Rebirth (Lost Souls #1)

Chapter 6

P erhaps I’m overdoing it.

It takes waking up with my head on an open book for this realization to set in. Papers full of scribbles lie everywhere around me on the desk and on the floor, all oversight long gone. I have turned into a very diligent student, so much so that I barely leave the library anymore. But in all honesty, at this point, I’m uncertain if I want to be in the library to study or to hide myself away.

I shake my head, tidy up my desk, and go outside. Standing in the garden immediately clears up my head, and I take a few deep breaths. Following the path under the archway and around the garden, I leisurely walk to my room, fully intending to take a bath. It’s the easiest way for me to relax and to resume studying with a clear head afterward. I raise my arms above my head and stretch out my whole body, a sigh of relief and then a soft moan escaping me when something in my back pops loose with an audible crack.

Shaking out my arms, my eye falls on a big, dark feather. It sticks out of the grass, a dark shadow amongst all the lush greens. I pick it up just as Sophia approaches me. Her posture stiffens when she sees me with the feather in my hand. Her lips part as if she wants to say something but thinks better of it. I return my attention back to the feather and, turning it over, I notice that it’s a very dark brown and a little crooked.

“Those wings,” I say, my focus remaining on the feather, “that darkness… what are they?” It’s one of many things that I don’t understand, but find myself curious about nonetheless.

Sophia audibly swallows, wringing her hands and unable to look me in the eye. “It’s when he’s angry.” Her words remind me of Isra’s earlier warning, that first time darkness fell. “When he returns and something has… happened.”

“Return?” I repeat, not sure if I heard her correctly. “Meaning he can leave?”

She nods, still hesitant. “For short periods of time, yes.”

A jolt goes through me at her admission. “So, it’s possible.”

“It is for him.” The finality in her voice presses me to not ask any more questions on the matter. But I don’t need to. Sophia already gave me everything I needed.

Turning the feather over once more, a feeling deep inside me tells me that I might find a use for it later on. I slip it in the pocket of my dress and follow Sophia inside the library.

She’s on edge, made clear by the stiffness in her shoulders and back. She procures a crystal ball from a cabinet between the many rows of bookshelves and sets it up on one of the desks. It looks like the kind that I have seen being used by the fortune teller at the local fair.

“Can you actually see someone’s future in one of these?” I ask while I step up next to her, curiosity and a tinge of disbelief clear in my voice.

Sophia looks at me, slightly puzzled. “Technically, yes,” she answers. “But the future is not set in stone, so interpreting the images, if you even manage to conjure any, is nearly impossible. You get more accurate information by looking at the past or present.”

“Why would anyone do that? ”

“That is the wonderful thing. You can also see the people that are connected to you.”

“Henry,” I say, realizing where she’s going with this.

“Indeed.” Sophia nods.

“But I told you that I was going to do this alone.”

She gives me a sheepish smile. “I took the liberty of looking at your notes, and you have it figured out. I just want to offer you some help with the actual casting of the spell since this is your first time attempting something like this.”

I eye her suspiciously. She was so adamant in her fear of being found out that I find it weird that she has changed her mind. So why would she decide to help me after all? Sophia smiles at me innocently, and I decide to go along with it. Even if it’s just to not have to try this on my own. Having someone in my corner might prove to be helpful. Even if something doesn’t sit quite right with me.

But there is another reason. One that I don’t even really want to admit to myself, let alone out loud or to her. Most definitely not to her, for it would hurt so much and it would come back to bite me in the ass. After all, I do rather enjoy Sophia’s company. Part of me hopes that we can be friends, if she ever decides to be truthful with me. “But you have to know,” Sophia warns, “that we can only watch, and I cannot say how clearly we will be able to see. And again, this has to stay between us. He cannot find out.”

I have to suppress the urge to roll my eyes at her. “How does it work?” I ask while stepping closer instead.

“The crystal ball is a conduit between you, as the caster of the spell, and the person that you want to reach out to. The most important part, though, is that this is the kind of magic that requires a sacrifice from the caster.”

“Why?” I ask, slightly alarmed.

“You have to offer something to gain something. All magic requires some kind of sacrifice. The spells that you used before, against me and against him, were fairly basic. Those use your own energy. The more powerful the spell that you want to cast, the greater the sacrifice that is needed to get them to work. Herein blood is the most potent and thus offers the highest success rate,” Sophia explains. “Don’t worry, this spell only requires a little bit,” she adds as she sees the worried expression on my face.

“Then, at what point is ‘only a little bit’ not sufficient anymore?” Unease stirs inside of me, like a warning toward carelessly spilling my blood. Especially in this place. It feels like a horrible idea to give it up freely like this.

Sophia thinks about this for a moment. “Well,” she finally says, “in this case you only want to see. You will need more if you want to, for example, interact. And even then, it depends on the kind of interaction.”

