Evocation, p.2
Evocation, page 2
He had been scared out of his mind by spirits before. He had taken ill after conjurations gone wrong or woken up to find every stitch of furniture in his house turned upside down. But he always kept coming back for more. No matter the promises he made to himself or to his wife, he could never stay away for long.
As a result, he had gotten very, very good at this.
The spirit strained against its bonds, but Rhys was stronger. He splayed his fingers and drove it down with divine names, compelling it into submission.
The thrill of bending something ancient and undying to his own will coursed through Rhys like electricity. He wondered, not for the first time, if this counted as something he ought to confess to before Mass. But then again, there was a long tradition of holy men subjugating the powers of darkness with divine names, blessed water, rosaries, and more. So Rhys was in good company, even though he would balk at being called holy himself.
Rhys’s cell phone trumpeted out a text message notification, shattering his focus.
His shoulders sagged, and the entity within the circle made a rumbling sound like laughter that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Rhys fumbled with the incantation, eyes flipping desperately down to pick up his place in the book, but he could already feel the spirit straining against the cage he had been weaving around it.
He was losing his grip on it.
The spirit wiggled free from its bonds and disappeared. Nothing but the scent of wick-smoke and a clammy feeling of dread was left behind.
Rhys swore softly under his breath. His head fell forward, chin hitting his chest, and he rubbed at the back of his aching neck.
There was a Saturday wasted.
Drawing a lazy sigil through the air with his fingers, Rhys closed the spiritual doorway his circle had opened and shut the ritual down. Then he stomped over to the window near his desk and yanked open the curtains, letting clear April light into his study.
Stuffed bookshelves, crystal decanters, and gaudily framed pinned butterflies all vied for attention, jostling against dark paintings in the Flemish style and sticky notes reminding him to return his library books, or call his mother. A vase of irises valiantly battled with patterned china on the small breakfast nook table, and a taxidermy meerkat stood at proud attention on one of the shelves. Rhys was nothing if not a maximalist.
He blew the candles out one by one, careful not to disrupt the magic circle underfoot. Then he swiped a finger over the phone left foolishly out on the desk.
David.
Rhys furrowed his brow and disregarded the notification.
He shouldered through the door and headed towards the kitchen, disappointment clinging to him like a cloud. Missing the mark always stung. But he might be able to find time Sunday afternoon to try again. That was, if annotating his article on land deeds purchased by single women in twelfth-century Wales didn’t take too long. Specializing in medieval Welsh history hadn’t turned out to be very lucrative, and it hadn’t turned into acceptance into a Master’s program, but it was good enough for a certification in special collections and an associate position at a small university library. The spirit he had summoned to boost his charisma during the interview process hadn’t hurt, either.
Moira was in the kitchen, of course, holding court at the banged-up wooden table. She trailed her fingers across an elaborate spread of tarot cards, ombre purple nails gleaming, while another woman looked on. Moira wore her black kinky hair loose around her shoulders, and the sunlight streaming in from the window made her brown skin glow.
“Looks like you’re in a bind,” Rhys’s wife said in her sun-warmed drawl.
The client, who Rhys recognized as one of Moira’s many acquaintances, leaned further over the table. Rhys couldn’t recall her name. In addition to the smorgasbord of women from college she kept in regular contact with, Moira had an uncanny knack for befriending baristas, hairdressers, yoga instructors, and pretty much anyone else who crossed her path. Her clients liked to whisper that it was the intuitive psychic energy she radiated, but Rhys knew it came from a deeper, more potent magic: her natural aptitude for putting people at ease.
Moira glanced down at the calculations scribbled into her composition notebook.
“You’re starting at a disadvantage with all his Piscean energy clashing with your Sagittarius heart center. You both share a Mercury in Libra, so y’all might be able to work through your differences with clear communication and a commitment to seeing things from both sides. But the cards are tuning me into a couple of red flags, I’m sorry to say.”
“Just what we need,” the client muttered. A plate of gingersnaps and a glass of iced tea sat in front of her. “Go ahead and give it to me. I wouldn’t have come here if I didn’t want to know.”
Rhys opened the cupboard above his three coffee makers and retrieved a bottle of homemade cardamom syrup.
Moira hooked her hair behind her ears and slid a couple of cards closer to the client. She had dusted off her box of crop tops last week to celebrate the start of spring, and was currently wearing one crocheted from baby-pink yarn.
“The two of swords illuminates inner conflict, and the nine of swords lets me know that you’ve been losing a lot of sleep over whether or not to leave this guy. You’ve been carrying all that anxiety around in your body, and it’s coming out in nightmares and nervous habits. You’ve been dealing with this all alone?”
The client swallowed and nodded, eyes a bit glassy. Moira made a knowing hum.
“I can sense that isolation. But look over here at the three of cups. See these three girls dancing and cutting up, having a good time? That’s showing me all the relationships in your life that are so full of love and support. You can lean on them.”
“You’re gonna tell me to leave him, aren’t you?”
“Sugar, I can’t tell you to do anything. All I’m here to do is relay messages from the Divine and help you explore potential options. There is no right and wrong in this room. Just potentials.”
