CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN: The Invocation

Alex sat next to the fire in her bedroom, contemplating the day's ordeals and nursing the very large brandy she'd badgered Paxton into adding to her supper tray. She’d told him that she was feeling ill - which wasn't far from the truth - and that she'd thought it best if she dined in her room. The household was finally quiet again after the panic over Augusta’s “accident” earlier that afternoon, and blessed solitude was hers at last. Shortly after nightfall it had started to rain, and the low rumblings of thunder in the distance seemed to underscore her own growing tension. The events of the day, the story Jamison had told her in the gazebo, and the secrets she'd overheard outside Roderick’s study all tumbled together in her mind.

Augusta was pregnant! And judging from her scrawny figure, the girl couldn't be more than three months along.

Immediately upon hearing Marcus’s pronouncement, Roderick had lurched up from his chair, flung open the door to his study and raced out – Alex had escaped discovery only by seconds, thanks to quick reflexes and a dark alcove. A few moments later, Marcus had strolled out, smirking with satisfaction, smoking one of Roderick’s fine cigars and placing two more in his breast pocket. Seeing Roderick’s reaction and knowing what she did about Jamison’s relationship with his wife, Alex had a queasy feeling she knew exactly who was responsible for Augusta's condition.

Alex tried to remember what she could of the family history and the new information Wilton had revealed when he’d arrived at Halstead. He’d actually found the place his ancestor had been born; he'd traveled there. A convent on the outskirts of Castelnuovo Rangone near Modena, Wilton had said, and he’d shown her the location on a map in the library. There were documents and records, he’d said, letters from Roderick delineating the care of “Rose” and her son, Niccolo. They’d naturally assumed all these years that his ancestor had been born on the wrong side of the blanket, but if what she surmised was true, then Wilton was not the descendent of Roderick and some “mystery woman”, but of Roderick and Augusta! Not only that, but as far as anyone knew, the woman was destined to die in childbirth. Come to think of it, the history had been very vague on what had officially happened to Augusta. A “wasting illness" sometime after the fire that nearly destroyed the manor was all Alex could remember. There’d certainly been no mention of her living a long and happy life. As far as the Halsteads went, Alex thought, that would have indeed been a notable distinction.

Now it was obvious why Roderick would pack his sister off to Italy to die among strangers and pay enormous sums to keep her son as far away from Halstead as possible. And what of Jamison? Alex’s recollection of the family history didn't include his fate. What was the poor man going to do about all this? He wasn’t so dim that he wouldn’t be able to add up the months since he’d had sex with his wife.

Oh, if she could only get back to her own time, where nothing like this could possibly happen! Why hadn’t Mitch managed to bring her back? She’d been here for nearly two weeks, now. Perhaps he’d been hurt in the séance that had thrown her back into this time, or John had foiled any attempts he’d made. Those were the only explanations that made sense to Alex; she knew how devoted to her the young man was and how dedicated to the study of inter-dimensional time travel.

She tried to remember some of the spells she’d witnessed John perform. Unfortunately, the fool injected so much excessive theatricality into the invocations, she was unsure how much was essential and how much was just ‘flash’. Alex knew that without the special training Mitch and John possessed, delving into the secrets of a grimoire was as dangerous as diving into a tub of pit vipers. But she had to try. She had to attempt contact with the one spirit she felt sure could help her. There was nothing for it except to get the damned book and begin.

Alex took one last sip of her drink, then set it down and crossed over to the bureau. Opening the bottom drawer, she pulled out the jeweled amulet and grimoire and took them back to her chair by the fire. As before, she trembled at the power emanating from the artifacts, and a strange heat suffused her as she held them in her lap.

Taking a deep breath, she let the book fall open at random. The lettering on the page was in a language Alex had never seen before; the odd, hand-written marks looked like nothing more than random curls and scratches. Wracking her brain to find some key to deciphering its secrets, she reached for the amulet. Grasping it firmly in her hand, she drew comfort from its warmth.

