“The Wheel of the Year,” Bree said. “The diagram for the eight Wiccan sabbats.”
The feel of magick grew stronger with every step we took. When we reached the shop, a sign on the black cast-iron door made me smile: Gifts of the Mage: Specializing in Books of Magick and the Occult. And beneath it in smaller letters: Welcome, Friends.
I pushed open the door, causing a brass bell to ring, and stepped into a cool, dim, high-ceilinged space. I didn’t see the sort of general Wiccan supplies that Practical Magick stocked, but a wall of cabinets behind the counter held essential oils in bottles that looked positively ancient. A deep balcony ran around the walls halfway up, with more bookshelves and shabby armchairs in alcoves.
Bree walked toward mahogany shelves stacked with tarot decks. “Oh, they have a reproduction of that gorgeous Italian deck I saw in the Pierpont Morgan Library,” she said.
My witch senses were still prickling. Was there something here that I was meant to find? I glanced up at the black metal staircase that led to the balcony floor.
“Alyce recommended a book on scrying,” I told Bree, “but she didn’t have it in stock. Maybe I can find it here.” Already absorbed in tarot decks, Bree mumbled an okay.
Following the store directory, I climbed the stairs to the balcony and began to search for the divination section. The scent of old leather tickled my nose. I could almost feel centuries of spells whispering to me. Find me, invoke me. I’m yours, I’m made for your power. I passed sections labeled Oracles and Emanations, Amulets and Talismans. It felt good be among so many books filled with so much knowledge.
I rounded the end of the aisle and came face-to-face with a large section labeled Divination. Just beyond it, at the end of this next aisle, I saw a man seated in an armchair next to a potted tree of some sort. I stopped, confused by the feeling of familiarity that swept over me.
Then I realized he was the same man who’d been in the courtyard of the club the night before. He was reading a book, looking as relaxed as if he were in his own living room. He wore a tweed jacket over a white shirt and faded jeans. Cropped salt-and-pepper hair softened a hawkish weathered face.
He glanced up, showing me deep-set brown eyes, and acknowledged me with a courteous nod. “We meet again,” he said.
“Do you work here?” I blurted.
“No.” He seemed surprised by the idea. “I teach myth and folklore at Columbia. This is just one of my more pleasant sources for reference materials.” He had a faint accent, which I hadn’t noticed before. Irish or Scottish, maybe—I wasn’t sure. He marked his place in the book and closed it. “Was that your first time at the club, last night?” he asked.
“Yes.” Sometimes I am such a brilliant conversationalist, it’s really overwhelming. Why was I so tongue-tied around this man? I asked myself. It certainly wasn’t a crush thing. He had to be nearly as old as my dad. And yet I felt an affinity with him, a familiarity, an attraction.
He regarded me with curiosity. “What did you think of it?”
I thought about the beautiful illusion Killian had created for Raven.
“It was a little intense, but also cool,” I said. “I’d never seen witches use their magick just for pleasure.”
“Personally, that’s what I’ve always liked best about magick—using it to create beauty and pleasure in the midst of the trials life forces us to undergo.”
He made a sign over the potted tree, and I watched its leaves fade, shrivel, and fall off. From the soil a green shoot grew. It was as if I were watching a movie on fast-forward. No natural plant could grow so quickly, but in the space of a minute or so a lilac bush grew against the trunk of the dead tree, and pale lilac blossoms opened, filling the air with sweet fragrance.
It was incredibly beautiful. It was also a little unnerving. It broke all the laws of nature. What would happen to the lilac? It was an outdoor plant that needed a winter’s frost. It couldn’t survive in a pot in a store. And I couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for the healthy tree that had died for a witch’s pleasure.
And what would Hunter think of this? I wondered. He’d probably consider it an irresponsible, not to mention indiscreet, use of magick. Something the council would frown on.
“The world can always use more beauty, you know,” the man said, as if he’d read my doubts. “Adding beauty to the world is never irresponsible.”
I didn’t know how to answer. I suddenly felt very, very young and ignorant.
He seemed to sense my discomfort. “So, you came here looking for a book?”
“Yes.” I was enormously relieved to remember I had a concrete reason for being there. “I’m looking for a book on scrying by Devin Dhualach.”
“A good name, that,” the man said. “Devin means bard, you know, so hopefully he can write. And Dhualach is an old Irish name that comes down to us from the Druids. If he’s true to his ancestors, he may indeed have something useful to say about scrying.”
“I–I’ll just look at these shelves under divination,” I said, suddenly shy and nervous.
“Good idea.” The man smiled and went back to his book.
I found the Dhualach and sat down cross-legged on the floor to look through it. There were chapters on scrying with water, fire, mirrors, and luegs, scrying stones or crystals. There was even a macabre chapter on throwing bones, snake vertebrae being very highly recommended. There was nothing, though—at least nothing I could see on a quick skim—that dealt with how to control the visions, how to fine-tune them so I could see exactly what I needed to see.
The man from the courtyard glanced up from his book. “Not finding quite what you’re looking for?” he asked.
I hesitated, aware that I had to be careful. Yet it didn’t feel like he was prying. It was more that he recognized me as another blood witch and sensed my power. It wasn’t the first time that had happened. David Redstone had recognized what I was the first time he saw me, even before I knew myself.
I noticed that he was looking at me oddly, as if he’d suddenly remembered something but wasn’t sure whether or not he should mention it. Then he said, “You scry with fire.” It was an acknowledgment rather than a question.
I nodded, and my nervousness dropped away. It was as if I’d just walked through a door into a room where we were acknowledged peers. Witch to witch. Strength to strength. Power conduit to power conduit.
“The fire shows me things, but I feel like they’re often random. I don’t know how to make it show me what I’m looking for,” I admitted.
“Fire has a will of her own,” he said. “Fire is ravenous, fighting control, always seeking her own pleasure. To tame her is a lifetime’s work, a matter of coaxing her to reveal what you want to know. I could show you, but”—he looked at the shelves around us and smiled—“a bookstore is hardly the place to play with fire.”
“That’s all right,” I said, trying not to sound disappointed.
The lines around his eyes crinkled. “Perhaps I can explain it through another medium. The principle’s the same.”
He reached into an inner pocket of his jacket and drew out a piece of clear, polished crystal, cut in the shape of a crescent moon. It wasn’t big, maybe three inches across, but its surface was faceted and etched with runes and magickal symbols.
He held the crystal out to me, and I took it in my right hand. The crystal was surprisingly light, as if it belonged to a slightly altered gravity.
“I assume you know that you must ask the medium to give you a vision and that you must be specific. If what you want is to see your kitten tomorrow, specify tomorrow.” I wondered how he knew I had a kitten. Then again, it wasn’t uncommon for witches to have cats. “In your mind’s eye picture that animal or person and send the image into the stone, asking it to accept it.” His voice was soft, almost hypnotic. “The key is you must then use your power to feel the energy in the crystal—or the fire—and send its light into the future, searching for what you seek. That’s really all there is to it.”