Of Divination and Doubts
“Well, that’s new,” I mutter as I choose my footsteps through the cemetery.
I’ve always known, day or night, exactly where the moon is in the sky and its precise phase, especially at midnight. Now I can’t seem to find it in the dark. Is it a waxing crescent moon? Waning gibbous? My memories, though remarkably clearer than any point since Terre’s funeral, are tied to the moon’s phase, somehow.
I hold out my phone like a dull flashlight, but the beam bounces back at me, blinding me.
I release a jagged sigh. Changing constellations or not, I wouldn’t be able to find the moon, no matter where it is in the sky. The fog crawling over the low patches of inland Florida at midnight obscures everything within an arm’s length—as above, as below, and as all around.
Shoving my phone into the pocket of my flowy hippie skirt, I splay my fingers in front of me and let the tingle of energy lead me forward to Terre’s grave. The human body and things beloved by the soul inside take on the psychic energy of the owner, but most people, even witches, don’t realize that the energy attached to that body seeps out of its coffin into the surrounding grave dirt. There is no better ingredient in spells to manifest intentions than grave dirt, especially fresh grave dirt awash in the evaporating life force of the body buried there.
With my phone propped against a pot of white carnations, I adjust the light, so it scatters across the eerie landscape in front of me. Terre’s grave is so fresh that the blanket of yellow roses and eucalyptus—that had adorned his casket and now covers the bare dirt over it—is wilted but still beautiful. If anything can expedite my midnight working, it’s the power that Terre left behind.
I kneel by the grave, my heart thudding against my ribcage. I’m uncharacteristically nervous, but then, I’m used to knowing what’s coming, and this night has never happened before. To anyone watching, I’m just a grieving friend paying respect at the worst possible hour, but the weight of my purpose pulls me deeper into the shadows of the cemetery.
A clever flick of the wrist creates a spell of concealment, so I can carry out my mission undetected. I gently punch through the thin crust of dry soil and scoop some earth from the center of the grave. I drop it into a plastic bag sized for children’s snacks, then place the small, clear package in my backpack as a reserve of dirt for future rituals. With eight feet of length, three feet of width, and six feet of depth minus the casket, I have plenty of grave dirt to choose from to fill my needs this night.
I set out the ritual materials on the cool earth beside Terre’s final resting place. High Priests of Terre’s status usually choose cremation so that their remains are not violated by some power-seeker looking for bones. In this case, Aoife had insisted, according to Raven, that her father’s body be buried instead. Maybe Aoife had—has—her own plans for his bones, but if so, I was never aware of any ill intentions. Not that I ever knew all of Aoife’s motives or the actions she kept hidden or shielded.
Digging an authentic silver dollar out of my pocket, I rub my thumb across its dulled face, then drop it into the disturbed soil atop the grave as payment. In my hands, I hold my scrying mirror, its obsidian surface slick against my palm. Usually, I pull it out only for gatherings and festivals where I’m expected to guide a querent’s path into their future. Tonight, it serves as a gateway, a tool to seek answers that elude me and to confirm what medieval astrology books have argued.
Footsteps crunch against the gravel path leading towards me. I don’t need to look up to know it’s Raven. He’s been a silent pillar of support these past few days, his faith in my abilities unshakeable and undeserved. He was the one who lost a mentor and father figure, not me. I should’ve been his source of strength.
“You shouldn’t have come, Raven,” I warn, keeping my gaze locked onto the mirror as I place it firmly in the dirt and press it down just enough to break the crust as it stares upward.
“I had a feeling you’d be here,” he replies, his voice gruff. He does not ask me to stop; he knows better than to question my methods. He clears his throat and adds, “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”
“I’m not. You’re here with me.”
“You know what I mean. It’s dangerous out here alone. And Jakin Crutchfield’s in town. I don’t trust him. Plus, there’s danger not in just a morally corrupt priest. There’s Terre’s murderer. There’s also the person who desecrated Terre’s corpse, assuming it wasn’t Crutchfield. Anyone could have walked up on you.”
