A Vigil in the Mourning (Soulbound #4) - Hailey Turner Page 0,96
officially begin the session.”
Patrick took up a position that put him outside the frame of the video camera. He didn’t care if his name was on the record for this, but he didn’t want his face anywhere viewable. He watched as Anika knelt and opened her luggage. Inside were the personal supplies she used to do her magic, nestled inside padded pockets and boxes secured in the luggage with a multitude of straps.
Magic was personal, and always would be. Necromancy was a mystery to Patrick, mostly because it was rarely performed. Messing with a person’s soul, whether they were alive or dead, was illegal. Necromancy was restricted for a reason, not the least for the blood magic it involved.
He watched as Anika pulled out a marble mortar and pestle set, two vials of different-colored liquid, a packet of dried ingredients, a box of matches, and a sharp, clean machete, its blade etched with spellwork. She laid everything out at the foot of the exam table, then clucked her tongue at Selene.
“Please come here,” she said.
Selene trotted over to her, and Anika leaned over to pick up the psychopomp. The pug settled between the burned feet of the corpse, tongue lolling out as she looked up at Anika. Anika absently pet the pug as she glanced over at the videographer.
Anika nodded at him. “I’m ready.”
The videographer cleared his throat. “I’ll count down to three and start the recording. I was given a list of names of attendees. Can I confirm everyone is here?”
He listed off everyone on his attendance list, and Patrick spoke up when his name was said. The videographer typed something into his laptop and then nodded.
He counted down to three and then went through his oral statement that dictated his name, the time, place, and who was in attendance. The case chosen for the record was the federal one regarding real property and the souls for rent payment. Patrick wasn’t surprised about that choice. When the videographer fell silent, Anika retrieved the chicken, grabbing it from the cage with sure hands.
She tucked the body beneath her arm, held its head to stretch out its neck with one hand, and used the machete to slit its throat. She drained its blood into the mortar, just enough to cover the bottom, before depositing the carcass back in the cage.
Patrick watched as Anika wiped the machete with a clean towel before calmly placing it against the charred left knee of the body, carving downward over the tibia. Burned flesh broke off, curling over the blade. When she had six inches of blackened, dead flesh to work with, she used the machete to carry it to the mortar and place it into the mixture.
She added several drops from two of the vials, and all of the dry ingredients. Then she picked up the pestle and mortar to grind the burned skin into the blood mixture. As she did so, the morgue grew colder, and Patrick could see his breath puff out in front of his face after half a minute. Anika kept grinding the mixture down until it thickened. Then she set the pestle aside and took a match from the box, striking it. The fire flashed a deep blood red, and she dropped the match into the mortar.
The fire that flared up from the mixture was an eerie yellow.
Anika dipped her fingers into the mortar, unbothered by the fire. When she drew her hand back, her fingers were stained with blood that she used to draw a sigil on the corpse’s chest, overwriting the ones already there.
A breeze blew through the workroom, and Patrick shivered. They were in the basement, with no windows. Anika’s magic filled the space they stood in, and Patrick was glad for his shields.
“I, Anika Dandridge, call for the dead, in the name of the living,” Anika said.
Selene stood, standing strangely still between the corpse’s feet. The psychopomp’s eyes had turned completely white, and every time it breathed, fog escaped its nose and mouth.
“I call for the spirit, whose flesh from bone anchors you to this plane. I summon the soul from its endless wandering.” She lifted her hand from the corpse, bloodied fingers spread wide, and the body followed after her like a puppet with its strings held by its master. “Rise, the nameless dead.”
It felt almost as if Patrick were walking through the veil between worlds, but the fog was restricted only to Selene, Anika, and the corpse. The pressure against Patrick’s personal shields was