Tripping Magic

3.1

A weighted, damp chill numbed half of my head when I startled awake. Dazed, I pushed it off and blinked. Harder to do on the left than the right, I struggled to focus. The dingy ceiling tiles in my living room stared back at me.

“Goddess, you’re an idiot.”

The gears in my brain began to whirl again. I recognized the voice.

“Mira?”

She punched my shoulder. “God-damned idiot.”

Raising a hand, I tried to defend myself. “Hey!”

“If Misha hadn’t been here—” The chilly damp returned to my face as she slapped a half-thawed bag of frozen peas across my eye. “—you would have stepped into the ward with the thing.”

The jolt between the peas and her words brought everything back to reality. I sat up and regretted it as the world began to spin, sending my stomach on a loop with it. Before I fell off, I laid back on the couch again.

“Is he still here?”

“Yes. In the basement. He carried you up here, called me, and went back down.”

“No, I mean—”

Mira’s lips thinned as her jaw clenched. An angered flush rose over her neck into her cheeks. Tears brimmed her eyes. I had never seen her more livid.

“Get it out of your skull.” She spoke through gritted teeth. “It is not Matthew.”

“But—”

She kicked the couch. Her hands made tight fists as she lifted a leg and slammed her heel into the frame near my head. The couch scraped over the hardwood across the short gap and came to an abrupt stop against the wall.

Tears ran from her eyes and she swiped at them with a knuckle as she blinked. “Repeat the words.”

Her reaction startled me. Nostrils flaring as she breathed, her eyes bored into me without blinking.

“Mira—”

“Say them!” She interrupted with a shout, heel stomping on the floor.

I swallowed, knowing too well what she was trying to do. If I said them, part of me would believe them. That was the power of words. I could speak with the pretense of lying, but the doubt grew inside me.

I did doubt it, but hope still burned bright.

“It—” I broke off and took a deep breath. “It—”

Misha stormed up the basement steps, opening the door wide. The knob struck the adjacent wall, rattling the drywall and the few pictures I had hanging in frames. He stalked towards me — a six-foot-three tower of rage. I tried to shrink further into the couch, but his hand fisted around my arm and jerked me upright. Witless and light-headed, a clammy chill washed over me as all blood rushed to my feet.

“What was in the bag?” He growled.

It was hard to focus through the stars blurring my vision. “What?”

“The bag from McArdle — what was in the bag?”

“Matthew’s divination set,” I replied in a slur. “Tarot cards, runes, crystals—”

“What else?”

I knew then what he was asking about. “Teeth. A set of teeth.”

“Grimbones?” Misha gave me a shake. “You have grimbones? Hell’s bells, Alex.”

He let go of me. I fell back onto the couch in a boneless slump. Misha continued to stare, teeth pinching his lips.

“Don’t hold back. Just say it. Whatever it is.” The words rolled out of my mouth.