Incubus (38 page)

pivoted over an inch or so. I tried to slide it over farther, but it wouldn’t move. “Give me the light,” I

said.

Seth handed the flashlight over without a word. I held it up to the chest, examining every side.

There was another tiny rose-mosaic on the back, containing another release—this time a petal. I

pushed it and heard a faint click. The lid of the chest lifted under my hand. As I opened it, I saw that

we would have had a difficult time prying it open with a crow bar. Two edges of the lid were lined

with metal braces that curled up under the reinforced lip of the base. Sliding the lid to the side also

slid those hooks away from the lip so they couldn’t hold it closed. The second latch had released

something in the chest’s complicated hinge, allowing the top to lift up.

“You did it,” Seth said.

I stared into the chest. Inside, a small vase was covered with an almost chalky green patina, but I

could still make out the symbols carved into its surface. The vessel. It was real. It was here. My heart

swelled with anticipation. After today, my hopes could be realized. After today, I could become

human.

We hid the bronze chest under Seth’s bed, behind a few spare blankets. It would take more than a

cursory glance to find it there.

“We should get going,” Seth urged.

“Wait.” I grabbed some pillows and stuffed them under Seth’s covers, repositioning them until

they could pass for a sleeping Seth. I’d already done the same in my room upstairs, on the off chance

Dad decided to check in on me in the middle of the night. Seth gave me an appraising look, but didn’t

say anything.

We bundled the vessel and the ingredients we’d prepared for the ritual into a duffle bag. It was

still dark outside, but the birds were starting to sing. Dawn was approaching.

I stopped on the porch, stricken. “If we take my car, Dad will know we’re gone,” I said.

“Only if he looks outside before we get back,” Seth said. I started to protest, but Seth held up a

finger. “If we do this right, we’ll be back here by seven—worst case scenario by eight. With any luck,

no one will have missed us. We can sneak back into the house and carry on like nothing happened.”

Seeing my hesitation, Seth frowned in exasperation. “What? You want to call a cab?”

I shook my head. We moved quickly to my car. But as I opened the driver’s side, Seth put a hand

on my arm.

“The spotters,” he said.

“Oh,” I breathed. Goose bumps prickled up along my arms. “I can’t go. They’re watching the roads

out of town.”

“You have to go,” Seth said. “Your blood—” He looked at me, his eyes pleading. “It has to be

fresh.”

I bit my lip and looked at the car. “You drive. I’ll hide in the trunk.” Seth looked like he wanted to

argue, but I didn’t give him a chance. I unlocked the trunk and climbed inside. It was a tight fit, and I

had to hug my knees.

“You’re sure you’ll be okay in there?” Seth asked. He studied the cramped quarters anxiously, but

there wasn’t time to discuss it.

“Just watch out for potholes,” I said, giving him a grim smile.

Seth’s lip twitched in response, but he didn’t look amused. Resigned, he closed the trunk.

For the record: not my favorite way to travel. I could tell Seth was taking it easy. He handled the

turns slowly, but I still had to brace my hands against the side of the trunk to avoid knocking my head

at each corner. Unable to see where we were going, the drive seemed much longer than I remembered.

When I heard the crunch of gravel under the wheels I let out a breath of relief. We were almost

there. Seth slowed even more for the rough climb up the foothills to the mission, but the unpaved road

made for a nauseating ride. When the car finally came to a stop, I was squeezing my eyes shut,

battling the urge to vomit.

Seth unlocked the trunk and fresh air flooded into my lungs. “You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I answered. He reached a hand out to me and I took it, eager to escape the cramped prison.

I drew the cold morning air into my lungs, one bracing breath after another, while Seth pulled the

heavy duffle bag out of the car. After a minute or so, my nausea subsided. “Did you see any spotters?”

I asked.

“Not a one. Maybe they’re farther out.”

“Or maybe they’re watching the road, just looking for girls,” I said.

