Chapter 43
Transiting Mars Enters Lauren’s Natal First House of Self
“Miss Lauren?”
“Mom? Mom!”
Christabel and Sonnet kneel next to me in the fire circle, both shaking me awake. I push up on my elbows.
The fire is out. The smoke is gone.
So is Jesse.
So is the horrible, nightmarish form of him with the front half of his face and heart missing, rotted away. The memory alone makes me cringe and push backward on my elbows.
“Mom? Mom? Are you okay?”
“We were all watching from the window. We saw you faint and fall into the grass. Miss Lauren, we were worried you hit your head. Are you okay? How do you feel?”
Inhaling deeply, I try to get my bearings. I couldn’t have been out for long. I fell onto my blanket, a perfect pillow in lush grass and soft ground. When I scan my body for pain, I can’t seem to find any injury. Not even a bruise. All that hurts is my heart, but other than that—
“I-I feel good.”
More than good. Physically, I feel strong. Powerful. Healthy. Not exhausted anymore. Not even a tiny bit tired. Everything that had been draining my life force has been severed.
Sonnet and Christabel exchange glances, then both look back to me, worried. Jan stands on the back porch and leans forward for a better view.
“I’m fine. Really.” I stand, refusing the help that both girls offer. “Sonnet, I need you to call my lawyer, Tom. Tell him you’re home from your dad’s, and you’re fine.”
“But Mom, what if Dad—”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got this.”
I smile to myself. Yeah, I’ve got this.
“Don’t give him more details than that. Just tell Tom to let your dad know.”
“Where are you going, Miss Lauren? Do you need me to drive you?”
The servitor looks up from its widdershins pacing and stops in mid-stride. Eyes glowing, it stares across the grass and gardens at me.
“No, Christabel, but thanks. I need you to call Patrick at the bank.”
“Patrick from yoga? Sure, but why?”
“Tell him what you learned about Bianca from Steve’s buddy. Name, location. Tell him she’s the woman in the bank video who stole my identity and forged my name on that loan. Tell him Jesse is there, too. His senior loan officer is going to be very interested. Tell Patrick to act now, or she’ll be gone by morning.”
The chaos witch isn’t sticking around. Of that, I’m certain. I can see far enough into the future to know that her reason for being here is almost done.
“I’ll tell Patrick about the drugs in her RV, too,” Christabel says as I walk away. “Nana says the police need to know that, too.”
Barefoot, I stomp through the opulent grass toward the perimeter of my property, leaving my entourage behind to stare after me. The servitor’s eyes glow from the other side of my shield. From here, I can tell that its magick is still strong, but things are different now. Now my magick is strong once again.
I’d spent all that time developing my powers, only to neglect them. Like a bodybuilder letting muscle turn flabby.
What’s that old scripture about hiding your talent under a bushel? Or that if you don’t use your talents, you lose them? The same is true at the gym. You can spend years building those muscles and acquiring that muscle memory, but then after months of disuse, all that work goes stale. The muscles become weak again.
I will never let this happen again, regardless of what good reason there might be. I vaguely recall Zephyr telling me during my prophecy reading, that I should cut cords every night before I sleep. Not in a more formal ritual like the ho’oponopono, but a simple gesture as a part of my nightly self-care routine, just like removing my makeup, moisturizing, and brushing my teeth. She had shown me how, and I had forgotten her advice and never used it. Each night, I was to check for attachments that might drain my life force. Each night, I was to examine my ethereal body for anything from spiderwebs to grappling hooks.
Zephyr told me most of the time it would be mere spiderwebs of attachments—the beginning of some restriction that might hold me in place if allowed to build up. Every night, I was to sweep them away, though most of the time, it would be a mere flick of the wrist, the back of my hand, to brush away the attachments. The next day they might come back, and I was to expect that the dearer ones would, but this way, unwanted attachments could never take hold and wanted ones could be nourished and limited, if necessary. I suspect that outside of doing releasing rituals on a daily basis, I might need an astral machete for the first few attempts at nightly energetic self-care, but I swear I’ll do it now.
I will never let myself become lax about self-care again.
Stomping toward the servitor, I pound my energy into each footfall, shaking the earth around me.
On the other side of my glowing ward, the servitor stares in surprise. It takes a run at the shield it spent the last two days dismantling, hits the force field of energy, and bounces backward. It shakes its head in frustration.
The shield between us pulsates, glows in electric blue. I flatten my palms against the inside of my energy bubble. Spider veins of lightning move beneath my skin within the wall of energy.
I draw a vertical line on the force field with my fingertip, from above my head all the way to the ground. I pry open a space big enough to walk through but jump through instead, both feet landing on the ground at the same time. My doorway seals behind me.
The servitor, now solid and menacing, towers over me as I crouch, ready to fight.
One hairy arm shoots out, grabs my throat, raises me to eye level. I choke and gag for a second, my fingers tearing at the claws around my throat.
My arms drop limply to my sides. I can feel the energy rippling through my body.
My energy.
My magick.
My power.
I raise both arms to the sky, though its claws are still around my neck and my feet no longer touching the ground.
With every heartbeat, white light throbs through my fingertips.
The servitor lifts me higher, just above its gaze.
Clenching my neck muscles to keep from choking, I push back energetically from inside my body to keep its claws at bay.
Then I grab its neck with both hands, pushing in and up and supporting my own bodyweight. My hands aren’t big enough to grab it all the way around its throat.
“You cannot squelch the life out of me. There are only three ways you can destroy me. My mistress may choose to end me. Or you die and I have fulfilled my purpose. Or you name my mistress.”
“I don’t intend to destroy you,” I grate through clenched jaws. “I intend for you to live a very long life, fulfilling the purpose you were given, only not for me, but for the witch who sent you.”
The servitor laughs. “You cannot command me. You would have to know the name of my mistress to reverse this curse.”
The servitor seems to grow even bigger under my touch. I claw at its neck to steady my grip.
“Bianca Wilemon!”
Immediately, the form under my grasp shrinks until my fingertips touch around its throat.
“I command you to return to Bianca Wilemon, your creator, and carry out your purpose as a boomerang returning to its sender or as a mirror reflecting back.”
The servitor drops to its knees—or haunches—and then kneels in front of me.
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