V

She knelt on the living room floor of her condo. The blinds were drawn, but that wasn’t suspicious, given the hour. If anyone had seen her, he would have been shocked—this upright professional kneeling before an ancient spellbook, surrounded by candles, arcane symbols chalked on the floor. Unexpected, but hardly criminal, worthy only of whispers and raised brows.

The grayish powder in the bowl could be anything—probably wouldn’t even be noticed. That was the beauty of it, unlike the dried body parts her nanny had used—those disgusting relics that had to be kept hidden and, when accidentally found, had cost the old woman her job. All that secrecy, shame and pain for something that hadn’t even worked. Oh, her nanny had claimed otherwise—taking responsibility for accidents and strokes of good luck. That was how the ignorant practiced magic, seeing success in every coincidental occurrence.

Unlike the rituals her nanny swore by, this magic worked. As for why it worked, the group was convinced the ashes were the key. She’d believed that too. That was the one thing that made the difference between failure and success, ergo it must be the key.

And yet…

What if the magic worked with the ashes because they thought it would? Because they’d wanted this to be the key? Because they’d needed it to be the key, to excuse what they had done—taken the life of a child. Guilt, fear and conviction. All powerful motivators.

Three years ago, she’d started experimenting with using lesser amounts of ash. It had taken months of daily practice to see any results. All that practice meant she needed more than her share. Being the one in charge of the burning and the division of material had let her take that extra unnoticed, but she’d hated it. Like a company CEO who pilfered copy paper and printer ink—disgraceful and undignified.

After that initial breakthrough, though, success had come faster with each reduction. It was as if having proven to herself that she could cast with less, she’d overcome a mental barrier that said otherwise. It didn’t work with all the spells. Thus far, the group had mastered just over a dozen, and fewer than half of those worked with significantly reduced amounts of human remains. But it was progress. Moving toward the ultimate goal, the one she was testing tonight.

She cast the spell again. A simple one that created a spark—barely enough to light a cigarette, but a building block to better things. One must master the elementary levels first, in magic as in all things.

After casting, she blew a fingertip of ash. The spark flared. She tried again, and was again successful. Then she reached over, picked up a moist towel and carefully wiped her finger, removing all traces of the ash.

She cast the spell. Nothing happened. Again. Nothing.

She swallowed her disappointment. Must remain calm and focused. She dipped her finger in the ash. Cast. Blew. Spark. Again. Another spark. Wipe the finger off. Cast. Failure. Cast…

The air ignited in a tiny pop of light and heat.

She took a deep breath and leaned forward, palms pressing into her thighs as she exhaled. Then she allowed herself a smile.

Only a small spell, to be sure, but she had proven her theory. She could cast without the ash—without aids of any kind.

She resisted the urge to try again. Take the success and hold the memory, untainted by later failure. That would bolster her determination, knowing that the last time she’d tried, she’d succeeded.

She picked up the bowl of ash and poured it back into the jar, watching it slide down. Here was the cement that bound the group together. Bound them in fear and guilt.

There was more than one kind of power and this one was just as essential to her quest as anything magical. She must keep the group together and striving forward, seeking and searching, working with her to achieve her goals.

To do that, she had to keep them killing.