Rise and Divine

1

The Pretender

Eating devils is thirsty work.

More than the magic itself, it was that raging thirst in the aftermath that took clients by surprise. Most of those who called on me, Thistle Grove normies and witches alike, came in expecting occult accessories of a more sinister bent. Pungent curls of henbane smoke wisping from a tarnished censer, clusters of crystal shards bundled with dried herbs and feathers, arcane mutterings. (To be fair, I was more than down for the odd bit of arcane muttering when the exorcism called for it, or when an occasion demanded a sense of heightened drama. Even an outlier like me couldn't resist the Avramov family flair for the theatrical.)

It barely even fazed me now, the way their apprehension clouded over into bemusement once I unzipped my black Patagonia backpack to pull out a hefty water bottle, embellished with shrill exhortations to HYDRATE! in two-hour increments. Then came the parade of apple juice boxes more appropriate for a middle schooler's backpack, followed by strawberry Pedialyte, just in case the ritual threw my electrolytes too far out of whack. And, as a last resort, those miniature liquor nips you found tucked away in hotel room minibars like guilty secrets.

Those didn't exactly help with the thirst, but with some of the nastier specimens I came across, nothing burned away the shitty aftertaste quite like a slug of Wild Turkey tossed back sharp.

But today, the client's unusual composure was throwing me. When I'd arrived at the Arcane Emporium and drawn back the burgundy velvet curtain that veiled this divination enclosure, secluding it from the rest of the occult store and the series of identical nooks on either side, she'd been sitting across the table from Amrita in a posture I knew well. Head bowed, tendons standing out like steel cables in her neck, thin hands clasped on the tabletop so tightly the knuckles had paled into skeletal knobs.

Fear made flesh.

Yet the appraising glance she'd shot me when I slipped in, a keenly scrutinizing sweep of my entire person, had been shrouded by only the faintest film of uncertainty. Nothing like my normal clients.

"Hello," I said, setting my sloshing backpack down and extending my hand. I'd found that a courteously detached demeanor, the kind of brisk professionalism you'd get from a doctor, served me better than any cultivated aura of mystique when it came to setting them at ease. The worst of the haunted only wanted to feel that they were in capable hands. "Good to meet you. I'm Daria Avramov, Amrita's colleague. Dasha, if you like."

"Right," the woman said, with a crisp nod that made her glossy cap of chin-length brown hair sway, its caramel highlights glinting in the candlelight. She looked in her mid-to-late thirties, a handful of years older than me. Not my type, but a fresh-faced pretty, with the kind of dewy skin that meant either excellent genes or the budget for premium skincare and cosmetic intervention. Her handshake was cool but surprisingly firm; I was accustomed to a much clammier and more tremulous greeting experience. "The . . . the specialist. I'm Emily Duhamel, but just Emily's fine."

I withdrew my hand, considering her more closely. Anyone who required my niche services tended to show up beside themselves with terror-and unsure of whether they should be more afraid of whatever it was that plagued them or of me, yon fearsome exorcist witch. Given the breakdown of Thistle Grove's normie population, they were also often the love-and-light types who drove me especially batty. The low-effort, high-commitment kind who outsourced their chakra cleansings and flung indiscriminate amounts of money at the spiritual life coaches they invariably found through social media.

Alas, this insufferable subgroup came with the territory. Many Thistle Grove transplants were drawn here by the allure of living in a town steeped in witchy history, as if the act of paying property taxes in a place ostensibly founded by four witch families might awaken some dormant psychic talents of their own. Even the Arcane Emporium's signature herb-and-incense scent wasn't enough to mask the patchouli they seemed to emanate aspirationally rather than physically. The irony of it was, when something sly and eldritch did come creeping in at their open-ended invitation, it often turned out that these were definitively not the vibes they'd been looking for.

That was when they came running to Avramov diviners at the Arcane Emporium-the only game in town that cut their teeth on shadows, specialized in dealing with manifestations from the other side of the veil.

But this woman wasn't so easily rattled. And I didn't catch so much as a whiff of figurative patchouli drifting off her, only the sweet, floral notes of some top-shelf perfume by a designer I'd never recognize, much less be able to name.

"Thank you for coming out for this, especially on a weekend," she added, with a light laugh and a semi-incredulous shake of her head, as if the absurdity of her circumstances-the fact that the "specialist" in question was an alleged witch, with the alleged power to banish whatever monster it was that lurked under her bed-hadn't escaped her. "I, uh, I'm looking forward to your expert opinion."

"Glad to hear it," I said, even more taken aback. For one of the haunted, this Emily had her shit impressively together, I decided, revising my estimate of her upward by several more notches. Despite the deceptively soft, flower-embroidered cashmere sweater over a preppy collared shirt and distressed jeans, I suspected she did something high-powered in her weekday life. The kind of demanding work that left her encased in an enamel shell that never really chipped off. "And happy to help with your problem, of course. I assume Amrita has discussed our rates with you?"

"Oh, yes." She suppressed a tiny smile, as if she found our hourly rate laughably low but didn't want to offend. I felt my first twinge of annoyance with her; whatever it was she did, not all of us were in the business of fleecing people by overcharging for essential services. "It won't be an issue."

