“Right, guys?” I ask, looking through the living room in their direction. I grab the grimoire and Jacques’s notes and sit at the kitchen table. The book doesn’t seem to be written in any order, with supernatural information and spells mixed in together. Jacques’s theory was the original sorcerer wrote things as he or she learned them, and the book had been copied in the same order.
The first spell Jacques translated is for protection during birth. It’s intricate and complicated, making me thankful I’ll have modern medicine to rely on as well if I ever have children. The next few pages are filled with notes from the original author, written casually almost like a diary, summing up a spell performed during the spring equinox. He’d gotten halfway through translating a full moon blessing spell before he had to retire to the roof for sunrise.
I close my eyes, going with my gut, and open to a random page. Like everything else, it’s written in Latin, but this one has a crude painting of a person. The color has faded over the years, and the ink is smeared, but there’s no denying the person is holding up a hand engulfed in flames. I scan the page and the word “ignis” jumps out at me. It’s not a direct translation, but Jac told me it means fire.
With a surge of excitement, I get up and get my phone, using Google to translate as much of the text as I can. I have to fill in the blanks in more than a few spots, and some of the words don’t even come up in the Latin-to-English dictionary.
“Well, I don’t have crystals, sage, or whatever this is,” I say out loud to myself, tapping my pen on the notebook. I’m not entirely sure what to do, either, but I think the spell is calling to boil the herbs in a cauldron, add the crystal, and then hold it for extra power? Or maybe you drink it like tea?
Not wanting to accidentally turn anyone into a frog, I close the book and go upstairs to change into my workout clothes. After warming up and stretching, I put in my earbuds and take off down the gravel road. I haven’t been past the estate, and those kids I caught creeping said they lived nearby. It’d be nice to know who’s around me, though I’m not getting neighborly enough to say hi, introduce myself, and invite them over for pie.
I make it a good mile down the road before the trees on either side begin to clear, and a neatly manicured lawn butts up to the rural road. A small white ranch-style house sits behind perfectly trimmed rosebushes, and an elderly woman reading a book waves to me from a rocking chair on the covered porch.
The house next to it is just as nice. It’s a little bigger, with a basketball hoop in the driveway and chalk drawings on the sidewalk. There are five houses total in this little stretch, all nice and neat, and they don’t look to be over ten years old. I turn up my music and push through another half mile before coming to any more houses. It’s interesting how the estate stayed so isolated for years and years. There’s no way it’s by chance.
Hot and sweaty, I slow to a walk, stretching my arms over my head. I turn around and keep walking until my breathing steadies out, then stop to stretch my legs. A car comes down the road, going way too fast at first. It slows down to only five miles over the speed limit when the driver sees me, and I pick up my pace to a jog, raising my hand in a friendly wave to thank the asshole for not running me over.
I turn to get a view of the plates, not expecting to see brake lights. The black Toyota already passed me. Why is it stopping now? As a cop, I’ve seen enough to make me view everyone as guilty until proven innocent. As a woman jogging alone on a rural road, my feelings are amplified tenfold.
I turn down my music but leave the earbuds in, turning to take another look at the car and to commit the plate to memory. The tinted passenger side window rolls down halfway and I get a glimpse of a blonde woman in the seat. She’s wearing a floppy hat and big sunglasses, looking classically beautiful.
But something about her makes me want to pick up my pace. I hold steady in my jog, my eyes darting along the road, looking for anything I can use as a weapon. Gravel crunches and the car takes off, tires spinning in its haste to get away. Inhaling a lungful of humid air, I push forward, getting more and more eager to get back to the estate.
I don’t get ominous feelings. I believe in intuition in certain, specific situations, but don’t think anyone can “feel” a universal warning.
But that’s exactly what I’m feeling right now. Something bad is coming. And I’m not at all prepared.
Loose stone crunches under my feet and my body itches to break into a sprint, not stopping until I’m in the house with my gun on my hip and a wooden stake in my hand. Though it’s not fear that’s making me run. It’s the overwhelming need to get ready for a battle, because, for some strange-as-fuck reason, I know it’s coming. Calm your tits, Ace, I tell myself. There’s no way to know that, and of course something bad will happen. Even before the gargoyles and vampires, bad things happening were a part of life. Hell, I’d be out of a job if bad things didn’t happen.
I wipe sweat off my brow, slowing for a few paces when I get to the little collection of houses that look like they were taken right off Wisteria Lane. The garage door opens to the house with the basketball hoop, and Jared, the kid with the camera, steps outside, holding keys. An older man I guess to be his father is behind him, and Jared freezes when he sees me, face going white. I smile and raise my hand in a friendly wave, overdoing the neighbor shit this time just to see the panic rise on Jared’s face.
His father’s eyes widen and he waves back, quickly walking to the end of the driveway. I slow to a walk, welcoming the misty rain that’s starting to fall.
“Sorry to interrupt your run,” he says. For an older man, he’s not bad-looking. Not at all. “But I thought you came from the old brick mansion up the road.”
“I did,” I say, brushing loose strands of hair away from my sweaty face.
“We thought we saw lights on the other night. It shocked me, that’s all.” He smiles and his eyes lighten. “I’m Richard, by the way. And this is my son Jared.”
“Hi, Jared,” I say sweetly. “And I’m Acelina, but everyone calls me Ace.”
“Nice to meet you, Ace. Did you move in? I didn’t think the house was move-in ready?”
“It’s not quite. I’m working on it.”
“I’ve admired that house for years. The architecture on it is stunning. Do you know the history behind it?”
“Dad,” Jared scoffs.
“Sorry.” Richard laughs. “I’m a history professor at Drexel and I find anything local particularly intriguing.”
“Oh, neat. I don’t know much. I inherited the house recently.”
A car coming down the road gets all our attention. It’s the black sedan again. It speeds past us. The windows are tinted darker than what’s legal, giving me a reason to have it pulled over.
“That’s the car I told you about, Dad,” Jared says. “It’s been up and down the road three times in the last hour.”
“Really?” I ask. “You’re sure it’s the same car?” The hair on the back of my neck isn’t prickling or anything…nope. Not at all.
“I think it is,” Richard agrees. “It’s gone by too fast each time to see the license number.”
“Have you seen it before?” I ask.
“No. There aren’t too many houses out here, and it’s faster to get to the neighborhood down the road if you come from 500 South, not from our road, so something like this sticks out,” Richard answers. “I thought maybe they were looking for land for sale—we get that a lot. People want a piece of the pie out here. But three, now four, times in an hour is unsettling.”
“It is,” I agree. “Have you seen anything else out of the ordinary?”
Richard shakes his head. “I hope this doesn’t scare you off. We’re normally peaceful around here and everyone in this little neighborhood feels quite safe. That’s why we moved out here. The wife and I wanted a safer environment for the children.”
“Right. Safety is important, so if you see it again, I need you to call me,” I start, looking at his house. There’s a security camera above the porch and near the garage. “I’m a cop.”