This thought seemed to make Seth uncomfortable. He glanced back down the road. “Yeah.

Maybe.”

The sky to the east was a rosy pink. Dawn wasn’t far away. Seth and I each took one handle of the

heavy duffle and hurried to the mission’s doors. They creaked as we pulled them open.

The sanctuary was dark, even though the broken window had been replaced with new glass. Seth

and I moved into the silence of the place and hesitated. There was a power here; I could feel it. We set

the duffle down. Seth walked to the front of the sanctuary. When I didn’t follow him, he turned back.

“Help me with the pews?”

“Right.” I shook my head, trying to dispel the sense of foreboding. I told myself it was the

memory of last winter solstice, nothing more. Seth and I dragged several rows of pews toward the

back of the sanctuary until the seal was uncovered.

“Ready?” Seth looked at me, eager.

“Ready or not,” I said, “let’s do this.”

Seth returned to the duffel and dragged it closer to the seal. He dug out the vessel, handling it with

a grave reverence. I felt a pang of empathy; Seth had as much invested in this ritual as I did.

Everything he did now, he did to honor his mother. Seth placed the vessel on the center of the seal.

When it connected with the stone, the vessel rang like a bell. The tone was rich, deeper than I would

have thought possible from such a small object. Seth glanced back at me. Another rush of goose

bumps climbed my arms. Seth walked back to the duffel bag and pulled out a small camping stove.

“Here goes nothing,” he said. He pulled the metal pot we’d pilfered from my kitchen out of the bag

and set it on top of the small stove. “Could you hand me the distilled water and the flour?” he asked,

lighting the stove. I pulled a thermos and the bag of flour we’d measured earlier out of the bag. The

heat from the fire made a nice contrast to the cold stone floor, but didn’t do much to alleviate my

unease. Seth poured the water and flour into the pot. “We need to whisk it until the mixture thickens,”

Seth said. “Do you mind?”

“No problem,” I said. I searched the bag for the whisk I’d stashed there. By the time I turned back

to the pot, the flour was already clumping together. I started whisking the mixture, breaking up the

clumps as best I could. I was suddenly aware that Seth was the one with the detailed notes about the

ritual. I had no idea how it was meant to be performed, beyond the ingredients we’d collected

together. “What’s next?” I asked.

“Salt.” Seth dug in the duffle bag and pulled out a large container of salt. “Salt focuses the power

of the ritual. We need to keep it directed at the center of the seal.” He peeled the seal off the spout,

then upended the container over the vessel. It took three containers to fill the vessel. Seth leveled the

salt off at the rim of the vessel, taking great pains not to spill a single grain. He pulled a good-sized

wooden bowl and a wooden stirring spoon out of the duffle.

“Where’d you get that?” I asked. I didn’t recognize it; it wasn’t from our kitchen.

“The mall.” He met my gaze and smiled. He pulled a metal tin out of the duffle and carefully

eased the top off. We’d spent hours grinding dried chamisa blossoms into a fine yellow powder. Seth

poured the powder into the wooden bowl and I sighed. All that effort, for so little final product. Seth

pulled another small package out of the duffle bag. “This was a little harder to find.”

“Your special order?” I asked. I’d known he ordered something, but I hadn’t seen it arrive.

“Yep. Hydrated lime powder.” Seth bit his lip, concentrating. He measured out half a cup and

mixed it into the yellow powder. “Now the tinctures.” He fished the two small tincture vials out of the

duffle. Uncorking first one bottle then the next, he added a few drops of each into the powder mixture.

He took up the wooden spoon and started folding the mixture together, gently distributing the

moisture from the tinctures throughout the bowl. “How’s the flour coming?”

My arm was starting to get tired, so it was a little disconcerting to see there were still several

clumps of flower moving through the mixture. “Needs more work,” I said.

Seth gave me an encouraging smile. We worked together in silence for 15 minutes or so, then I sat

back.

