Page 46 of Witches of Dubious Origin
There was the sound of a bone striking something hard and I knew the Viking had just struck his shin on the pedestal that held the sarcophagus. While he hopped on one foot and spewed a stream of curses, I dropped to my hands and knees and scuttled toward the door.
I was almost there. I was so close. All I had to do was slip through and, with Jasper’s help, close the doors and lock the Viking inside. It was then that the key clattered from my pocket.Shit!
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The Viking went still and so did I. His voice was soft when he spoke. Despite the echo effect of the small room, I knew he was standing on the opposite side of the raised coffin from me. I held my breath while I gently patted the ground for the key. I had to find it. If we couldn’t lock him in, we wouldn’t be able to bind him and keep him here.
The Viking continued muttering and it sounded almost like a prayer. Was he so old that he was praying to Odin or had he been converted to Christianity by King Olaf Haraldsson during his reign in the first and second milleniums?Gah!Why was I thinking about Norse history now? Stupid brain! Did it matter which god he prayed to? Not if he got his hands on me it didn’t. I continued to pat the ground. I couldn’t leave without the key.
Then I heard the rustle of his clothes and the tread of his step. He was coming around the coffin. I had to get out of there, but I needed the key. If I left without it, then this would all have been for nothing. I felt the hysteria rise inside me and I wanted to scream.If I could just have a fucking sliver of light to see!
As if I had manifested it out of my panicked need, a bright beam suddenly flared through the small stained glass window at the top of the back wall, and I heard a disembodied voice speak in Old Norse and it said one word in a thunderous command. “Biðja!”Pray.
The Viking shouted in surprise and dropped to his knees. He had taken the command to heart. I could tell by the cadence of the words and the fervency in his voice. While he was occupied, I glanced at the floor, looking at the colorful pattern on the marble.
The key! I grabbed it and lurched to my feet, throwing myself at the door. I wasn’t coordinated enough in my panic to actually move my limbs, so I rolled out between the iron gates with all the grace of an overheated water buffalo on dry land.
I slammed onto the stone steps, clipping my jaw, but I ignored the pain that lanced through my face. Instead, I spun around and slammed the doors. Then I jammed the key into the lock and twisted it until it clicked.
The light that had been shining through the stained glass window abruptly disappeared and a cry of fear echoed against the marble-lined wall of the chamber. I staggered away from the iron doors just as the Viking launched himself at them. The doors rattled and I yelped. The Viking thrust an arm through them, reaching for me. His fingers were about to close around my arm when I was yanked out of reach.
“Good work, love,” Jasper said. He pulled me in for a hug, and even though I wasn’t the hugging sort, I let him. After the last few terror-filled minutes, his warmth was as welcome as a weighted blanket and just as comforting.
The doors rattled on their hinges as the Viking shookthem with all his might, bellowing his displeasure. It was terrifying, but I made my voice calm when I said, “I have no doubt that the tomb is sturdy; I just don’t know if it’s enraged-Viking sturdy.”
“Quite right.” Jasper let me go. We both ignored the Viking, who was now muttering what ominously sounded like a curse upon our very souls. “Let’s get on with the binding. Olive texted the instructions to me.”
“Olive knows how to bind an undead person?” Why this information surprised me at this juncture, I had no idea. I supposed I was taken aback that this sort of thing happened frequently enough to have a ready-made binding spell.
“Olive knows a lot of things,” Jasper said.
I could only imagine.
He swiped his thumb across his phone and read aloud, “Draw the needle through the captive’s hat or shoe and he can’t escape.”
“What needle?” I asked.
“This one.” Jasper pulled a black velvet pouch out of the inside pocket of his coat and retrieved a thin silver needle from inside it.
“What’s so great about that needle?” I raised my voice to be heard over our furious tomb guest, who had resumed yelling as he reached through the gate with both arms, trying to grab us.
“It was used to sew the burial attire of a corpse.”
“Oh.” I stared at the needle that glinted in the moonlight. “That’s it? We just pull it through his shoe.”
“Yes. Of course, we have to do it with intent so we can focus the magic into our desired outcome.”
“It’s that belief thing again?” I asked.
“Exactly. Witchcraft is actually a very quiet undertaking, which is why so many people are cursed and they don’t even know it.”
“You mean when they drop their phone in the toilet, spill coffee all over their best outfit, or miss the last train out of the city? That’s not just happenstance?”
“It could be,” he said. “But more likely, they’ve been cursed, especially if all those things happen on the same day.”
“Now I have to reassess every moment of my life to date.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Hollywood hasn’t gotten the memo on the quiet part.”
“Good. I’d hate for real magic to become common knowledge.”