Does this mean that interacting is possible?

“How do you know how much is enough?”

“Some spell books quantify the needed amount. Others do not. When the latter is the case, it is best to take a calculated guess. When even that is difficult, a body part usually suffices.”

I take note of how she uses the word ‘usually’, which means she has no idea herself.

“And it has to be your own?”

Sophia looks at me with a raised eyebrow. “Yes,” she answers. “It always has to be your own or it would not be much of a sacrifice.”

“That makes sense,” I agree while something starts to brew at the back of my head. “So, how do we do this?”

Sophia shows me one of the pages that I filled up with notes and points to a spell. “You found the correct spell,” she says, “but like I suspected, you did not know about the blood sacrifice. Conjuring this spell without blood would have either done nothing or it would have literally exploded in your face.” Sophia produces a small knife and hands it to me. “Use this to cut yourself. Make sure to get the blood on the crystal ball, then recite the spell.”

The knife in hand, I hesitate. “Does it matter where I cut?” I ask with a slight tremble in my voice. The earlier feeling of this being all wrong grows stronger, gnawing at me to not go through with this. This is a mistake.

Sophia shakes her head, and I proceed to place the blade against my wrist.

This feels… familiar. I swallow and push the blade against my skin, carefully cutting into it. The uncomfortable feeling of recognition stays with me as blood wells up. I place my bleeding wrist on top of the crystal ball, the cool feel of it against my skin relieving some of the pain.

Turning to look at the spell, my eyes catch a glimpse of my blood trickling down the crystal ball. The sight of it makes my knees give away, and Sophia manages to catch me before I fall. She supports me, carefully placing her hand on top of my wrist to keep it from slipping.

I thank her with a weak smile that she returns. It takes a greater effort than it should for me to regain some focus, but I somehow manage.

My voice shakes when I read the spell out loud. “Aorgu ta baltoh cord ziz aaiom zamran comselh ds praf vep.” Nothing happens, and I slip again.

“Try again,” comes Sophia’s soft voice in my ear.

“Aorgu ta baltoh cord ziz aaiom zamran comselh ds praf vep.”

The inside of the crystal ball fogs up. It then slowly starts to absorb the blood, and the crystal vibrates under my touch, as if it’s alive with the energy that it gains from my sacrifice.

The white fog turns gray, and then black. It coils around itself so forcefully that the crystal cracks and it starts to leak out. It grabs hold of my wrist and disappears into the open wound. The next moment my vision turns black, as if the fog has burrowed itself inside my eyes. I scream and try to let go of the ball, but Sophia holds me tight, not allowing any movement.

There are figures, people, inside the fog. With a shock, I find myself back home. In the middle of the street in front of a house. Our house. My heart beats frantically, and tears sting in my eyes. I recognize every orange-brown brick that makes up the two-story structure. The dark-brown pointed roof, the high white framed windows and front door, the low black fence in front of it. I remember the day we first moved in like it was yesterday.

Faceless people walk up and down the street. They pass me by without a single indication that they can see me.

After a deep breath, I step forward and pass right through the wooden front door. The pressure that surrounds my body lifts once I stand in that all too familiar hallway. The soft cream-colored wallpaper with floral chintzes that Henry and I picked out together. Right in front of me are the stairs leading to the second floor with the hallway leading to the kitchen next to it. On my left is the family room with those large windows that I enjoy so much for all the daylight they let through. On the right is the living room, with the dining room behind it, next to the kitchen.

I smile as I start to walk and take notice of all that is around me, how everything still looks very much the same. The small, dark-brown wooden table next to the door that he uses to place his hat on after a long day at work. A half circle, pushed against the wall next to the door. The drawer is always slightly ajar, damaged but forever a part of our home. It used to be his grandmother’s, and Henry could never bear the idea of parting with it. I used to tease him about how much he loved that silly little table .

Next to it is a standing coat rack in the same type of brown wood. It holds his overcoat, a few other coats that I don’t remember, and my dusty-pink floral shawl as well. The walls are decorated with frames that hold pictures of our family. I find ours amongst them, my fingers tracing over the glass. We look so happy in this one.

With a spin I find myself standing in our living room. My eye falls on the soft-pink flocked damask wallpaper that seemingly still needs to be replaced. I don’t know why, but it gives me the feeling that perhaps he never wanted to replace it without me there to help him pick it out. Henry always told me that I had an eye for these things.

The living room is filled with the same plush sofas with floral-patterned fabric that I remember. Though they seem slightly more worn out than I’m used to them being. The floor is covered with a carpet that matches the wallpaper in pattern but has a deep red color for contrast. Wooden furniture is scattered around and, as I turn to take it all in, I find him.

Henry sits in his chair, reading that day’s newspaper. He looks older, and I briefly wonder how long it has been. Then the tears start to come. It takes some effort to hold them back as I circle the chair to get a look at his face.