Rhys scooped ice out of the freezer by hand to avoid the belligerent rattle of the dispenser, then poured himself a glass of cold brew. He tried to slip out quietly without disturbing the session further, but Moira threw a glance at him before he made it to the door.
“Can I get a second opinion?” she asked.
Rhys drifted behind Moira’s chair, settling a hand on her shoulder, and she tipped her head back for a kiss. She smiled against his lips when he obliged her, enveloping him in the familiar intoxication of her sandalwood and rose perfume.
Rhys leaned over Moira’s shoulder and ran his fingers across the swirling watercolor illustrations arranged on the table. These were Moira’s cards, more abstract than his classical deck that lined up nicely with traditional accordances. But he was learning, slowly, to speak their language of death, rebirth, and transformation. His eyes leapt from card to card, minding reversals and major themes as he pieced together a story from symbols.
It was not a happy one.
“You’ve got to leave him,” he pronounced. “Seriously. He’s never going to be able to give you the affirmation you need. Also, it looks like he’s shit at paying his bills on time.”
Moira held out a consolation gingersnap to her client, who took it with shaky fingers.
“I’m sure this is a lot to process,” Moira said, securing her notes with a star-shaped paperclip. “Sleep on it. Call your girls and ask for their honest opinion.”
“Must be nice, living with someone who gets your hobbies,” the client said, surveying Rhys curiously. “I didn’t know your husband was a witch too.”
He opened his mouth to start in on a lecture about semantics, about how witchcraft generally referred to ancestral practices rooted in the home and the needs of a community, and how what he did traced its magical lineage more to monasteries and mystery cults. Instead, he settled.
“Actually, I’m a sorcerer.”
“Is that the male version?”
“No, there are male witches. The title refers to what kind of magic you do; gender is irrelevant.”
Moira’s painted lips tugged up into a private smile as the client struggled to follow.
“But you do magic, like her. You can read tarot cards and stuff.”
“And more.”
“So you’re a witch.”
Moira leaned conspiratorially over the table to her friend, eyes sparkling. “That’s right. He’s even got a coven.”
“Oh my God,” Rhys groaned. “For the last time, it isn’t a coven!”
“Sorry, sorry,” his wife said, hiding her smile with a sip from her iced tea. “My mistake. It’s a very secret boys’ club. No girls allowed.”
“It’s an occult fraternity,” Rhys said crisply.
“Oh, I get it,” the client said, easing into familiar territory. “My brother was in a fraternity at UMass. Aren’t you a little old for that?”
Rhys kneaded his brow while Moira laughed. Arguing was useless.
He bided his time as Moira hugged her client and walked her to the door, and as she accepted her cash payment with you-shouldn’t-have graciousness. She always managed to make a skilled service come across as a goodwill favor, and she refused to raise her rates despite Rhys needling her about competitive markets and calculating her per-hour value.
When she returned to the kitchen, flipping bills between her fingers, Rhys shot her a warning look.
“You’re mean.”
“Little old me?”
“Yes, you,” he insisted. The fight was already slipping out of his voice.
“No, I’m sweet.”
“Sweet, huh?” he asked, looping an arm around her waist. He pulled her in close enough to feel her warmth against him, see the microscopic shimmer she mixed into her makeup sparkling on her cheeks.
She kissed him slowly, reddening his mouth with her lipstick, but he didn’t care. She tasted like mischief.
“Shouldn’t you be summoning demons?” she murmured.
“Demon got spooked and took off.”
“Was I being too loud?”
“No, I was an idiot and left my ringer on.”
Moira fixed his hair, smoothing the dark curls out of his eyes. He probably looked paler than usual after a long winter spent barricaded indoors with his books.
“Who was it?”
“No one.” A heartbeat passed, the longest span of time he could comfortably hold a lie to her in his body. “David.”
She hummed her disapproval, and Rhys leaned back against the hard, cold countertop. Moira wasn’t the type to leave old connections unsevered, and she had a hard time understanding Rhys’s ability to carry on professional correspondence with David. Especially after what had happened the last time he paid them a visit.
“I didn’t answer,” Rhys said.
“You’re grown; I’m not going to tell you what to do. What did he want, anyway?”
“Nothing. Something about demon possession. He’s baiting me.”
“This is why I don’t fool with the dead. Someone asks you to call up dear departed grandma and the next thing you know, you’re hip-deep into some dark stuff. You haven’t texted each other in what? Six months? I told you he’d crack eventually.”
“David isn’t exactly a paradigm of self-restraint.”
“He’s got no boundaries, is the problem,” Moira declared. “This is why he’ll make a piss poor High Priest.”
Rhys gave her an affronted look. “Have a little faith, please. The votes aren’t even in yet.”
“He’s a legacy, and that club of yours runs on nepotism. You know I support you, baby, and you’d make a fantastic High Priest. But you shouldn’t expect David to go down without a fight.”
“I’ll try to keep that in mind,” Rhys said, and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. They ached from peering at tiny type in a darkened room, but the pain was familiar. He would need glasses before he was thirty if he kept on like this.
“You were in there for two hours,” Moira said, voice a little softer as she squeezed his free hand. “Why don’t you take a break?”
