Bronwyn
Add one vial of white dragon blood, three kelpie scales, a gryphon’s wing, and one khepri (dried will work, though live is preferred) to the cauldron.
A sensible person would take one look at that ingredient list and back away.
Fortunately, or not, depending on who you asked, sense abandoned me long ago, and since my grandmother died two weeks ago, I had nothing left to lose. No family, no friends, no coven, and no fucks to give. It was a dangerous place for a witch.
The lines between black and white blurred far too easily when you had nothing to live for and as much as that scared me, being alone forever scared me more.
Which is why I stood here, in my grandmother’s dining room staring at the inverted pentagram I’d painstakingly drawn on the floor using chicken blood, bowls of each ingredient placed at the points. It must have taken a sick witch to equate these creatures with cardinal points, but who was I to argue if the damn spell worked?
Your common witch wouldn’t touch this spell with a bargepole. Not just because it was written in some long-lost language and a right bitch to translate, but most would laugh at the notion of sourcing any of those things.
I mean, first you needed to find them, and these creatures had abandoned our realm long ago. If any remained, they were few and far between.
Now, assume you could find a kelpie.
Catch it at the right time and they’d hand over a few scales without pause. But the wrong time? It would drag you to a watery death.
Did that stop me spending days translating the spell and tapping every black market connection I had left? Of course not.
If it were easy to summon the devil, everyone would do it.
For a second, the enormity of it threatened to overwhelm me. It swirled inside of me, merging with the heavy ball of grief that sat just beneath my solar plexus. My eyes burned, tears threatening to sap away my strength right when I needed it.
The faster you do this, the sooner you get her back.
I shut my eyes and breathed deep, willing all my emotions into a cage in the back of my mind. It would only work temporarily, so I needed to get the show on the road fast.
I counted to three and released the breath, allowing it to balance me. Then I opened the grimoire and set to work, my tongue tripping over the Old Tuathic words.
“I, daughter of night, summon you, King of Sins, the rebellious angel of death. Bring me counsel, bring me sight, bring me light. I have a bargain for thee, Lucifer Morningstar…”
The air crackled around me as I continued, invoking the four corners and repeating the words in English, Latin and Welsh to be sure I’d left no stone unturned.
When the words ran out, I raised my silver athame to my palm. For a brief second, doubt flickered to life in my mind. Not because I was summoning the Devil. Oh no. Because the book very specifically demanded I cut my palm.
Ordinarily, I was the girl heckling the TV when some idiotic teen witch sliced up the most painful and difficult place on her body to heal. The forearm produces just as much blood and heals faster because you’re not constantly using it.
At that moment, I probably should have stopped and questioned my sanity. Doubt over the placement of a blood sacrifice. Pfft. I mean come on.
I took another deep breath and slashed the blade across my palm. Blood pooled thick and fast. I held my hand out, just over the salt lines surrounding the pentagram and let my blood fall.
It splattered against the old hardwood floors, fizzling and smoking. If my grandmother could see me now, she’d be scowling. She loved these floors, but if I had to pay a price to get her back, she could deal with refinishing the damaged—
The candles flared, the flame shooting up two feet and scaring the life out of me. The air shimmered again, almost solidifying around the pentagram. It engulfed my wrist, still held over the circle, the blood slowing to a trickle.
I snatched my hand to my chest and backed away. The pressure in the room intensified.
In the centre of the circle, sickly shades of colour swirled, blacks, reds and greens mingling together until a ball formed. Everything went still around me, and for a second, I couldn’t draw breath, like the air had been sucked out of the room.
Boom!
The ball shattered. Air rushed out of the circle, blowing out the candles. It swirled around me, creating a vortex of some sort with the dust that had gathered since my grandmother’s death. Heart pounding, I covered my eyes before something could blind me.
“Isn’t this a surprise,” a bored yet amused voice said, the sound so deep and filled with power I could have sworn it caressed my face. I stiffened my spine, fighting off the shiver desperately clamouring to get out. When I opened my eyes, all I could do was stare.
I’d done it.
I’d really fucking done it.
