Night’s Touch (Children of The Night #2)(17)
Author: Amanda Ashley

“The first time I saw your mother, she was dancing. I took one look and I was smitten…”

“Smitten! Oh, Daddy, how melodramatic.”

“But true, nonetheless. I saw her and I knew I had to have her.”

“Smitten.” Cara shook her head. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone actually use that word. Did Mom feel the same about you?”

“Not at first, but I soon won her over.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“No?”

“Of course not. You’re very sexy. For an old man,” she added with a grin.

Old, he thought. She had no idea. “So, when do we get to meet this new man in your life?”

She started to say Sunday, then remembered that she had a date with Anton and no way to contact him so she could break it, although she might be able to get in touch with him by calling his mother’s bookstore. She frowned thoughtfully. She had no way to get in touch with Vince, either, unless she went by the garage. “I’ll talk to Vince and get back to you.”

“All right.” Leaning forward, he kissed her cheek. “Good night, Princess.”

“Night, Dad.”

Roshan blew out a sigh as his daughter left the room. If centuries of experience had taught him anything, it was that nothing stayed the same, but this was one change he wasn’t looking forward to.

Chapter 9

Serafina sat on the floor in the back of her shop, opening boxes. Since she had discovered eBay, every day was like Christmas. It was amazing, all the weird and wondrous things you could find for sale there. Of course, her passion was books. The boxes she was opening now contained a collection of books she had purchased from a seller on eBay who claimed that the books had originally belonged to the seller’s great-great-grandmother, who had been a practicing witch.

Serafina removed the books from the boxes reverently. One by one, she thumbed through them, thrilled with what she saw. The books were indeed old and rare, some so old they had been written in longhand.

One especially caught her eye. It was a book of ancient mystical blood rituals. There were spells for curing warts and insomnia and for healing a variety of illnesses, most of which no longer existed. There were love spells, of course. What witch hadn’t been approached for a charm that would win the love of another? The last part of the book was dedicated to dark Magick.

Serafina hesitated to turn the page. She had been taught that witchcraft should only be used for good, but curiosity finally won out. She turned the pages, scanning them quickly, until she came to the last page.

The words seemed to blur before her eyes.

An Incantation to Raise the Dead

On All Hallow’s Eve, between dusk and dawn,

The blood of kin must be drawn,

Nine drops, no more, no less,

The blood of kin you must bless.

To this the blood of love you add,

And the blood of an enemy, it must be had.

Seven drops of each, one by one,

Quickly now, it must be done.

Four drops of a maiden’s blood,

Rosemary for remembrance,

An infant’s blood, three drops for life anew.

A sprinkling of yarrow, a dash of rue.

Spread the blood upon the crypt,

When the moon commands the sky.

Call forth the dead, his name times three,

Doubt not, and he will come to thee.

A shiver ran down her spine as she read the spell a second time. All Hallow’s Eve. Among witches and warlocks, it was considered the most magical night of the year, a night of power, when the veil that separated this world from the world of spirits was at its thinnest.

She read the poem again. It seemed much too easy and yet, if it was remotely possible, All Hallow’s Eve was the perfect night for such a spell. In ancient times, it was the one night in the year when the dead could return to the land of the living. In Ireland, burial mounds were opened and torches lit so the dead could find their way, though all had to return to their rightful place at sunrise.

But if her incantation worked, Anthony would not have to return to the Otherworld. She closed her eyes, her mind filling with images of her beloved. Was it truly possible to raise the dead? To see him again! He would surely love her then!

The blood of kin. Anton, of course. The blood of an enemy. Roshan or his wife, either would do. The blood of a maiden? Roshan’s daughter. An infant’s blood, and rosemary. The blood of love would be her own blood, of course, freely given.

Hugging herself, she imagined how wonderful it would be to see Anthony again, to hear his voice, see his smile. And how wonderful for Anton to finally meet his father!

All Hallow’s Eve. She had only a few months to plan and prepare. It seemed too long, and not long enough.

Chapter 10

Cara slept late Saturday morning, her dreams troubled. First she was dancing at The Nocturne with Anton, then she was making out with Vince while Anton and her father watched. In the distance, a woman danced naked under a full moon, and standing behind the woman was another man. She couldn’t see his face but evil poured out of him like thick black smoke. It engulfed the woman, then snaked along the ground, licking at Anton’s ankles. Terror held her in place as the smoke’s cold black breath drew closer. She had to get away! If the smoke touched her, she would die! She tried to scream but no sound emerged from her throat. Eerie laughter rose from the midst of the smoke. She looked to her father for help but he seemed unaware of the danger. She had to get away! Heart pounding, she opened her mouth, terror releasing the scream that had been trapped in her throat…

And woke to the sound of her own screams ringing in her ears.

Sitting up, she glanced around, relieved to find herself in her own room, in her own bed. She was relieved that it had only been a nightmare, though it had been the most realistic nightmare she’d ever had. For some reason, a nightmare she’d had as a child popped into her mind. It was a dream she remembered clearly, even after all these years. In her dream, she had gone into her parents’ bedroom early in the morning and climbed into bed between them. She had tried to awaken them, but they hadn’t moved, hadn’t been breathing. Terrified to think that they were dead, she had run back to her own room and pulled the covers over her head. When she told her father about it later, he had assured her that it had only been a dream, but for the longest time, she had been convinced it had actually happened.

But dreams were dreams and couldn’t hurt you. Shaking off the last vestiges of her nightmare, she got out of bed and headed for the bathroom.

She felt better when she emerged from her shower fifteen minutes later, her hair freshly washed. She dried her hair, applied her makeup, pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweater. She stripped the sheets from her bed, carried them downstairs, and put them in the wash.