than that.
Delphi had looked terrified moments before she’d died. She had seen something, Electra knows it. Whatever Delphi witnessed, it obliterated her entirely.
Even now, sitting behind the counter at the Three Blind Mice, greeting the random customer as he peruses the amulets and tarot cards, Electra feels nothing but despair and resentment.
Something took Delphi from her. Something ripped her from Electra’s arms, and, in doing so, destroyed any happy future she may have had.
Every day she stews. Every day she bites down on the burgeoning fury. Every day she plots devious things she’ll do to that specific ‘something’ when she eventually hunts it down and makes it pay for taking her Delphi away.
Her Delphi. Forever and always.
Electra closes the Three Blind Mice after the customer leaves with his purchases, nothing more than a few black candles and a pack of beginner’s tarot cards. Pathetic. She locks the door and inhales deeply through her nose, holds the incensed air of the store in her lungs and exhales. Her vision goes fish bowl blurry but she won’t cry again. She refuses.
Instead, she drops the key to the store on the counter and heads into the back room. Pushing the velvet curtain aside, she allows the darkness to blanket her. Enjoys it. Then, she lights the candles around the bust of Hecate and removes the ancient grimoire she and her sisters keep in the safe just behind it.
The book is hundreds of years old, passed down from generation to generation in her family line. It’s pages whisper archaic secrets. Its scuffed leather binding protects arcane power.
She puts the grimoire on the table, then places Delphi’s plastic cereal box spoon next to it. She has kept it in her pocket since the day she returned from Cotton Rock. Olectra claims it’s unhealthy to do such things. Olectra is wrong.
Sitting down in front of the grimoire and spoon, she forces her heartbeat to slow. She needs to remain calm. She takes another deep breath, and relaxes.
Electra isn’t stupid enough to believe that magic can bring back the dead. That much she knows.
However, as she blows the dust off the old grimoire and unties its binds, she knows it would be even more stupid not to try.
THE END
About Jason Hes
A visionary, a man, a reification of the most contradictory and illusive darkness in our collective unconscious … keeping the thug life alive. Jason Hes is a Johannesburg-based author who lives with his cat and loves to write dark romance, paranormal and horror stories. Follow him on Facebook at @JasonHesAuthor.
Other books by Jason Hes
Our Immaculate:
Malus (Carnaval des Ténèbres #2):
Take my Picture
Petra J. Knox
Chapter One
Mia
Hating myself was a full-time job. Whenever I tried to quit, my boss, Anxiety, tied me up and threw me back into the dark place. And when the main honcho, Adulting, knocked on the door, I had no choice. I had to go out, but never alone. Anxiety held my leash.
When I got my assistant’s message that he wouldn’t be able to run my errands today, I had hit a wall. Sure, it wasn’t Evan’s fault that he got sick and couldn’t come through for me. But still… That was logic, and logic didn’t live here in my head.
For almost an hour’s time, I paced up and down my studio apartment, stopping every few seconds to look out the window to the city streets below, and each time I did, my breath would catch in my throat. The thought of going out there was daunting as it always was. Time, people, things, the outside world, moved on without me, which I preferred, but not now.
I had to do this on my own.
After a shower, dressed and ready to go, I laid my hand on the door that led out onto Shirley Avenue. I paused, taking deep breaths, clutching my bag that held all the things I’d need while out and about. My feet, enclosed in brown leather boots, anchored to the floor, stabilizing me to the here and now. And with one last breath, I opened the door and stepped out, resetting the alarm and leaving my sanctuary, my home.
Fresh, cold autumn air caressed my face, bringing with it the scents of my youth—leaves falling, distant smoke from chimneys, the crispness of dry, cold soil. It was enough to settle me, and I found myself smiling just a bit because of it.
The first few blocks south were unremarkable. A few people passed me by on the wide sidewalk, lost in their own minds and