“And not seen me. Which is why I cast a veil. So no one would see me unless they were perfectly aligned with my intent. So, I guess you and I are on the same page, so to speak.”
Though technically, he has a point. Before Terre died, I wouldn’t have bothered casting a veil because I would have remembered if anything went wrong. Unfortunately, this graveside ritual never happened in my previous timeline, so I have to rely on magic, not memory, to keep me safe.
And Raven. I can rely on Raven. Virgil, too, if he were still in town and not visiting family in Nashville and Atlanta. And Emry. And Drusilla. Even without my memories guiding me, I’m more blessed than I realized.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I say over my shoulder. “Something is really wrong. My memories are coming back to me, but they don’t fit what’s happening now. I have memories of Terre in the future, but the woman I remember as his mother, and have verified astrologically, isn’t pregnant. I need to start with Terre’s next incarnation and work my way backward to find why the astrological charts aren’t the ones I remember.”
My eyes stay riveted to the mirror as I invoke the ritual, a sequence of chants that flow from my lips like a forgotten song. My mind stills, my thoughts focusing solely on the mirror as I invite the currents of time to reveal Terre’s next incarnation. Raven squats beside me for a closer look.
Slowly, the obsidian surface ripples, casting fragmented reflections like a disturbed pond. Wisps of fog rise as I beckon above the clear surface, teasing them out, upward, with my curling fingertips. Images begin to dance before my eyes.
My breath hitches as I glimpse Terre, not as a newborn like I’d expected, but as an adult, bristling with nanotech enhancements. He’s robust, full of life, wearing a time-worn face that makes no sense. It’s only a few years into the future, far too soon for a natural birth and maturation.
The twist in my gut deepens.
This is not the Terre I remember and not the one I expected to see. Terre, for all his supernatural power, had always been a frail man in his last incarnation. The next incarnation that I recall from my older years, he was blond and tall, like his mother in Vail, with his hair in a topknot pinned together by hair daggers and a standard-issue uniform that nanotechnology-enhanced soldiers wore after—will wear after—The Shift.
In this version that the mirror shows me, he looks the same as in his prior life, but young, and with bulging muscles under his shirt and around his arms. Even his neck, in this vision, is thick. No glasses. No need for them. His eyesight is perfect. Better than perfect. Time moves forward, and I see wings rising behind him and the glow of godhood on his skin. The Last Priest in this vision.
But the man in the vision isn’t my Last Priest. I’m Lady Jaryx, the chosen one from a thousand years ago, reincarnated to lead the survivors of our planet into a new age. Destined to do what Aoife cannot. At least, according to legends written into books no one seems to believe anymore.
In the vision, the new incarnation of Terre seems to take Raven’s place as my Last Priest, the other type of chosen one the priesthood favors. Terre’s presence dominates the vision like an incoming storm, with Aoife standing behind him. Not me—Aoife. But Raven is squatting right beside me, here with me not in vision but in the flesh, strong and alive, just as he was in the future I remember.
“This is wrong,” I whisper. I can’t tear my gaze away to witness Raven’s reaction, but I can sense it. “It’s his same body, just enhanced. And it is Terre. Not a demon or some kind of illusion. But the timing is off. There’s no way—”
My hands shake, but I force them still. Raven is the most recent priest Initiated into the Order of Daegan. Our dormant God resides in the Last Priest’s crown chakra until the time comes for ascension, meaning that our God awakens and reclaims His power through the body He inhabits. Each priest is the reservoir of our God until the next is Initiated, so each priest knows that power at least briefly. Aoife Initiated Raven several years ago to spite her cheating lover and then Last Priest, Jakin Crutchfield.
