Arrest, Search and Séance : Book 1 of the Fringe Society R.D. Hunter (pride and prejudice read .TXT) 📖

“First of all, please call me Melanie or even Mel,” I said. “I appreciate you all coming on such short notice. I’m sure Beth filled you in on the way here.” They each nodded, the one of them, Janice, a pretty black woman with flawless skin spoke up.

“She filled us in one what you wanted and why,” she said timidly. “And we’re happy to do it. Anything to bring Nichole’s killer to justice. What we don’t get is why you need us to do it. I mean, something like this, you usually have friends and family set up.” I winced inwardly. Another sign of my imbalance.

“Unfortunately, I’m in short supply of those, particularly in the magic department. I have a grandpa who would be up to the task, but he’s watching over my partner in the hospital and he put everything he had into this amulet, which is the only reason I’m sitting up talking to you now.” They all nodded sympathetically, then Beth gave a little start, like she’d suddenly remembered something.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you, we’ll need to use your crystals for the ceremony.” My heart sank.

“My crystals?”

“Yeah, Nichole had all of ours, remember? It makes me sick to think that bastard, Hawkins, has them attached to his body and is feeding off them like a parasite.” She gave a little shiver.

“Um, I don’t have any crystals,” I said, a little embarrassed. It was true. The only crystals I had were shoved in a drawer somewhere, forgotten for so long that any charge they might have had was negligible at best. What kind of witch didn’t keep a charged crystal or two on hand for some impromptu spell work? Not much of one, in my opinion.

The girls and I sat around for a moment, stumped. There was no way we’d be able to pull this off without some extra power. Then another one, a pretty blond with pale skin who went by Amelia, piped up.

“What’s upstairs?” I blinked. Her voice was distant and unfocused, like she was addressing someone else in the room who we couldn’t see. I recognized the signs of a seer, someone who gazed beyond the surface fabric of our reality.

“Storage, mostly; boxes, old junk from when I was a kid. I haven’t been up there in…” God, how long had it been since I’d been up there? I couldn’t remember. Why couldn’t I remember?

“No,” Amelia said, shaking her head slowly, “there’s something else.”

“Let’s go see,” Beth said, jumping to her feet.

Like most old farmhouses, there was a door at the top of the narrow stairwell that separated the top and bottom floors. I never locked it, and the knob turned easily in my hand. It opened up on a spacial hallway, completely devoid of dust, dirt or grime? How was that possible? I had to scrub the downstairs at least once a week to keep it somewhat livable. This place looked like it had its own private maid service.

“It’s a spell,” the third girl, Denise said, holding out her hand and spreading her fingers. “It’s written into the very framework of the house. Keeps the upstairs tidy and clean.” I let out a snort.

“Too bad it doesn’t extend to the downstairs,” I lamented. “Come on.”

The second floor was much the way I remembered it. My old room was at the end of the hall, nearest my parent’s room. What I didn’t remember, however, was what all the other rooms were for. There were four other rooms, not counting the bathroom, all with closed doors that I had no memory of.

“Well, let’s take a look then,” Beth said when I told them so. She opened the closest door and let out a low whistle.

It was an altar. Set up in much the same manner as Nichole Barret’s sacred space, but much more elaborate. The table was low and polished, ornately decorated with silver runes and symbols. The cloth over it was a deep, velvet purple, and held an antique gold athame, several candles and a leather-bound book, as thick as my forearm, with my family’s name inscribed on it.

In the center of the room was a large circle, laid down in pewter with protective sigils all around the edge. There were three bookshelves against the far wall, each of them stuffed with original manuscripts that likely were one-of-a-kind and worth a fortune. I stared around me in shock, letting the full measure of the room soak into me.

I knew my parents had been practitioners themselves, but the sheer scope and volume of what I was seeing boggled my mind. It was like finding a professional recording studio in the basement of someone who only sang in the shower.

“Come on,” Beth said, pulling on my arm. “Let’s see what’s in the other rooms.”

I followed her and the other girls down the hall, and we opened the remaining doors. In one, there was an apothecary of herbs, potions and potion-making implements. It was meticulously stored and organized, more-so than anything I could have pulled off, and I recognized my mother’s handwriting on the labeled jars.

Unlike other things, the herbs used in witchcraft didn’t go bad with age; they got more potent. Most of this collection was almost two decades old, meaning any potion or balm I made with this stuff would have more kick than a drunken mule.

Next, we found a room that looked like it belonged more in a museum, rather than a home out in the countryside. There were cases and displays, holding multiple objects with names and descriptions posted under them in my Dad’s handwriting. Some were in glass boxes. Others were in locked trunks and suitcases, each with warnings and advised handling instructions.

“What’s all this?” Janice asked, looking around in awe. She and the other girls were careful to