Her Soul to Take (Souls Trilogy #1)(27)

With white chalk I’d picked up from the dollar store, I drew two circles on the old boards, one within the other. Then within the band created by the two circles, I carefully marked the sigils illustrated in the book. The chalk scraped over the old wood, making a sound disturbingly like the scratching of claws. I set around the candles next. Then I used a little oil I’d brought in a water bottle, and poured it into a brass cup I usually reserved for Moscow Mules.

The scene was set.

Blink, blink, blink went the camera’s little red light. Recording, watching — the unflinching eye to take in everything I did.

I lay the grimoire open right at the edge of the chalk circle. I lit the candles, and their flickering light danced across its surface, across the illustration of the Killer. Striking gold eyes stared at me in the dark, and goosebumps prickled up my spine.

I’d been careful for years. I’d always been respectful. I’d never brought out Ouija boards, I’d never fucked with things that were said to have the potential to expose me to dark and dangerous shit. Any paranormal investigator worth their salt would have shaken their head at me, called me foolish and ignorant.

“Nothing is going to happen,” I said softly. My words felt hollow in the church’s dead air. “Just get it over with, Rae.”

My notes were composed of cobbled-together sentences I’d translated, bits and pieces taken from various prayers and summoning instructions throughout the book. I’d written them in English, even though I was certain Latin would have sounded more authentic, but I feared I would stumble over pronunciations and look even sillier than I already did.

It was my last chance to back out. I could stop recording, throw these notes away, and leave. I could cling onto my integrity as an investigator.

But integrity hadn’t gotten me very far.

I held my notes to the candle flame’s light, took a deep breath, and read, “Powers of the Elder World be beneath my left foot, and within my right hand.” My voice shook. I knew I had to sell it, I had to sound as authentic as possible, but this felt wrong. “Glory and Eternity touch my shoulders, and guide me on the Path of Victory.”

The rain had begun to fall in earnest. It pattered on the roof and dripped down through the hole, trickling into the pools of stagnant water beneath the moldy old boards. The air smelled of dust and wet dirt.

“Spirits of Earth, guide me through the Nether Realm. Great Angels of Eternity, protect me. Voices of the Unending, strengthen me.”

I didn’t feel so numb anymore. There was a tingling in my fingertips and the tips of my toes. I felt like a block of ice had been set in my stomach. The Killer’s eyes still stared.

Watching.

Waiting.

“With this power granted unto me, I issue this command.” I made my voice as demanding as possible. With the chalk in my hand, I wrote a final symbol on the old floorboards in the center of the circle, beneath the cup of oil. A symbol which, I could only guess, was a name.

“I call upon this servant of Hell! I demand thee come forth, make of yourself flesh and bone.” I traced over the symbol again and again as I spoke, thickening the lines and grating the chalk into every little crevice of the wood. “I demand thee come without aggression, I demand thee bring no harm to your summoner, I demand thee come in obedience and — fuck…shit!”

The chalk snapped. The force I’d been applying to it slammed my hand down and scraped my knuckles against the wooden boards, hard enough to cut. Hard enough to bleed.

Wincing, I held up my hand to the camera’s light. Blood welled up, and dripped slowly down from my knuckles onto the floor. Damn it. Something told me this place was far from sanitary. I scrambled up, and rummaged around in my backpack. I needed an alcohol wipe from the first aid kit and —

My eyes widened. My breath froze in my lungs.

The blood that had dripped into the chalk circle was steaming.

I stared in disbelief. There had to be an explanation. My blood was hot and the air was cold so…so it would steam, of course. But it wasn’t just steaming, it was coagulating. The droplets thickened, they shuddered, they began to run together. They gathered over the symbols I’d written in the circle and sunk into the letters, turning them red.

No...no, no, no, this was could not be happening.

The reddened chalk melted across the boards, spreading like thick, liquidus wax. The redness filled the circle completely, stopping right at the edge of the chalk. The steam darkened, becoming thick black smoke that filled the space with the smell of charcoal. My chest tight with panic, I slipped on the straps of my backpack and lingered nervously behind the camera. It was still recording. I was capturing all of this...this was the evidence I’d been searching for, hoping desperately for.

What the hell had I done?

The camera’s flash flickered. The church groaned as if a hurricane was pressing upon it. Adrenaline flooded me, telling me to run. Some deep, primal instinct filled my head with one unending cry: danger, danger, danger. This was the lion in the grass, the predator in the dark. My heart beat against my ribs as my legs tingled with the desire to flee.

The camera’s flash went out; it audibly burst with the sound of shattering glass. In the candles’ flickering orange glow, the smoke began to take shape. It became tall, humanoid...

It opened its eyes, and they were gold.





I did love making a dramatic entrance.