Crystal Cove (Friday Harbor #4)(17)

He had already known more about her than she would have guessed, certainly more than she would have preferred. It had been easy to uncover the basic information: date of birth, past places of residence—of which there were many—level of education—a degree in hotel management from a community college—financial situation—modest and carefully managed.

But that skeleton of factual knowledge couldn’t begin to convey the uniqueness of a woman like Justine. Vivid, glowing, with the raffish spirit of an adventuress. And yet there was something agreeably settled about her … she had found her place in the world, and was happy in it.

Happy, but not altogether content. He wanted, on the most instinctual level, to fill that space between what she had and what she needed.

It was an unwanted complication, this compelling attraction to her. It made him regret the necessity of having to use her, to take what she valued most.

But he needed magic in the most literal sense, and it could only come from a witch, a spellbook, and a key.

* * *

Justine felt shaken and hollow as she went into her cottage. She wasn’t entirely certain what had just happened, only that she had started a casual game and Jason had turned it into something threatening. Something sexual.

Her gaze went to the clock on the wall. A quarter to midnight.

Just enough time to prepare for the spell.

All thoughts of Jason Black fled from her mind as she glanced at the shadowy space beneath her bed, where the Triodecad waited.

Am I really going to do this?

She had to try. There was no choice, now that she knew about the geas. She couldn’t rest until it was broken.

She went to her bedroom closet to pull out a besom broom with a cedar handle. Cinnamon fragrance flourished upward as she began to sweep the floor in a counterclockwise direction, widdershins as it was called in the craft. The ritual broom would whisk away negative energies.

After a few minutes of vigorous sweeping, Justine replaced the broom in the closet and stood on her toes to reach the top shelf. She took down a Mason jar filled with a mix of stone and crystal … quartz, calcite, pyrite, obsidian, agate, turquoise, and other varieties poured around a candle in the center. After lighting the candle, Justine set the jar on the floor. The last necessary element for spell-casting was to create a protected area. She retrieved a bundle of soft hemp rope cord from the closet and unwound enough to form a large circle on the floor.

She retrieved the Triodecad from under the bed. The book felt warm and vibrant in her hands. Unwrapping the book from its linen covering, she carried it to the center of the circle and sat with it in her lap.

She grasped the fine chain around her neck, withdrew the key from beneath her shirt, and unlocked the spellbook. It opened immediately to page 13. Justine stroked her fingers across the parchment as words appeared. She had always wondered why anyone would cast a spell that had been predestined to end in disaster, and now she understood: Sometimes you wanted something so much that you didn’t care about the consequences.

She concentrated on the candle flame, the flick of blue at its heart, the radiant yellow outer layer, the dancing white summit. Her mouth was dry. She was nervous. Not because she was afraid the banishment would fail, but because she knew it was going to work. And nothing would be the same afterward.

She read the banishing rite once … twice … thrice.

But it wasn’t enough. Her heart was still a tight knot. Nothing had changed.

Something more was needed.

A tear slipped down her cheek as she cradled the spellbook in her lap. She remembered watching Marigold in the middle of a particularly tricky act of spell-casting. “These are the bones of magic,” Marigold had once told her, sifting through handfuls of minerals and crystals in a bowl. “Everything taken from the earth … stones, fibers, roots … all are the tools of our art. Let their energy guide you. When a spell isn’t working, it means you’re not focusing clearly on your goal. Use the crystals as the spirits direct.”

Following instinct, Justine blew out the candle flame, poured the jar of stones and crystals into a heap on the floor, and combed through them with her fingers. She closed her eyes and picked one that seemed especially vibrant, its energy singing to her.

A hematite, its surface silvery and liquid-smooth. An easily magnetized stone, good for improving the blood’s circulation and for turning negative energy into love.

She pressed the hematite to the center of her chest, over her heart. She covered it tightly with her palm. “Help me, spirits,” she said humbly, swallowing against a lump in her throat. “I need to love someone. Even if it doesn’t last. Because one day of something wonderful is better than a forever of nothing special.”

Slowly a white glow collected outside the window. Moonlight. It broke into separate rays, thin silver splines that reached through the glass and trailed down the wall and along the floor. The light moved toward her like outstretched fingers, sliding through the circle.

Justine felt dizzy, unable to catch up to her own heartbeat. Her thoughts darted out of reach, hummingbird-fast. She closed her eyes against a sensation of falling slowly, a tumble into clouds and midnight and soft-carded dreams.

It could have been minutes or hours as she lay there. Eventually the moonlight awakened her, teasing her closed lids and playing with her lashes until she stirred. She discovered that she was lying on her side, on the floor, her head cradled on the spellbook. The pages were smooth beneath her cheek, wafting out a crisp scent of cloves. She was cold, but it was a pleasant sensation, like drawing in fresh air after having been trapped beneath a smothering blanket. She felt vulnerable. She felt … free.