac grabbed the bowl of cemetery dirt and moved around the altar, sprinkling half of the bowl generously over Dev’s grave. “Reverte, Reverte,” he commanded, pouring the other half into the cauldron. The reaction was violent, forcing the current within to increase until the water became cloudy and grey, resembling a darkening storm.
The black salt and skull powder followed the same instruction: half to the grave and half into the cauldron. Schuyler watched the potion react with each new ingredient, and on the grave itself, which had begun to sizzle and burn, white smoke rising.
Issac grabbed the mortar and pestle and placed the petals of the Devil’s Midnight Flower inside. They had to be freshly prepared according to the spell, and he took his time, ensuring the petals were as ground up as possible before adding them.
“Indietro, indietro.”
Schuyler nearly pulled him back once the petals hit the water. Fiery purple sparks shot off each tiny, ground up piece, sending them flying out of the cauldron. Some struck the grave. “It’s okay,” Schuyler assured Issac, speaking over the winds that had kicked up. “It’s very volatile, but I believe it’s supposed to be. You’re doing everything right.”
They waited a moment for the petal pieces to stop their fireworks and sink beneath the choppy potion. Issac scowled in disgust as he held up the preserved bladder. With his other hand, he gripped the coffin nail.
“Modoru, modoru.”
He pierced the bladder. The contents poured out into the potion, greenish-yellow smoke rising as it did. Moving to the grave, Issac stabbed the empty organ to the smokey ground with the coffin nail. The ground began to shift under him, threatening his balance.
Schuyler watched the storm brew in the cauldron, the cloudy mixture with pops of purple and red churned and bubbled. He checked the timer: seven minutes. He summoned the journal to him, checking the progress. Next was the final potion ingredient, then the liquid needed to be poured onto the grave.
The potion was angry, the churning growing choppier with every new addition. It flashed under the grey surface as if a storm brewed beneath. Schuyler looked at the final ingredient again.
“Blood of a loved one,” Issac announced, returning to the altar and grabbing the small, bejeweled ritual Athame.
Was he though?
In the room, Issac had confirmed for him the blood part was covered but never elaborated onwhoseblood exactly. Schuyler watched as he slid the blade down his palm, opening a small wound.
He never even met Dev.
The potion raged, demanding to be free of the cauldron.
If an incorrect ingredient gets added—
Issac flipped his hand over, ready to give the potion what it required.
Sky proved quicker. He waved his hand, freezing the blood, which then hung from Issac’s palm like an icicle. Schuyler took Issac’s hand, flipped it around, and quickly directed the blood back into the palm before he rubbed his own over it, healing the wound. Schuyler had to holler to fight the growing winds. “Do you really love him?”
“What do you mean? He’s my uncle, so I’m a loved one, right?”
“Um, wrong, cutie. The spell wants blood because blood carries the emotion of our memories. If you love someone, it’s literally there, in your blood.
“If you have no memories of Dev, if you didn’t truly love him—that feisty bitch of a potion is going to know instantly and she will backfire.”
“But I’m family, that should be enough, right?” Issac insisted.
“Family doesn’t always equal love.” Schuyler took the knife from Issac’s hand. “We can’t risk it.” Sky held his hand out and slid the blade across his palm, wincing as he did. “Why does this always look so painless in movies,” he griped. “Rücklings, rücklings.”
His blood dive-bombed the water below, causing the potion to hurl itself against the bowl until it went alarmingly calm, and turned a hideous shade of chartreuse exactly as the journal stated would happen when the potion was ready.
