Chase, for his part, was making much more of an effort toward bringing his skills in line with Logan’s. The two boys had taken to staying awake into the early morning hours, poring over books of shadow and the “traditional” occult codices that warlocks and witches relied upon to draw the dark before Eira had made the first blood pact with Bosque Mar.
And with each spell cast, their power grew and their knowledge increased. Even without the abilities they’d once taken for granted, Logan and Chase were on the verge of working magic that could do serious harm. But that was small comfort in the face of what lay ahead.
Since the closing of the Rift, Logan had spent many hours retracing his steps, reexamining his choice, and had come to the conclusion that he’d been a bloody fool. He’d viewed his life, the war, the Searchers, and especially Bosque through a narrow lens of the present when he should have taken a long view.
Wealth and influence, which the surviving Keepers still had, were well and good, but Logan knew that, having been cut off from the Nether, those aspects of his life had been placed in jeopardy as well. Without Bosque, the Keepers were no more than socialites with ties to old money . . . very old money. They were no better than the politicians and financiers they’d become accustomed to commanding.
It was only a matter of time until someone challenged the Keepers’ stranglehold on one thing or another. A new player would inevitably appear, someone who didn’t believe the rumors of the strange and explicable demises met by those who’d thwarted Keeper wishes in the past. And when that fresh challenge came, the Keepers’ bluff would be called. No wraith could be summoned to torment the impudent. No Guardian could be ordered to maim for the sake of making an example.
And it would all be over.
That realization made Logan willing to head into the Long Island woods in the middle of a moonless winter night.
“Here.” Logan stopped, surveying the small break in the trees. He looked up at the ink-dark sky, speckled with only a few stars. “This should work.”
“Finally.” Audrey dropped her pack onto the ground, shivering.
Annoyed, Logan told her, “Unpack the supplies.”
Audrey gave him the finger, but she knelt beside the pack and did as Logan said.
“What should I do?” Chase asked.
“You can set up the altar.” Logan jerked his chin toward Audrey. “The stones are in her pack.”
Chase laughed. “You made her carry a bag full of stones?”
“There are only three stones,” Logan answered, too tense to share in Chase’s mirth. “One for each of us. Put them in the center of the clearing.”
Logan didn’t move to assist them, but not because he deemed the work beneath him. Far from it. Logan’s days of entitlement were behind him. He knew, however, that young Keepers like Chase and Audrey had long been accustomed to hierarchies. Democracy, discussion, collaboration, consensus: all were viewed by his kind at best as weak, at worst as deadly. If Logan wanted to pull off his new scheme, he could show no doubt and had to take command of his peers.
“Audrey, put the contents of the pouches and vials into the mortar and pestle and grind them into a paste. Then use the paste to draw a circle around the stones, but draw it counterclockwise. That’s pivotal.”
Audrey sighed, but began emptying dried herbs—and dried things that were much less pleasant than herbs—into the stone mortar. When she uncorked the first vial, she gagged.
“Oh my God, Logan,” Audrey choked. “What is this?”
“You don’t want to know,” Logan answered. In truth he didn’t know what substance had turned Audrey’s stomach. It was too dark to see what vial she’d opened, but given that it could be bile, asp venom, or the crushed eyeballs of a raven, Logan figured Audrey was better left ignorant. If she vomited into the mixture, the whole spell would be ruined . . . or possibly enhanced, but Logan couldn’t be sure.
Chase returned to Logan’s side.
“There’s a jug of water,” Logan said, pointing to the earthen container—thinking to himself that magic was tediously rustic; just once it would have been a refreshing change to see a spell call for a rare vintage bottle of wine decanted through artisanal Italian glass. That sort of thing would have been a snap for Logan to procure.
When Chase picked up the jug, Logan said, “Go pour it over the stones. A continuous stream until the jug is empty, no pauses or breaks.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Audrey turned her face away from another vial she’d opened. “This is so gross.”
Logan was glad the darkness hid his expressions; it was too much fun watching Audrey squirm not to smile.
She turned to look at Logan. “It’s ready. What do I paint the circle with?”
“Your hand,” Logan said, struggling not to laugh.
“I. Hate. You.” Audrey joined her brother at the stones.
Logan called after her, “Don’t forget. Counterclockwise.”
On her hands and knees, Audrey painted the circle around the cluster of stones. When she finished, she threw a withering look at Logan.
“It’s done. Can I at least wipe my hand off on the ground?”
Logan was tempted to say no, but he didn’t want to push Audrey to the point where she’d tell him to screw himself and refuse to help. “Go ahead.”
“You could just lick it off,” Chase offered.
“Go to hell.”
After Audrey had spent a vigorous five minutes rubbing her fingers against the decaying leaves that littered the forest floor, Logan deemed them ready.
“We’ve been over this,” he said. “Take your places. Once I begin the incantation, there can be no interruptions.”
From within his coat, Logan withdrew a dagger.
Audrey made a small, frightened sound.
“You knew this would be part of the spell, Audrey,” Logan said.
“I know.” Audrey’s lower lip formed a pout. “But . . .”
“Ugh.” Chase cuffed her shoulder. “Don’t be such a wimp. It won’t be that bad.”
“I don’t care about the pain or the blood.” Audrey frowned at her brother.
“Then what’s the problem?” Chase asked.
Audrey turned a plaintive gaze on Logan. “It’s going to leave a scar.”
“So?” Logan’s brow furrowed.