While every priest doesn’t know if he’ll win the roulette game and be the Last Priest when The Shift occurs, it’s always a possibility that the Last Priest will sacrifice himself to be the host of our God, but Aoife has refused to allow any new initiates except those who are female at the time of Initiation. Thanks to her rank, only she can choose the priests to Initiate. Since she’s adamant that only priestesses can be brought into the Order of Daegan by anyone else, we’ve all widely accepted that Raven will be that sacrifice to our God.
Except for Jakin, who is more interested in power than in sacrifice, and still pissed off that he lost his place in line when Aoife caught him boinking her half-sister, Suzanna.
“Raven?” I can feel his gaze heavy on me. “When was the last time you looked into your future?”
His mouth works, but no words come out at first. As stunned as I am, he inhales deeply and tries again. “I don’t know. Maybe three months ago? Terre had me doing prep work for after The Shift. There’s an empath I’ll need to find for me to ascend, and Terre was making me practice my skills.” He swallows hard enough that something clicks in his throat. “But this vision in your mirror? Veronica, yours isn’t the only future that’s changed.”
True. In this future that the mirror has shown me, some weird-ass version of Terre is the next Last Priest and later an awakened God. Raven is nowhere to be seen. Aoife is still the Ranking High Priestess and leader of the Daeganeans. And that means I never wrest control from her. And that I’m—
The vision fades, leaving me breathless. I pull my fingertips from the mirror as if it were scalding hot. I turn to Raven, his eyes filled with questions but reserved as always.
“The alcochoden and hyleg.” My words tumble out, fast and desperate. “How much do you know about medieval astrology?”
He shrugs. “Virtually nothing. I’m extremely well-read, even for a Daeganean, and I passed my astrology exam with flying colors, but it’s rather general. Medieval astrology? They don’t exactly teach classes on subjects that obscure. That’s what our libraries are for.”
“Exactly. Which is why I had Drusilla pull a few texts for me. Raven, you told me outside the morgue that I would die in the coming weeks. My memory says I’ll die as an old woman after I relinquish leadership of the priesthood. But in the last two weeks, both you and Virgil have foreseen that I’ll die before the end of September. I remember, vividly, my last sights and sounds before I leave this body to be reborn again.”
Shelby holding my hand and whispering my name.
“Veronica, you already know I didn’t choose to see across time when I was Initiated, but I have peered into the future a few times through normal psychic methods. Generally, I’m shown only my future. I’m conflicted about it, but I’m not sure yet if it’s ethical to look at someone else’s death date unless I can stop it. Or I have their explicit permission.”
“Totally understand, Raven. The same with most modern astrologers. That’s why some practices of medieval astrology fell to the wayside by the early twentieth century. When Virgil and I were in Washington, D.C., I cast my charts using astrological correspondences from memory, and they matched the events in my memory. When I used current correspondences, the results were different, almost like the stars had been disrupted.”
Raven’s eyes widen, but he says nothing. He shifts on his haunches, sinking one knee to the ground to change to a more comfortable position.
“I couldn’t rely on my memories of the future, Raven, or how I die to be accurate…at least, not still accurate. That’s why I needed to relearn how to cast astrological charts that would show me my lifespan. That practice was not uncommon in medieval times. Court astrologers used these methods to predict their king’s life span or major events in their king’s life. These were important matters then. Over a hundred years ago, such techniques had fallen out of favor. Any respectable astrologer wouldn’t ferret out their client’s death date. Or their own. As I—and any Daeganeans who accept omnipresence at Initiation—know, that kind of information can really mess with your mind.”
His lips form a tight line, horror in his eyes. He reaches out, hesitating for a moment before resting his hand on mine, his fingers warm against my cold skin as I continue.
“But Raven? If I can’t trust my memories of the future, I have no choice but use banned astrology practices to determine if the timelines have changed. And they have.”
I bite my lip to stop my thoughts from spilling out. I’ll never be the leader of the priesthood. I’ll never see my ninetieth birthday. Both Virgil and Raven were right: I have only days to live.
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