seated position on the bed. Then he sat down beside me. I squeezed his
hand as I waited for whatever was going to happen next to happen. I wasn’t sure
what I expected, but it sure as salt wasn’t what I got next.
Surah raised her hands in front
of her, rippling her black cloak and making it shimmer like drops of water in a
silver stream of a dark sky. Her next words were the only she spoke for the
entire duration of the spell, and the toneless, almost dead way that she
delivered them made a chill walk up my spine.
She said, “Don’t be afraid.”
The room seemed to fill up with
the presence of something that I had never known before. It was as if the air
had become a tangible thing–if I reached my fingers out to stroke it that it
would ripple like the surface of a lake. There was an unseen heat that pressed
against the exposed skin of my arms and neck and face. Time seemed suspended in
a warped zone, where even my heart ceased to beat in my chest, but my eyes
widened in wonder as I took in the spectacle that was before me, by far the
most enthralling of all the sensory shifts.
Out of Surah’s hands a blue mist
rose, shot through with white flashes like tiny lightning bolts. It rose with
all the wonder and terribleness of a mega-storm, like watching miniature
thunderheads build before me. I shut my eyes then, trying to slow the harsh
breaths that were pushing in and out of me. Something as bright as sunbeams lit
the inside of my eyelids an unnatural pink, and I opened my eyes slowly, willing
myself to watch Surah’s magic. It felt very much like peeking into a coffin–a
helplessly morbid curiosity. By the end of the spell, I would come to the
conclusion that it was exactly like that; like staring into an
unexpected grave.
The room seemed to fill to the
top with the images, like hundreds of movie screens suspended in the air and
playing different portions of the same story. One was the image of a woman
sitting at what seemed to be her dining room table, a cup of untouched steaming
liquid set in front of her. Her hair and clothing were disheveled. Her brown
eyes dull and staring at nothing, and there seemed to be an invisible weight on
her shoulders, like someone who is about to crumble under the weight of the
world.
To my left was a man staring up
at something, a bowler hat clutched against his fine suit jacket over his
heart. No tears fell from his eyes, but the hurt behind them made it clear that
this was only because of enormous self-control. I looked to the place where
those tired, broken eyes were directed, and at first could not comprehend what
they were seeing. Then it dawned on me in a wave of horror as I saw what it
was. A row of tall wooden spikes back-dropped by a wide river, each with a
fresh severed head speared at the top like spoiled hors d’oeuvres.
I tore my eyes away only to have
them settle on another image, this one of King William himself. He looked to be
sitting in a car, the scene outside of his window passing by quickly. His old
face was set like stone, his cold gray eyes indifferent to the world around
him. A profound sense of hate filled me at the image of his bejeweled clothing
and jewelry and comfort. Never in my life, not even when the Accursed half of
me had taken over, had I wanted so badly to kill someone.
Another image–this one just a
piece of paper, a flier printed black on white and stamped with the King’s
seal. I read the words as quickly as my brain could process them, and an
involuntary moan escaped my throat. More images, more unseen heat against my
skin, more sick and sad faces, more death and devastation. I started sucking in
air like a new-born and squeezed my eyes shut once more. My hand gripped
Tommy’s like a vice. I wanted to tell him to take me out of here, out of this
room filled with dreadful things, but found that I could not speak. If the
spell didn’t end soon, I may well just pass right out. The presence that had
entered here, the one that had filled
hand as I waited for whatever was going to happen next to happen. I wasn’t sure
what I expected, but it sure as salt wasn’t what I got next.
Surah raised her hands in front
of her, rippling her black cloak and making it shimmer like drops of water in a
silver stream of a dark sky. Her next words were the only she spoke for the
entire duration of the spell, and the toneless, almost dead way that she
delivered them made a chill walk up my spine.
She said, “Don’t be afraid.”
The room seemed to fill up with
the presence of something that I had never known before. It was as if the air
had become a tangible thing–if I reached my fingers out to stroke it that it
would ripple like the surface of a lake. There was an unseen heat that pressed
against the exposed skin of my arms and neck and face. Time seemed suspended in
a warped zone, where even my heart ceased to beat in my chest, but my eyes
widened in wonder as I took in the spectacle that was before me, by far the
most enthralling of all the sensory shifts.
Out of Surah’s hands a blue mist
rose, shot through with white flashes like tiny lightning bolts. It rose with
all the wonder and terribleness of a mega-storm, like watching miniature
thunderheads build before me. I shut my eyes then, trying to slow the harsh
breaths that were pushing in and out of me. Something as bright as sunbeams lit
the inside of my eyelids an unnatural pink, and I opened my eyes slowly, willing
myself to watch Surah’s magic. It felt very much like peeking into a coffin–a
helplessly morbid curiosity. By the end of the spell, I would come to the
conclusion that it was exactly like that; like staring into an
unexpected grave.
The room seemed to fill to the
top with the images, like hundreds of movie screens suspended in the air and
playing different portions of the same story. One was the image of a woman
sitting at what seemed to be her dining room table, a cup of untouched steaming
liquid set in front of her. Her hair and clothing were disheveled. Her brown
eyes dull and staring at nothing, and there seemed to be an invisible weight on
her shoulders, like someone who is about to crumble under the weight of the
world.
To my left was a man staring up
at something, a bowler hat clutched against his fine suit jacket over his
heart. No tears fell from his eyes, but the hurt behind them made it clear that
this was only because of enormous self-control. I looked to the place where
those tired, broken eyes were directed, and at first could not comprehend what
they were seeing. Then it dawned on me in a wave of horror as I saw what it
was. A row of tall wooden spikes back-dropped by a wide river, each with a
fresh severed head speared at the top like spoiled hors d’oeuvres.
I tore my eyes away only to have
them settle on another image, this one of King William himself. He looked to be
sitting in a car, the scene outside of his window passing by quickly. His old
face was set like stone, his cold gray eyes indifferent to the world around
him. A profound sense of hate filled me at the image of his bejeweled clothing
and jewelry and comfort. Never in my life, not even when the Accursed half of
me had taken over, had I wanted so badly to kill someone.
Another image–this one just a
piece of paper, a flier printed black on white and stamped with the King’s
seal. I read the words as quickly as my brain could process them, and an
involuntary moan escaped my throat. More images, more unseen heat against my
skin, more sick and sad faces, more death and devastation. I started sucking in
air like a new-born and squeezed my eyes shut once more. My hand gripped
Tommy’s like a vice. I wanted to tell him to take me out of here, out of this
room filled with dreadful things, but found that I could not speak. If the
spell didn’t end soon, I may well just pass right out. The presence that had
entered here, the one that had filled
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