Secondhand Spirits by Juliet Blackwell Read Free Book Online

burned you not so long ago.”
    â€œGood thing we live in modern times, then, right?”
    â€œI don’t really like cowans,” he mused, using the archaic derogatory word for a nonwitchy human. “They’re fun to play with, but they’re narrow-minded, quick to blame, can’t see past their own—”
    â€œDon’t call them cowans. Besides, I’m just as human as the next person.”
    â€œNormal humans don’t cast spells . . . at least, not well.”
    I threw my stone pestle down on the butcher block with a loud thud.
    â€œFor your information, familiars don’t argue with their masters. And if you don’t like humans, then you shouldn’t hang around me. I like being around normal people. I’m a normal-people person. They just haven’t especially liked me up till now. But all that’s about to change.”
    â€œHow will it change, mistress?”
    â€œBecause I’m not moving around anymore. I’m staying put, and I’m going to make friends, and sell great old clothes, and I’m going to use my powers to help people. But no one is ever going to know that I’m—”
    â€œA superpowerful witch?”
    â€œâ€”a freak. I don’t want to be seen as a scary freak anymore.”
    And with that I dropped a freeze-dried bat into the bubbling brew.
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    The matching of a witch with a familiar is supposed to be an intimate affair. A witch bonds to a special animal with which she feels an overwhelming sense of kinship and trust. Familiars are popular with witches because animals are often more in touch with the undercurrents of the spirit world than are humans, allowing them to be not only companions but magical intermediaries and helpers. But I had more than enough power all by myself, which was one reason I had never joined other witches in a coven. If I added my power to theirs, there was no telling what forces might be unleashed.
    I glanced up at Oscar, who was back on top of the refrigerator, inspecting his scaly, clawlike toes. I couldn’t say I felt much kinship. But as I brewed my concoction, I had to admit that I did sense a subtle shift in my power. It wasn’t stronger, exactly, but it was smoother. Slippery, almost. As though finding the portals more easily.
    I prepared the herbs carefully, mumbling incantations as I did so. I recited my spells precisely as I had learned them: in Spanglish, with a smattering of Latin and Na huatl, Graciela’s native language. After dropping in all the herbs, one by one, I brought out the tissue and added the strands of Frances’s hair while intoning her name ten times.
    My left eye started to itch, an omen that sorrow would soon find its way into my life. This wasn’t unusual for me, and didn’t necessarily have anything to do with the spell at hand. Still, I made doubly sure to do everything I could to repel negative influences. I stirred the brew only deosil, or in a clockwise direction. I cast the few leftover herbs into the fire under the pot. I chanted an extra ten minutes, just in case.
    It took a full hour of boiling for the brew to come to readiness. I spent the wait time cleaning my implements carefully and thoroughly. Inspired, I used the rest of the time to straighten my sitting room. I was vacuuming the faded Turkish rug when a distinctive, rank smell began to permeate the air, signaling the brew’s readiness for the next step: blood sacrifice.
    I hated this part. Not because of the pain, but because it highlighted how different I was, even from other witches. The next step was beyond the abilities of any witch I’d ever known.
    Gripping the black-handled knife in my right hand, I cut a small X in the palm of my left. Holding the injured hand palm-down over the cauldron, I allowed four drops of my blood to drip into the brew, which was now swirling deosil on its own.
    I braced myself. A great cloud of vapor burst from the vessel and