Chapters (35)
- Cover
- Title Page
- Copyright Notice
- Dedication
- Chapter 1: London, 1913
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20: 1917
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23: 1919
- Chapter 24
- Chapter 25
- Chapter 26
- Chapter 27
- Chapter 28
- Acknowledgments
- Also by Paula Brackston
- About the Author
“Yes, my la…” Violet recalls where, and who, she is, and resists the habit of years in addressing me. “I am certain.”
Now that I am in the circle and about to spellcast I should not leave it until the task is complete, so it will fall to Violet to fetch me the things I need. I search my mind, sifting through the hours of reading and years of instruction I underwent with Father’s help.
Demon Calling: the summoning of a creature from the Darkness for use against an adversary or as Proof of Worth. But what will I need? I’m sure I can recall the words, but I must remember every item. To omit something could prove catastrophic.
“Bring me the Witch’s Coffer, a vial of bone dust, and a burning candle.”
Violet does as I ask. I sense the excitement mounting among those watching. However scared they might be, this is a rare chance to witness a piece of magic most of them have never seen before, and most would never themselves dare try.
The coffer is an ancient wooden box with a hinged lid about the size of a hamper. I set it down within the daytime half of the circle. The worn, polished wood feels cool beneath my fingers as I lift the lid. I select the Maygor’s Silver Thread, a soft, glittering rope the thickness of a plait of hair but considerably heavier. It is wound in a coil and is a little under ten paces long. I was allowed to use it in my lessons twice before, but never for Demon Calling. I loop the rope over my arm and close the box. Next, I pick up the candle and move to the center of the space where I tip it, so that hot wax drips onto the floor. I move slowly clockwise, creating a circle about two paces across, which encompasses a small area of both day and night, bisected by the red Rubicon. As I mark out this inner circle I speak the words I dredge from my memory, hearing my father’s voice as I do so, as if he were whispering them into my ear.
“In the name of Lazarus I cast this circle, that it be a gateway to the Darkness. I stand in the sacred space of our coven, safe and strong. None shall come that are not called. None shall go that are not sent.”