My heart misses a beat upon noticing that he still wears his wedding ring. It's enough for me to break out in tears. I start to say his name, reach out to him, when a female voice calls out to him first. Henry looks up and folds away his newspaper. Yes, he’s definitely older, his hair starting to turn gray and some wrinkles on his face, but it suits him.

“Is she asleep?” he asks the woman when she enters.

“Yes, sound asleep, so I’m going to go pick him up now,” she answers while she drapes a shawl over her shoulders. My dusty-pink floral shawl.

I’m confused. What is she doing here? And who are they talking about?

Henry gets up and walks over to the woman. He wraps his arms around her and kisses her. It’s a kiss that only a husband and his wife share, which only confuses me further. That is when my eye falls on the ring around her finger. Just like that, the pieces fall into place, and my heart shatters. I scream when realization hits me, when my lost memories flood my mind and take me over.

“I fear that he might kill me as punishment for still being alive.”

My husband and the woman evaporate into fog. My scream keeps resonating around me as I’m returned to the library. My hand slips away from the ball, and it explodes from within. A thousand pieces of crystal fly around me and turn to dust upon touching my skin.

Still screaming, wailing, I collapse on the ground. My eyes are wide, my hands wrapped around my head, my body curled up in agony. Slowly, my voice grows weaker, and tears take its place. Sophia lies herself down next to me and embraces me as I cry and cry.

I don’t know how long we stay like that, but Sophia doesn’t let go of me. Even when I start to calm down, she keeps holding me tight. Her warmth is soothing, making me feel at ease.

Eventually, I find some clarity. Breaking away from Sophia’s embrace, I sit up straight. Part of me hopes that I won’t regret these next words.

“Sophia,” I say as she sits up next to me, “is there a way for me to physically go to him?”

Her eyes grow big with disbelief. “Why would you want to do that?”

My gaze turns cold as thoughts start to take form. There is but a single reason, the start of an idea, that might be impossible. “Can it be done?” My mind races, because seeing my husband has given me a vital piece of information. He was visibly older, much older than possible, for I most definitely haven’t been here for years. Which means that part of what I want to accomplish is time sensitive. Sophia eyes me nervously, clearly aware that this is about to become so much more than she signed up for. She can’t help but look away as she proceeds to answer me. “In theory, yes,” she says. “But it is impossible to actually do. We do not possess that kind of power.”

I sense fear and desperation coming from her. It’s as if she knows something that she wants to avoid telling me at all costs.

“Besides,” Sophia adds after a few seconds of silence, “there are no spells for that purpose in any of these books.”

From the way she says it, she clearly hopes that this will make me give up on the idea. Instead, my lips turn up into a cruel smile as, instead, my idea becomes a plan. I get up, feeling like a different person. Perhaps I am, for my returned memories have given me a clarity that I have never experienced before.

“Aeliana,” Sophia says, “are you okay?” She nods at my hands.

They are so tightly clenched into fists that my nails dig into my skin, drawing blood. I look at them, at the wounds that my nails made. I do not feel any pain, though, only certainty.

“Yeah,” I answer apathetically. “I’m fine.”

I’ll be going home, one way or another. It doesn’t matter what Sophia says; if he can leave, then there has to be a way for me to do so as well. I’m going home, and I will confront Henry. Then I’ll go somewhere, anywhere, and live the life that I want. The life that I deserve. Not the one that he forced me into.

I push down the feeling that I’m overlooking something. That part of my memory is still a blur—a blur in which a pair of green eyes stare back at me when I focus on it for too long. I don’t want to stop and think about what it might mean, because I don’t want to think too much about the part of my life that it correlates to.

The part after I left home that night. The part that was the beginning of the end. Stepping out of the library, I’m so distracted that I almost don’t notice him standing right in front of the doors. I flinch and hastily take a step away as I barely avoid bumping into him. His yellow eyes look down at me while he smiles that wicked smile. My heart beats loudly with a combination of fear and excitement at merely being in his presence.

I have this strange urge to reach out to him—to this predator that could easily devour me whole. Electricity runs through me, building up more and more the longer he looks at me. From the corner of my eye, I think I see his hand twitch, as if he wants to touch me as well. It makes me wonder why he doesn’t.

He looks away, and the spell is broken. He reaches past me for the library doors, and I scurry away. While he steps inside, I look at him and, for the first time, I’m left to wonder why he came to me at my lowest point in life and decided to take me away. Because despite some fogginess still remaining, I now remember that he’s the one that brought me here, and I’m certain that it wasn’t for my own sake. There is more to this than a man wanting a woman. To be honest, I don’t care whether there is an ulterior motive; if he lets me do as I please, he can ask anything of me later. As far as I know, that might even be his plan. I couldn’t care less. If everything works out the way I want it to, there won’t be a later.