Chapter 27

Chapter 27 of 56 · 7-minute read

I lose my focus and twist to look at him. Barely breathing, he stares into the flames of our bonfire, and they shoot up six feet, ten feet, fifteen.

“In my priesthood—my version of your Grand Coven—we are reincarnated over and over into the Priesthood of Daegan. We’re given our own ‘craft name’ as you would call it, but it’s the same in every lifetime. At Initiation, we connect with our previous incarnations, and they tell us our name.”

I’m not sure what to say, so I murmur, “Wow.” I got to pick my craft name, RavenHart, based on something personally meaningful to me. I’ve done a few past life regressions, but I’ve never had previous incarnations show up in a ritual. Or anywhere.

“Each time we cast a circle,” Virgil continues, “it’s serious business. It means that for some reason, the things that we can normally manifest with just a thought and an intention need an extra help. That help comes in our rituals through the attendance of whichever past incarnations are most relevant to the matter at hand.”

“Have you met, um, all of your incarnations?”

“I doubt it, but who’s to know? It’s rarely the same one twice, and certainly not the same four. Sometimes it feels like there must be a hundred fighting to get into the circle, but only four can make it. The oldest one I’ve seen predated Alexander the Great.”

I lean my head back against Virgil’s shoulders, so he can hear my whispers. “And you just know that intuitively? Do they all speak English?” I wince at my question once I realize what I’ve said.

Virgil chuckles. “They don’t even all speak the same English. In my priesthood, we have our own language. It’s passed down to us when we are Initiated into the priesthood.”

“How does one get into your priesthood?” I’m not sure if I’m interested, but I’m definitely curious.

“You don’t choose the Daeganean priesthood. It chooses you. Apparently, we agreed long ago, thousands of years ago, in fact, that we would join in every lifetime to usher in a new age when this planet transforms again. We will, as a priesthood, protect the remainder of the human race. We have current members whose sole purpose is to find the current incarnation of past members of the priesthood to bring them back into the fold so they—we—can live up to our soul’s purpose.”

“So why these four previous incarnations? Why them instead of others?”

“I don’t know,” he whispers into my other ear as he keeps his fingers entangled in mine. “They’re not here for me. They’re here for you. I told you I would give your circle a boost, didn’t I?”

“But who are these four? I understand that they’re each here for some purpose related to me in this moment, but who were you when you were them?”

“Ah, Laurie. Ever the inquisitive. Just like you were as a kid. And always an inspiration.” He presses his cheek against mine, a little harder in one direction to point my face toward one of the male apparitions. “That one there. That’s the oldest of my incarnations that I know of. From the time of Alexander the Great. I don’t know much about him except that his mother, was an Amazonian-type warrior woman and his father was a Persian magic man, probably the son of another Daeganean priest or priestess.”

The form waivers in front of me. He’s tall, with flowing waves of black hair, dark skin, intense eyes. In the grip of one hand is a long spear—a sarissa, I believe it’s called. In the other hand, a tall staff, its head carved as some kind of animal. On the right wrist of the apparition is that strange little tattoo that Virgil has on his own, a symbol of the priesthood. Walking Lightning.

“That’s all you know about him?”

“I know that he’s shown up twice before, but only when I’m torn about a family situation, usually about my familial obligations versus my work as a warrior versus my work as a priest. He came from two very different worlds and didn’t fit well into either but managed to integrate his warrior side and his magical side. Magic without a k—my priesthood doesn’t differentiate the two forms of the word because one meaning is insignificant compared to the other. But this particular incarnation? He was a political gift to his mother’s tribe. She was the daughter of their leader and destined to become the leader when she came of age and her mother passed the torch to her. His father’s people wanted an alliance with his mother’s tribe so they sent their magic man hoping he would impregnate her with a daughter who would be even more powerful than the women of her maternal line. Instead, he was born into his world as a boy child so about the time he was weaned, he was sent to live with an allied tribe of men and grew up there as, well, not an outcast, but certainly not really belonging. Somehow though, he managed to integrate both sides of his heritage—warrior and magician—and it’s that unique blend of his energy that shows up in any of my rituals that involve me being torn about family.”

“And the others?”

Virgil shakes his head, gently, barely bumping into my cheek as he does. “I have no idea. I’ve never before seen the other three.”

The swirl of energy, the tangle of lightning, all of it stops at once. I lean into Virgil, my shoulder blades hard against his chest, and whisper, “What now?”

“It’s time. They’re waiting for you.”

“To do what?”

“To make your intention for this ritual known.”

Somehow, I have a feeling they already know. “Aren’t you going to call in your God?” Not that inviting Gods and Goddesses into circle is always necessary, but somehow I expect it from him.

“I don’t call Lord Daegan into my circle. That’s why my past incarnations, his emissaries are here. There are aspects of Lord Daegan all around us, but the God Himself sleeps, waiting to be resurrected for this planet’s next age. The lightning spark of Him, the God spark, is passed from priest to priest in our order, and He resides in the seventh chakra of the most recently ordained priest. Each of us at some point is the Last Priest, and it’s euphoric until the next priest is initiated.”

“No priestesses?”

“Our priestesses have a different kind of power. The two balance each other out. Only the Last Priest can be the human conduit of our God. Several prophecies surround the Last Priest and others destined to create His ascension and find lasting oneness with Lord Daegan.”

I watch the looming specters of Virgil’s past incarnations growing taller and then receding against the sphere around us. “Are you the Last Priest? Is that how you’re able to do this?”

Virgil chuckles again. “Oh, hell no. There must be at least another three dozen priests after me, but I can tell you that having a God reside in your crown chakra is an extremely heady thing. No pun intended. Besides,” he adds, “there’s way too much politics and backstabbing in the priesthood. I don’t want any part of that. I’m content to be a psychopomp for the priesthood and for others, though honestly the priesthood doesn’t use my services very much. They’re way too focused on the most recent Last Priest, and all their drama.”

I smirk at that. Virgil and I practice very different traditions of magick, with or without a k, and yet I completely understand his frustration with organizational drama and politics. To some degree, all organizations are like that—focused on controlling their membership for a specific reason, often known as the “higher good,” or the “common good,” but usually for the benefit of someone in power. Magick-workers, unfortunately, take drama, control, and retaliation to a whole ’nother level.

“Laurie, you can call in your Goddess or any of your Old Gods, if you’d like.”

I straighten my fingers and stretch them then entwine them again with his. “I, um, yes. That’s okay for me to have mine here but not yours? I mean, I don’t want to offend.”

Behind me, Virgil laughs in my ear. “It wouldn’t be offensive. And the Gods know the purity of your heart. This isn’t a negotiation where you have to tell two sides of the same story or balance against each other. I am here—we are here—only to give you the boost you need. Go ahead and call in your Gods if you wish.”

I draw a deep, cleansing breath. The air around me smells of oak logs and fresh cut grass. Closing my eyes, I breathe it all in. The moment. The sense of Virgil behind me, both solid and as an exponent for my desires. The sense of neither hot nor cold inside the sphere, but rather a place without time or history. A place where nothing exists but this moment.

I press my bare feet harder into the earth to ground myself, but the euphoria begins with the soles of my feet and rises through my body to the very top of my head. I can barely breathe. Behind me, Virgil’s moan tells me he senses the same thing that I do.

I don’t need an athame or a wand or any magickal tools. In my mind, I call for The Morrigan, my ancient Goddess, to join us in the circle.

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