“Five,” his voice was hoarse as he uttered his answer as if it pained him to offer up that piece of information.
Without saying anything further, I simply plucked out five rusty nails from my assortment of ingredients. These five nails would rust painfully, corroding Sergei’s business interests and his finances in small, eeked out increments.
I tipped in a vile of vodka, using the freezing liquid to add to the life-expectancy of the spell itself. I looked at my mix of herbs and spices, the counter scattered with items as my work began to fully materialise.
I needed music. It always helped me concentrate. Turning abruptly, I grabbed my phone and quickly queued up Lana Del Ray. Dimitri remained silent as I once more examined the herbs and spices in front of me. Lana’s voice sang all about her body, all the confidence of a woman experienced.
One of the key problems that we were grappling with here was that Sergei had secret followers within the organisation that seemed to be turning on Dimitri, although - and I hadn’t truly explored this gut feel - I had a sinking sensation that it wasn’t Dimitri they were revolting against - that it was actually Arlo. A lot of what Dimitri was dealing with seemed to be set up and orchestrated before his time, and my heart lurched for the killer before me for having to not only grapple with his own path, but also the legacy left before him - no matter how nightmarish.
Arlo’s suave mannerisms and underhanded ways had me cautious and weary, and I wondered if his men felt the same way - if they felt as if they couldn’t trust their leader. The Bratva seemed to run on undying loyalty and trust, and if you took trust out of the equation, I’d imagine you’d have some pretty pissed off men.
Of course, I didn’t express this to Dimitri, instead, I plucked up a beaker of crushed chili and added them into the jar, willing anger and discord between Sergei and his followers. Next, I dumped a fistful of some black pepper mix in, envisioning the corns lodging their way into Sergei’s throat, obstructing his passageways so that he became incapable of even communicating. The peppercorns were difficult to swallow past, causing Sergei to choke and splutter, drowning within the chaos and discord he himself had ensured.
I grabbed the lone piece of paper that seemed to be biding its time on the counter, then rolled neatly across the counter towards me, all of its own accord - as if the darkness had suddenly awoken and was in agreement in cursing Sergei. I shivered, feeling nauseous as bile rose up in my throat.
I knew that what we created wasn’t pretty or delightful all the time. It wasn’t the fairy-taled version of Magick - it was the ability to manipulate energy and situations to achieve a specific desired outcome using the physical materials and elements available to us in this world. Refusing to shy away from the ugliness of it all, I raised a brow and asked, “I don’t suppose you have a black cat around, do you?”
His gaze flickered back to mine and this time I saw nothing but curiosity, but I didn’t care, because if I had to face all the dark ugliness of what he was - what he did - well, then he could suck it up and see this. “No,” he spoke the word and it sounded more like a question, the word lilting up at the end.
I knew I was goading him, but something within me needed to see if he could accept this - accept me. Because this was true Magick. “Pity,” I smiled, “I could have really used some black cat poop for this jar.”
Dimitri didn’t react with disgust, instead he only stared at me, considering my request. I don’t know what I had expected from someone who had gutted people with his bare hands, but it wasn’t this - it wasn’t acceptance.
“If it’s a requirement, I can get one of my men to organise it.”
And despite how absolutely gross and ridiculous it was, my heart may have just clenched at that statement - at the lack of judgement I found there. Human or animal feces were often a requirement in Dark Magick spells - and became optional in a sour jar, it would denote the idea that you were essentially shitting all over their life. There was no exact science to Magick, which is what an average person would argue as the basis for it simply not existing. It came down to a feeling, where you were guided through various channels to mix together spells for an array of results - those spells were often a hodgepodge of recipes, guided by what you had available and what you felt you needed. Of course there were standard herbs and spices that could be assigned to different spell groups, but that didn’t mean we as Witches didn’t cross-pollinate our Magick - that we didn’t mix things up in accordance to a silent whisper or the way the wind moved just so.
I didn’t need cat feces for this - I hadn’t even planned to ask Dimitri for it, but in this moment, I needed to see that he wouldn’t shy away from the darkness of Magick. I couldn’t even imagine having such a conversation with one of the boys from my mother’s circle. The thought of asking Andrew for black cat poop was absolutely mortifying, and yet Dimitri didn’t make me feel embarrassed or any less of a person for doing what I did. There was something in being seen and accepted for what you are, and after this, I wasn’t sure I could go back to the way things were before, even if I wanted to.
Shaking myself from the thought, I looked up at Dimitri and shook my head, “You know what, I think I can make it work without it. I’m good.”
Dimitri held my gaze, searching my expression as if he knew that there had been more to my request.
“I need Sergei’s full name,” I made my request as Lana Del Ray begged for Summertime Sadness - and was there even a song more fitting that that for this moment? Dimitri walked forward, penning the name to paper. We worked in quiet unison as I copied the name down, the messiness of my handwriting only contrasted against Dimitri’s neat, precise letters. I tore off the name I had copied and dropped it into the liquid that reeked of sour bitterness, and all the awful things to come to Sergei, and sealed the lid.
“That’s it?” Dimitri asked incredulously.
“Not quite,” I smiled, “we still need a candle.”
“Of course,” he grumbled, “how could I forget the fucking candle?”
But there was no bite to his statement, instead it almost sounded as if he were teasing me. I pulled out a much smaller black pillar candle and began carving Sergei’s name into the wax. Any colour candle would do, but if I was being honest, I felt like being somewhat dramatic, and I also hoped that the darkness of the candle would help draw out all the dark emotion needed for this spell to be a success.
I drew sigils that spoke of destruction and chaos. Financial ruin. The breaking down of relationships. But, I was very careful not to add the sigil of death - or the corroding of Sergei’s health, because I still didn’t know what Lauren’s long game was and I didn’t want to risk it.
When I was done, I exhaled loudly. I spiralled down into myself and relived every horrible thing I had seen, read, or simply imagined in this world. I channeled the anger, despair, and hate that Sara had felt with Solomon had taken here. I channeled the horror and disgust I felt upon watching the Manson documentary. I channeled all the emotions that coursed through me when Olek was shoved into the grain silo - and then, Olek’s emotions that I had a front-row seat to. I channelled my own panic and disgust at the prospect of being shackled to Andrew. I even channeled my childhood fear of clowns after watching IT.
Finally, with shaking fingers, I lit the candle, and angled the wax to the side so that it dripped onto the lid of the mason jar. My reflection highlighted how pale I had become and I swallowed down the bile that threatened to spill over. When I was satisfied that a sufficient amount of wax had dripped into the lid, creating a small fissure to hold the candle itself, I seated the candle onto the lid, allowing the wax to hold it in place upright, the candle and its wax burning onto the jar itself.
I left the jar on the counter, ringing it with coarse salt, containing all those dark intentions within - because we certainly did not need that seeping out into our environment. I swayed slightly as I whispered the words of the incantation over the flame, dooming Sergei to his fate, and then, as with most of my Magick these days, I called on Isis to exact vengeance. I was dimly aware of the sweat beading on my brow, vision dimming in and out of focus as the flames danced higher, warmth caressed the shell of my ear, the memory of a whisper, and then she was gone.
I turned around to find Dimitri in far closer proximity than I had expected. My ass was pressed firmly against the counter behind me - and, I needed it to stay upright as I watched the controlled rise and fall of Dimitri’s chest speed up as he noticed how much distance lay between us. He hadn’t been expecting me to turn around when I had. My world dimmed, once more, momentarily.