fingered around Alex’s neck were a far cry from the plain sewing cord and wood-and-pewter design that Bartholomew had cobbled together and spelled for protection in that frantic scramble after they’d mucked everything up beyond measure.
But the two amulets that Bartholomew pulled out of his pocket were one spell away from the basic design. The wood had taken on a dark sheen, and the points of the pewter pentacle charms had embedded themselves in the wood itself. The cords were silken, not gold or silver—they appeared craft-fair ready, but not the jeweler’s pieces everybody else’s amulets had evolved into.
They needed Dante’s and Cully’s own personal magic to make that happen.
“What should we do with those?” Alex asked, and Bartholomew’s eyes grew far away. “Put them in the circle,” he said musingly, “or put them over Dante’s and Cully’s necks. I’m not sure which one.”
“How are we going to do Dante’s and Cully’s necks?” Jordan asked.
“Well, we could have two of us go into their house to sort of, I don’t know, collar them as we work the spell,” Bartholomew suggested.
“But what if they show up here?” Lachlan asked.
“Yeah.” Jordan gnawed his lip in one of the few shows of uncertainty Alex had ever seen from him. “Okay. We set the amulets up on either side of the candles and hope for the best. We have their dog. I’m thinking if they show, it’ll be here. You guys watch for Dante and Cully, and the three of us will stand around the table and recite the spell. I….” He glanced up at the clock. “It’s getting near nine. I’m thinking that’s the best time to do it, right?”
They all nodded, and Alex thought wistfully that Simon was probably just about to arrive home. Would be great to be there with him to watch movies with his friends.
“Yeah,” Alex agreed. “Everybody, take a look at the spell—I made it as short as possible so we can memorize it. We go in five minutes.”
Jordan and Bartholomew spent the time studying the spell, and Alex familiarized himself with the herbs under the candles. Rue for remembrance, yellow chamomile for friendship and comfort, cinnamon for home, vanilla beans for hearth. Good—they wanted their friends grounded, captured in time and space, so they could confront their own betrayal of magic.
This should work.
“Alex, you ready?” Jordan asked.
Alex crumbled some dried verbena between his thumb and forefinger, allowing the scent to soothe him and give him strength, before straightening and looking at the spell altar one more time.
“Yeah,” he said, ignoring the rumble of misgiving in his stomach. Passion. That had been the word the magic had ripped out of him. He wasn’t lying about that.
Passion—that’s what he felt for Simon Reddick, right? That’s why he was so excited to jump into bed with the guy when as of yet he hadn’t been excited to jump into bed with anybody, right?
“Okay, let’s take a look at the spell one more time and then surround the table, grab hands, and go for it.”
Alex did, even knowing he had the words memorized, and then they stood, arms out, hands clasped tight.
Jordan took a deep breath and closed his eyes, and every candle on the table ignited neatly with small, clean-burning flames.
Alex suppressed a shudder. Jordan had been able to do this by their second week of practicing, and Alex had never even tried. That much power staggered them all, but maybe it was what they needed to get their friends out of the fix they were in.
As the heat—and the scent—of the candles began to rise and fill the room, so did their cone of power—Bartholomew’s amber, Jordan’s deep blue, Alex’s steady green. The colors intensified, grew almost opaque, and a rainbow shield echoing the candle clock shot up, enveloping their individual cone.
They all met eyes and began to recite,
Space and time
Reason and rhyme
We regret our lies
Reaffirm our ties
As the candles burn
Our friends return
So mote it be
Amen
The colors in the center of the table began to swirl, faster and faster and faster, and a rush of sound—of familiar voices—flew about the room.
Dante, come see my newest creation. What do you think?
Not my color, baby, but you did good. You always do good.
What are you writing so late at night?
Just trying to be creative, like you. It sucks—forgetaboutit.
Yeah, sure, I’m going out. He’s a good guy—you’d love him.
Nothing to worry about, just a hookup. Not gonna marry the guy.
This one will be different.
This one will be real.
This one will be—
The sound