“I’ve still got a lot to clean up, and notes to take. Do you have any more clients today?”
“I’ve got a man coming in looking for a money-drawing spell tomorrow, but I’ll need to do my prep work tonight. Moon’s in a mighty fine position for abundance.”
“We’ll have dinner together afterwards, then, I promise. Italian? My treat.”
“You’re bribing me with breadsticks to get me off your case.”
“I am.”
Moira took a long drink of his cold brew. “I’ll let you. But one of these days, you’re gonna hit your limit, Rhys McGowan.”
“I like being busy. You knew this when you married me.”
“And I consider it my God-given duty as your wife to make sure you don’t run yourself into the ground.”
He took his glass back, kissed Moira on the cheek, and slipped out of the sunny kitchen. The door to his study lay open before him, inviting him back into familiar darkness. “You can tell God I’ll review his demands and get back to him later. For now, I’ve got spirits to summon.”
CHAPTER THREE
DAVID
In the all-encompassing whirlwind of twelve-hour days in the courtroom, the attorney’s office, and in private clients’ living rooms, David almost forgot about the text entirely. It had only been a little indiscretion, a way to test the waters. If Rhys wasn’t biting, fine. It wasn’t as if they could keep avoiding each other outside of Society meetings and pretending they didn’t know each other during conclave ritual circle forever. Rhys would cave eventually.
But on Thursday a week later, as David shouldered open the door to his condo, his phone buzzed in his briefcase. He tossed the briefcase on the marble-topped kitchen island and let the call ring through while he rummaged through the sparse refrigerator for a pre-portioned dinner. It was probably one of the interns calling with a fire that wasn’t his to put out. Or Leda, holding up her end of their unending game of sibling phone-tag. The voicemail notification, however, took him by surprise.
While the plate rotated in the whirring microwave, he flicked his phone on to speaker mode. Rhys’s voice filled the airy emptiness of the pristine condominium as the sun set over the skyline out of the window.
“David. We talked about this. I asked for space. I’ll reach out when I’m ready.”
That was it. No timeline about when they could start talking normally again, no indication of how Rhys might be feeling about any of it. Just a curt message to enforce the embargo.
David stabbed a fork into his chicken breast and steamed broccoli. He shouldn’t be surprised. Rhys knew him better than anyone. He knew when David was goading him.
Nudging aside a Barney’s shopping bag he had picked up on his last mindless trip to Copley but never unpacked, David sank into his leather sofa, laptop in one hand, dinner in the other.
This high above the city, the noise of Fenway couldn’t reach him, so he was left in peace to sort through the dozens of tabs he had left open. They were etymological, mostly, researching the transmission of that name which had been burned into his brain at the séance last week. He hadn’t had an episode like it since then, but he hadn’t felt quite like himself, either. There was a fuzzy sort of film over his psychic intuition that made him second-guess the messages he channeled for clients, and he suspected his abilities still hadn’t recalibrated themselves since he accidentally picked up on something he wasn’t supposed to.
Or alternately, he’d picked up on a message that someone very badly wanted to get across to him. He wasn’t sure which possibility was more concerning.
David had been sifting through references to spontaneous possession for days to no avail. Any resources he found were distinctly Catholic in nature, which were of less use to him than any of the rambling conspiracy theories he might find on a garden-variety occultism Discord. He had also made a few wire transfers to leading occult scholars in Berlin, Shanghai, and Prague in the hope to fast track an answer, to no avail. It always irritated him when throwing money at a problem didn’t make it go away. Lorena might know something, but she was sure to be slammed this time of year with spring equinox orders. He was on his own with this one.
This was not David’s wheelhouse. He specialized in contacting the dead and was serviceable with home blessings and hauntings. Possession was another matter entirely. And David was sure it was possession, or as sure as he could be about that sort of thing. It felt so similar to the times he had allowed himself to become ritually possessed before, either at a Society ritual or during one of his father’s séances; only this time, he hadn’t invited the spirit inside him. Nothing had ever overtaken him like that in the past.
He was so engrossed in thought that his dinner went cold on the table beside him. When he finally glanced down at his watch, he hissed through his teeth.
He had lost track of time. There would be no gym for him tonight, not if he wanted to make it to the Society meeting.
David devoured the rest of his dinner in three bites, then snatched up his coat. He promised himself, not for the first time, that he would play nice with Rhys tonight, no matter how satisfying it was to get a rise out of him. If David wanted any sort of answer to the possession question, he shouldn’t press his luck.
The Society hall was in Cambridge, within a stone’s throw from Harvard Yard. Unlike the lineaged Freemasons or undergraduate social clubs that met in stone buildings guarded by wrought-iron fences, the Society favored discretion. The main entrance was beneath a Cantonese restaurant, down a grimy flight of stairs that seemed more likely to lead into a college dive bar than anywhere else.
David rapped crisply on the door. It slid open two miserly inches. A pair of rheumy eyes peered at him behind the chain pulled taut across the opening.
“Password?” a man asked.
“Gerald, I helped get your daughter out of her DUI; I think we’re well beyond this now.”
The guardian huffed and slammed the door shut, but a moment later, metal clunked, and the door was opened.