“I think it’s done,” I said. Seth leaned over my shoulder to look into the pot. The flour mixture was

the consistency of a smooth, thick gravy.

“Perfect,” he said. “Now for the magic.” He scooped a spoonful of the powder from his bowl into

the flour mixture. A warm yellow spread into the mixture. Seth continued to add powder until the

whole pot was full of the vibrant yellow-gold color.

“It’s beautiful,” I said.

“Not bad for our first attempt at an ancient ritual, huh?” Seth grinned, then bent over and turned

off the stove. “Now we wait for it to cool.”

I looked at the windows. Judging by the sky outside, the sun had risen. “Seth,” I said. He followed

my gaze, and read my concern.

“It’s okay. We’ve got a little time before the sun crests the mountain.” Seth dumped the unneeded

powder into the empty bag we’d used to transport the flour. Then he poured the steaming mixture

from the pot into the wooden bowl slowly, letting the icy air cool the liquid as he worked. Five

minutes later, the mixture was no longer steaming.

“One final ingredient,” Seth said. He met my eyes.

“Right.” I forced myself to smile. “Hand it over.”

“I’d say be careful, but...” Seth pulled a small knife out of the bag, and removed the cardboard

sheath he’d taped around the blade. He’d sharpened it last night, while I’d snuck into the Guard’s

house for the vessel. He gave it to me, handle first.

I took the knife, suddenly uncomfortable, awkward. “Where should I—?”

“Into the bowl,” Seth said.

I was keenly aware of him watching as I summoned my courage. This was nothing compared to

what I’d gone through with Ais. So why was I so afraid?

“Screw it,” I muttered. I held my left hand over the pot and sliced the knife across my palm. It was

sharper than I’d expected. Pain shot through my hand as the skin of my palm opened up like a ravine.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then a torrent of blood swelled out of the wound. Instinctively, I

balled my fist, jerking my hand up. Seth caught my wrist.

“Careful,” he whispered.

“Sorry,” I said. “Reflex. I’m good.” Seth released my hand. I held my hand over the pot, then

unclenched my fist slightly. Another wave of pain radiated from the wound, but this time I didn’t

move. Blood flowed freely from my hand, staining the golden mixture a ruddy red. I watched it with

sick fascination.

“Braedyn, breathe,” Seth said, laying a hand against my shoulder.

I startled, pulling my eyes away from the pot. It felt like I was snapping out of a trance. But Seth

wasn’t looking at me. His eyes were fastened on the bowl resting on the floor between us.

“Just a little longer,” he murmured. Then he sucked his breath in sharply. I looked down. The

mixture was changing. It had been pure red moments ago, but now it seemed threaded through with

metallic swirls. As I watched, the entire mixture took on the sheen of liquid silver, until even the

drops of blood spilling from my hand seemed to transform just as they connected with the surface.

“There,” Seth breathed. “Hard part’s over.” He handed me a clean white cloth. “You rest. I’ve got it

from here.”

Numbly, I wrapped the cloth around my hand. Seth collected the leftover ingredients, empty

bottles, and used equipment back into the duffle bag. He moved with focused purpose; no wasted

motion, no hesitation.

When he’d finished packing, he picked up the wooden bowl. He walked it with extreme care to the

center of the seal. As I watched, he dipped his fingers into the mixture, then laid them against the

stone floor. He began to paint a series of symbols onto the seal. Every once in a while he’d stop, look

at the vessel, then return to his work. By the time he was done, there was a ring of symbols gleaming

darkly on the dusty stone. The bowl was almost entirely empty.

Seth stepped back to admire his work, wiping the silvery stuff off his hand. Then he joined me at

the edge of the seal, crouching to look into my face. “How’s the hand?”

But I was still staring at the seal. “Is that it?” I asked.

“Yes,” Seth said, giving me an odd look. “Why?”

“I just— “ I looked at him, worried. “How are we supposed to know if it worked?” Instead of