Tripping Magic

2.6

Flicking on the lights, I trudged down the wooden stairs to my basement. Maintaining a decent lab space in subterranean damp required a bit of work. After draining the water basin to the old dehumidifier, I switched on the heater to take the chill out of the air.

The basement was the sole reason I purchased the house that was otherwise falling apart. The builder screwed up on the measurements and dug the foundation deeper than normal, and as such, the walls rose ten feet before the runners to support the first floor stretched across the ceiling.

I kept my lab sectioned off from the appliances with a dividing wall and a door. It prevented snooping repairmen from fouling up a project or two or running for the hills at the sight of the giant pentagram etched into the surface of my work table.

A smaller room with a separate entrance also made it easier to ward and load with traps and triggers. Carved into each of the overhead beams were a series of sigils and runes to protect me from both my own stupidity and the ill intent of others.

The whole space was cozy — musty, but cozy. It had a decent working area plus enough empty floor for a five foot diameter circle and an overstuffed couch.

Sitting at my heavy oak table, I pulled Matthew’s divination set towards me and fingered the ties to the velvet bag. Why Julia Adams wanted it, especially by theft, was the big question. I reached inside and began pulling out its contents.

Individual pouches kept the items separate. Tarot cards were in one while runes were in another. Nothing caught my eye as out of ordinary as I spread them across the table. I pulled out the last velvet bag. A strong sense of the Other took me by surprise.

Loosening the cord that tied the little sack, I opened it and gently shook out its contents onto the table. Molars tumbled out. I poked at a few with a fingernail, turning them to get a better look. Their smooth ivory sides were carved with runes, the gouges darkened from age. Brown speckled the roots and stained the chewing surfaces. They were human in origin.

Touching them with a fingertip felt very wrong to the point I was repulsed by the sensation. A terrible vibe flowed into my hand and jolted up my forearm. Teeth lost through age, decay, or dental work had residual power and could be used to focus minor divination spells.

These teeth screamed and seethed. Something horrible happened to their owners before forcible extraction.

Death Magic. It had to be. Blackest of the Black, there were no other spells that could imbue such power. Bind a living soul to an object, torture the soul beyond endurance, then murder it in cold blood — all that pain and agony to fuel nasty plans.

Even without using scrying, I felt the manic frenzy of torture shear at my insides and twist at my soul. Trapped, begging for mercy and given one brief respite before it started over at increased ferocity.

It drove me away from the table. Rubbing my hands together then up my arms, I tried to work out the crawling sensation and the fist that had wrapped itself around my heart.

Why did Matthew possess such a set of runes? He wasn’t a violent man — he preferred to avoid conflict. I hoped they were part of his inheritance that he never figured out how to destroy.

More questions, yet no answers. Unable to bring myself to touch the teeth again, I used a pen to help brush them back into the pouch. Knotting it closed, I glanced for a place to keep it. The teeth weren’t something to be left out and exposed.

I had a similar lock box to Matthew’s, and I emptied it, dumping out its contents onto the table before stuffing the pouch into it. Latching it, I tried to clear and focus on warding the chest.

My flesh crawled, unable to put the impressions of the teeth out of my mind. Imagination churning up the worse, most vile afflictions from soul flay to fire oil, I found it impossible to concentrate.

“Focus, damn you!” I rubbed my hands together, fixating on the friction and static between them. My spells were weak unless I could drive them with will.

Taking the deepest breath I could, I let it out through my mouth, releasing the thoughts about the teeth with the passing air. Mind finding a few moments of peace, I held a hand over the box, palm pressed to the latch.

“Ignorare et abscondite,” I whispered and repeated the words twice more, masking the chest in a cloak spell. Physically it still existed, but to anyone else, their eyes would slide over it and ignore its existence even if they held it in their hand. The perfect means of hiding in plain sight. I shoved it in a small gap on my bookshelf and tried to find something to occupy my mind.

Matthew’s grimoire sat on the table next to my elbow. I gave it a sidelong glance, unsure that I was ready for any more surprises.

A chill rolled down my spine. I swore. As it crawled back up, my skin turned to gooseflesh in reaction to the shift of energies in the room.

One by one, my wards popped, sparking and overloading like circuit breakers. Whatever triggered them cried out in a strangled gasp.

I spun and raised my hand, the will to save my own bacon powering my panicked shout. “Defensio!”

Warding slipped around me from my hand. I could survive a hostile spell, but it didn’t stop bullets, knives, or fists.

Pinned in place by the runes it had walked beneath, a cadaverina demon stared at me, red vapor trailing from elliptical eye sockets. It tried to step forward, but locked in a rigor, it stood like a statue caught in mid pose.

It cried out again but its small slit of a mouth didn’t move.

My hand started to trace the shapes of the sigil required to start a one way ticket back to the Other.

“N-no!” The cry formed a word.

Blinking, I hesitated. My memory recalled nothing about cadaverina demons having capacity for speech.

“Hel-p m-e!”