Paloma joined us in the living room, setting a book in my lap: Ignisvisum. The literal translation in Latin would have been ‘Fire Vision’, but the subtitle read Scrying with Fire. Paloma had already told me the details, but reading the pages solidified this living nightmare.
How was I supposed to concentrate long enough to write my own ritual? The ignisvisum itself wasn’t wrong, but using it as a method to steal memories was.
The text swam around the pages. I wrote things down, crossed them out, and started over. On my tenth or eleventh attempt, something clicked. The words flew to the page.
Paloma stared out the window, looking over her shoulder every few minutes. Charles stood and took a meaningless trip outside. He wanted to clear his head, too. I dropped my connection with his thoughts and tried to focus on my own.
The decision wasn’t impossible. What choice did I have? Performing black magic was our only hope. Even then, I wasn’t sure the technique would work.
Charles returned as I was finishing my notes. I closed my notebook and stood.
“I have to do this.” The steely edge of my voice felt strange on my tongue.
He sighed, shutting the front door quietly. “I didn’t want to pressure you.”
Paloma turned to me, took both my hands, and gave them a gentle squeeze. A sad smile crossed her face.
Night had fallen. Charles placed a call to Adrian, telling him everything and asking him to come over as soon as possible. We would need him to relocate Ivory after the ritual, back to where she lived before she came to Colorado. Maybe if she was back in Boston, without any memories of me, she would have no reason to return. But wouldn’t she be confused? Would she think she’d gone crazy? I pushed aside the creeping guilt and centered my attention on my only option.
Paloma set up a small altar in the basement while I stood staring at Ivory, my arms crossed. She sat on the floor, chained to the wall and leaning back. Her gaze never left the ground, never rose to mine, but blood streaked down her cheeks from her eyes.
“How could you?” I barely choked the words past the thickness in my throat.
“You don’t understand,” Ivory whispered.
“Then explain it to me.”
Ivory opened her mouth, but then it fell shut, and she shook her head. “I—I can’t.”
I shook my head and turned away. She tried to use her influence—the warm push she sent out was weak and frenzied—and I blocked her attempt.
“No one can protect you like I can,” she said.
“Don’t try that crap with me.”
“I’m sorry, Sophia. I never meant for—”
“Sorry? You’re fucking sorry?” I spun back, blinking away my tears, then stormed across the room, grabbed a roll of duct tape from the supply cabinet, and returned to bind her mouth shut.
Paloma rose and placed a hand on my arm. I was shaking.
“You need to stay calm,” she said.
I pressed my lips together and stared out the thin slit of a basement window, trying to find an inner calm. All I found was cobwebs hanging between the windowpane and crank and paint peeling away from rusted metal casing. Dead flies littered the sill. Outside was a wash of gray—the bark of cedars, the crumbling stone of the birdbath, the leaden sky.
Charles sat in one of the painted wooden chairs and held a closed fist against his lips.
Paloma nodded at him and then took my hand. “Come sit at the altar.”
Tears filmed my eyes, but I managed to detach. I hardened my heart and pushed back as Ivory continued her efforts to influence. None of her thoughts made sense now anyway; they were all panicked, muddled fragments.
I needed her asleep. Paloma handed over a stone mortar bowl filled with skullcap and henbane. My hands numb from adrenaline, I nearly dropped the dish. Shakily, I ground the herbs with the pestle. The mixture in tea could knock a person out, but no way would Ivory willingly drink anything we prepared.
“I’m sorry,” I said, before blowing the powder from my palm into her eyes. It would sting, then seep into her retinas and blood stream.
I leaned away as she fought against the chains. Fresh areas of her skin smoked as the chains shook on her wrists. The bloody flesh pussed, and Ivory’s fangs descended, tearing through the duct tape. Her cheeks puffed out and saliva escaped her mouth as she spat the tape to the floor.
Her movements became weaker, and before she could say anything, her eyelids drooped, then closed. Her body slumped listless in the chains.
I looked back to Charles. “She could have broken the chains?”
He shook his head. “They’re silver.”
That would explain why they burned her flesh. Initially, I’d thought those wounds had been from something else, but now that I understood her true nature, the cause was clear.
My gaze panned the room, anxiety mounting. Bright, cheery decor, with chains attached to the wall. A dark-haired girl’s limp body sagging against restraints, silver eating away at flesh, searing third-degree burns into her wrists.