Arrest, Search and Séance : Book 1 of the Fringe Society by R.D. Hunter (pdf e book reader TXT) 📕

and parking was plentiful. The whole business existed off the grid and if anybody on the city council looked too close at it, their political career usually came to a screeching halt.

But knowing how to get to the Candle was only half of the entry requirement. The other half was in the form of a huge, Asian bodybuilder covered in tattoos named Chang. He hung out in the small front room, just as you entered the Candle, and he always had some test you had to pass. For witches, it was a simple bit of spell work, nothing too taxing. Shifters had to give him a glimpse of their animal spirit, vamps had to show their ‘darker’ nature, and so on. There were no exceptions, no matter how many times you’d been there. That didn’t stop me from trying, of course.

He stepped in front of me as I walked in, a 260 lb. wall of muscle, and held out a wilted flower.

“For me?” I gushed. “Chang, you shouldn’t have. Should we just skip the games and go straight to the happily-ever-after?” I flashed him my best smile, which failed to induce even the most minute expression on his rigid face.

“Make it bloom,” he said stoically. I didn’t take it personally. The President of the free world could have walked in right then and he wouldn’t have gotten past Chang without proving he was a part of the Fringe. That was his job, his function, and he took it beyond seriously. Good for him.

I took the flower in my hand and raised my power to the surface. It came easily, willingly; there was no sense of reluctance like what I’d felt at Nichole Barret’s house.

Magic only requires two things to work; a power source and a focus. The power can come from your own finite resources, which grow stronger and more developed over time, or from charged items like crystals, athames, and wands. The foci, used to harness the energy and twist it to do your bidding, can be anything from an incantation or a ritual, to roots and herbs for potions. It all depends on what the practitioner is more comfortable with.

For this, though, hardly any energy was required, so the focus didn’t have to be any stronger than my will. I took the little shriveled up daisy in one hand, and breathed a light trickle of energy into it. Almost instantly, the dirty-white petals perked up and the stem became more rigid in my grasp. Then a second stem sprouted from the first and another daisy bloomed into existence, as vibrant as the first. This happened three more times before the growth finally trickled to a halt. When it did, I was holding a mini-bouquet of beautiful, garden-fresh flowers that smelled heavenly. Apparently, the energy pathways Gramps had opened for the ritual were still in effect, which meant I had to be more careful than usual when doing magic.

Chang glanced at my creation and arched an eyebrow, causing me to shrug.

“I’ve been working out,” I said sheepishly. He grunted and took the flowers back, before unlocking and opening the double doors that led to the interior of the Lit Candle.

Inside, I was treated to the usual concrete floors, the smell of incense and the soft glow of the many lanterns that hung suspended from the giant hooks on the wall. A fire marshal would have had a field day, if there were any brave enough to come here. All the drinks were served in pewter mugs, which served to enforce the only other rule the Candle had, besides no violence indoors; no reflective surfaces allowed.

Scrying is the art of gazing into a mirror or pool and seeing other places, people or even the past or future. But it operated by opening a mini-gateway to the spirit world. Usually, the spirits didn’t take much interest in our plane of existence. But if a door were to be opened here, with this much ambient magic in the air, it was entirely possible that one come through just to see what all the fuss was about. And in this magically charged environment, it could be a real nuisance.

A cold shiver of fear traced its way up my spine as I remembered how powerful Nichole Barret’s ghost had been just from the magic in her own home.

Then, an entirely new feeling took over as I saw my ex, Jack Dobbs, diligently going over receipts behind the bar. Jack had been the first and only serious relationship of my adult life. We met shortly after I graduated the academy, at a festival of Beltane. A large fire had been kindled in an open field, and a dozen handfasting ceremonies had already concluded. Music, drink and food were in wild abundance, and more intimate were well underway in the flickering shadows.

By tradition, new and old couples alike would leap over the fire, either signifying or renewing their devotion to one another. Gramps jumped over it by himself three times, much to the delight of the crowd.

Jack and I connected about halfway through the night. He had just moved here from Australia, looking for a fresh start. His accent, combined with his angular features and tousled brown hair, made him look like a young Mel Gibson at the height of his sex appeal. Talking led to kissing. Kissing led to…other things. And, just before sunup, we stepped over the fire ourselves, which, by now, was just a bed of glowing embers.

For a time, it looked as though we might actually make it. He was a funny, smart and attentive boyfriend. But, gradually, it became all too apparent that we wanted different things at this stage in our lives. I was focused mainly on my career, picking up extra shifts where I could and going to any and all training that was offered. He wanted other things; not necessarily a wife,