Bob didn’t want to go in the spell pot. Trying to catch his darting shape in a round bowl was almost impossible. Getting him out of the bathtub had been easy—I simply drained it until he was beached—but now, after a frustrating moment of near misses, I was ready to dump him onto the floor. Finally I got him and, dripping water over the counter, dropped him in. I peered into the spell pot, watching his gills pump the amber liquid.

“Okay,” I said, hoping he was all right. “He’s anointed. What’s next?”

“Just an incantation. And when the transfer medium goes clear, you can take back the aura your familiar left you.”

“Incantation,” I said, thinking ley line magic was stupid. Earth magic didn’t need incantations. Earth magic was precise and beautiful in its simplicity. My eyes shifted to the not-there candles and I stifled a shudder.

“Here. I’ll read it for you.” He stood up with the book, and I made a spot for it beside Bob in the bowl. I leaned close to him over the book, thinking he smelled good, manly good. Intentionally bumping into him, I felt a warm current that was probably his aura. Too busy deciphering the text, he didn’t notice. Sighing, I put my attention on the book.

Nick cleared his throat. His eyebrows bunched and his lips moved as he whispered the words, sounding dark and dangerous. I caught about one in every three words. He finished, giving me one of his half smiles. “How about that,” he said. “It rhymes.”

A sigh shifted my shoulder. “Do I need to say it in Latin?”

“I wouldn’t think so. The only reason they made these things rhyme is so the witch can remember them. It’s the intent behind the words rather than the words themselves that does the trick.” He bent back over the book. “Give me a moment and I’ll translate it. I think I can even make it rhyme for you. Latin is very loose in its interpretation.”

“Okay.” Nervous and jittery, I tucked my hair behind an ear and looked into the spell pot. Bob didn’t look happy.

“ ‘Pars tibi, totum mihi. Vinctus vinculis, prece factis.’ ” Nick looked up. “Ah, ‘some to you, but all to me. Bound by ties made so by plea.’ ”

I dutifully repeated it, feeling silly. Invocations. Could it be any more hokey? Next I’d be standing on one foot and shaking a posy of feathers at the full moon.

Nick’s finger ran under the print. “ ‘Luna servata, lux sanata. Chaos statutum, pejus minutum.’ ” His brow furrowed. “Let’s go with, ‘Moon made safe, ancient light made sane. Chaos decreed, taken tripped if bane.’ ”

I echoed him, thinking ley line witches had a substantial lack of imagination.

“ ‘Mentem tegens, malum ferens. Semper servus, dum duret mundus.’ Ah, I’d say, “Protection recalled, carrier of worth. Bound before the world’s rebirth.’ ”