In the middle of my pentagram stood a towering figure draped in a perfectly tailored black suit. His long, dirty-blond hair was pulled back and secured at his neck. But damn, those eyes! Bluer and deeper than any ocean, pulling me into their depths. His gaze roamed around the room, taking in the empty, desolate space. “Did the rest of your coven desert you? Never mind, I’ll hunt them down later. But you? You’re going to regret this, little witch. Now, hand me the grimoire, and I won’t kill you for summoning me,” he said, his voice low and enticing. His pupils expanded, and the power in the room amped up.
His voice made my nerve-endings sing, his power stroked my skin. Well, that was just freaky, and he needed to stop.
His smirk disintegrated as my attention shifted to the wings unfurling from his back. They spread out, each one twice as long as Lucifer was tall. I stared in awe, my mouth dropping open slightly. The feathers gleamed like black opals, glossy and iridescent in the candlelight. As he flexed them, the wings stirred the air around us into a gentle breeze.
“Are those real?” My head tilted to the side, studying them.
The power froze in its attempts to manhandle me.
His eyes narrowed as he considered me, a sinister smile curling his lips. “Well, this just got interesting.”
Unable to stop myself, I reached a hand up, fingers outstretched to touch those impossibly soft-looking feathers. But at the last second, I caught myself, snatching my hand back. The summoning circle glowed faintly, reminding me of the consequences should I break it — I would release Lucifer into this world and he would definitely kill me first.
He watched me closely, an amused but devious glint in his eyes.
“I want to make a deal.”
He sighed. “Of course, you do. You mortals are all alike.” He folded his arms across his broad chest and retracted his power, spearing me with those eyes again. I bit my tongue before I could demand he give it back. “Get on with it. I don’t have all day.”
“I want my grandmother back.”
He cocked his head to the side. “And you think I have her?”
I nodded. “You’re the Devil. She’s a witch. I know you do.”
Lucifer chuckled. “I’m flattered, petal, but there are infinite divisions of Hell. I am but one overlord. Your grandmother could be in any one of them.”
The confidence I’d built up to face him disintegrated. It took all of my strength not to let my shoulders slump in defeat. Any sign of weakness in front of this man — being — could spell my death.
If he didn’t have her, I’d wasted all of this time and money to summon him for nothing. There wasn’t a spell in the book for summoning the other lords. It didn’t mention others. Fuck.
“Don’t look so sad. I didn’t say I couldn’t help, just that I don’t know where she is.” His amusement danced around me, bolstering my spirits in a way I couldn’t understand.
“Then how?”
“You’re clearly a talented witch.” Something sparkled in his eyes, there and gone in a blink. “I can’t bring her to you, but you could… with the right spell.”
My eyes narrowed. “And you have such a spell?”
He nodded, his lips curling. “For a price, of course.”
“Of course,” I muttered, my tone dry. “Name your price, Devil.”
Lucifer studied me clinically, his gaze raking me from head to toe as he appeared to weigh his options. His power returned, poking and prodding me in delightful ways.
“Your firstborn child,” he finally said with a gravitas only the Devil could achieve.
I snorted. “That’s a bit cliché, isn’t it?”
He smirked again. “It is, but that doesn’t change my terms.”
A thread of excitement shot through me at his serious tone. It almost seemed too easy. Just give up something I never intended to have. And I’d get my grandmother back… Well, get the spell to get her back but what was one more step when I’d already come so far?
“You have a deal.”
He shook his head, almost like he didn’t want to do it. “Very well, witch.”
He clicked his fingers, and a pop sounded. A leather parchment and a black-feathered quill appeared. Light blazed across it, words written in cursive lettering so small I squinted to make out my name.
I hadn’t told him my name.
“Did you think you could summon me without me knowing who you were?” He laughed as my brow furrowed. “Oh, that is priceless. You Owen women are all the same, deluded into these ridiculous ideas of grandeur. As if you could ever successfully hide yourselves from the Devil.”
Why would my ancestors worry about hiding themselves from the Devil?
It doesn’t matter now. Sign the damn thing and get the spell.
I plucked the quill from the air. Lucifer flicked his finger, and the cut in my palm started bleeding again.
For a second, all I could do was stare at it, the idea of signing a contract in my own blood abhorrent for some reason.
I’d just spilled a ton of it all over the floor to feed the summoning.
Scoffing at myself, I dipped the quill’s tip in my cut and signed.