Just then a huge thunderclap resounded right outside her window. Startling with fear, Alex clenched the amulet and immediately felt a sharp, stabbing pain. Cursing, she saw that she’d cut her palm on one of the jewel’s sharp facets - not seriously, but enough so that a drop of blood dripped down onto the open book. There was a quick, scraping sound, like a match being struck, and as she looked down in amazement, a wisp of bile-green smoke curled up where the blood had landed. Slowly the dark squiggles began to move – right there on the page! As they twisted and wriggled like little black worms, Alex held her breath. Suddenly the lines froze: they had reformed into a word that she could understand.

It read “Invocation".

It had to be her blood that had done the trick, Alex marveled. She dimly remembered something she’d overheard John and Wilton arguing about in the old days – over twenty years ago now – back when they’d all been…experimenting. It had had something to do with blood magic and the cost to the one casting the spell…

No matter - the proof that something was working was before her - she couldn’t stop now. She’d never been one to shy away from the consequences of her actions. Gritting her teeth, she tightened her fist so that more droplets of blood spattered on the page. There was a sizzling sound, and more tendrils of acrid smoke rose up from the book. The rest of the marks on the page began to glow as they slowly aligned themselves into new positions. Then the smoke cleared and she could clearly see what was written.

“'An Invocation to Raise the Dead',” Alexandra whispered in wonder.

It was all there! The spell she needed. Flushed with excitement, she started to read aloud the words, but stopped, remembering one precautionary measure her ex-husband had always taken. First, she bent down and pulled away the throw rug so that the bare wood floor was exposed. Then Alex stood up, lifted the amulet’s chain and fastened it around her neck so that the jeweled face nestled between her breasts. She quickly crossed to the sideboard where she’d left her dinner tray. Grabbing the saltcellar, she sprinkled a large ‘C’ on the floor where the rug had been. Picking up the grimoire, she stepped inside the ‘C’, and then closed the circle with the last of the salt. Now she was as safe as she knew how to be. The storm outside had increased in fury, and now the wind and rain beat hard against her windows.

Taking a strengthening breath, Alex lifted her head and began. “Brigid Halstead!" she called out. "I know that this book and this amulet belonged to you! If you can hear my voice, you must come to me!”

Alex hesitated. She needed Brigid’s assistance to get back to her own time, but she’d never known a Halstead alive who’d give away anything for free, and there was no reason to suspect they’d be any different beyond the grave.

“I know you loved Augusta,” she continued in a gentler, more coaxing tone, “and she’s now in grave danger. She needs your help! Please speak to me!”

Glancing down at the grimoire once more, she read aloud the words her own blood had formed.


“Life of mine flow through you
Life of mine live for you
Blood of mine go to you
Blood of mine implore you
Spark life at twilight edges grey
Where Death claims those He holds in sway
Awake, dread spirit, I shall pay thy fee,
Come forth, Brigid Halstead, I summon thee!”

The was another thunderclap, even louder this time, and a cold gust of wind blew through the room, extinguishing the lamp and sending the low flames of the fire into a roaring blaze. Turning to look at the French windows, Alex gasped – they were still firmly shut! She shivered with cold and trepidation, but remained in her circle of protection. Then, out of the fire, a sickly green mist slowly began to roil and spin. As Alex instinctively held up the grimoire, she was shocked to see the blood-spattered words pull right up off the page and fly into the swirling vortex before her. Alex could feel her heart racing. A face began to form in the mist – a woman’s face.

“B-brigid?” Alex tried to regain her voice. “Is that you?”

“Yesssss…” the apparition sighed. The features of the face were gaining definition, and now Alex could see wild, raven-black hair framing fine cheekbones, emerald eyes and a beautiful smile.

“I want to help you, Brigid,” Alex said. “You and…Augusta.”

“Ohhhh my dear,” it whispered. “You’ve already helped us more than you’ll ever know.”

The apparition’s smile grew wider and wider as its eyes took on a malevolent, predatory gleam. Then it let out a ghastly, trilling laugh and began to flow swiftly towards Alex.

Stumbling back in terror, Alex realized a second too late that she’d fallen out of her circle of protection. As Alex opened her mouth to scream, Brigid’s face once more turned to mist. A long green tendril shot towards Alex, engulfing her, choking her, shaking her, forcing itself down her throat and up into her brain. And just before her body was taken over by the thing known as Brigid, she had a moment of perfect clarity. For once in her long and careful life, Alexandra Halstead had started something she hadn’t a chance in hell of controlling.

L.A.G.