"Perfect. In that case, let's get started. Amrita?"

I glanced over at my half sister, who, though her everyday role was store manager, was bedecked in the clichéd fortune-teller regalia we all wore for our divination shifts-plummy lipstick, a cascade of gauzy maroon shawls shot through with shining thread, elaborate earrings, stacked rings on every slim finger. With her huge, thickly kohled dark eyes and lacquered spill of black hair loose over her shoulders, Amrita looked like my polar opposite, as if the entire palette of decadent color that should've been split between us had somehow ended up hers alone. Her hair inky dark to my white-blond; skin a warm golden brown to my year-round pallor; clothes a bright riot of color to the black cowl-neck sweater, black jeans, and black knee-high suede boots that comprised my fall uniform.

Compared to her, sometimes I thought I looked like a shade myself. A living ghost.

Appropriately enough, maybe.

Unlike me, Amrita blended seamlessly into the arcane décor. Three wooden chairs sat around a small table draped with a silky altar cloth, styled after the tarot starter deck we all grew up using, the one that had been designed by Oksana Avramov two centuries ago. On the tabletop, an ornate silver platter held a gray pillar candle with a high-licking flame, anchored by a dried pool of its own wax-along with an onyx scrying plate, a bowl of black salt, and a scattering of crystals mostly for appearances' sake. A maroon damask canopy swooped over the tops of all the cubicles in the divination area, to blot out the Emporium's brighter overhead fixtures. In here there was only candlelight and the soft bluish glow of a Turkish mosaic spiral lamp tucked into one corner, its azure glass-chip globes swaying on their brass chains every time one of us shifted in our chair.

"Catch me up on the details?" I said to Amrita. She'd summoned me by text once she realized Emily had a problem more in my wheelhouse than hers, but she'd been vague on the specifics.

My sister gave a smooth nod, though I caught the flicker of concern that flitted across her delicate features, the same disquiet I often saw in the mirror. Sometimes her expressions were unsettling replicas of mine, a side effect of us both having inherited most of our father's face. "This is the tainted object," she said, sliding a velvet jewelry pouch to me across the table, touching it as gingerly as she could. "I believe it's the locus for whatever has attached itself to Emily."

"So it's definitely an entity, not a curse?" Sometimes our clients came in with heirlooms that had, either by accident or ill intent, become infused with malign spellwork that affected the wearer. The effects could appear similar to a haunting, but unpicking that kind of nasty tangle was a completely different undertaking, and not my forte.

"An infestation for sure," Amrita confirmed, with a shudder so faint that someone less familiar with my sister's poise wouldn't even have caught it. "A pestilential one, too, I'd guess."

"There's no need to put it that way," Emily cut in with a startling edge of reproach, a flash of temper flaring in her brown eyes. Under closer scrutiny, she looked worn-out beneath that tasteful makeup, the skin under her eyes the tender, predawn hue of purple that came from more than one restless night. Something was disturbing her sleep. "So crudely. Like she's evil. An affliction. I told you, it isn't like that. I'm not afraid of her."

She, I noted. Her. So Emily thought she already knew what had taken up residence inside her jewelry.

Also unusual.

My sister drew the inside of her lower lip between her teeth, clearly refraining from comment. "Then why don't you tell Dasha the story, Emily?" she suggested delicately, cocking her head. "It's better that she hear it from you, anyway. More precise."

Emily gave a clipped nod and relaxed back into her chair, appeased; as per usual, Amrita had struck the perfect note. The idea of precision obviously appealed to Emily, and I marveled again at the strangeness of it, of someone so stable and collected needing our services. Most of the people who traipsed through the Arcane Emporium were tourists chasing the giddy thrill of having their cards or palms read-though unlike your standard carnival experience, Avramov diviners never lied or sugarcoated unpalatable truths. Only a small handful of our visitors came afflicted with actual paranormal manifestations that had glommed on to them, made them desperate enough to seek the kind of help they likely didn't even really believe in.

And an even smaller segment had acquired the sort of malevolent hitchhiker that I specialized in.

"It was my aunt's," Emily began, untying the pouch's drawstring and fishing out a heart-shaped locket on a delicate chain, letting it pool in her palm. Candlelight caught its links with a sinuous, flickering gleam. Again, I saw Amrita stiffen with distaste, but Emily's fingers curled protectively around the locket, betraying no trace of fear or distress. She toyed with it fondly, running her fingertips over its edges as she spoke. "Passed down from my maternal grandmother, her mother before that, and so on. It's belonged to the women in my family for at least four generations."

I nodded, committing this to memory. The age of the substrate mattered when it came to infestations. Something old, infused with decades or even centuries of emotion, tended to be a more attractive and sturdier medium, a better home for malevolent entities than an item without its own patina of history.

"How did it make its way to you?"

A fine tremble of emotion rippled over her features. "My aunt passed away, a little over six months ago," she said, swallowing hard, a corner of her mouth twitching. "An aggressive cancer; we had almost no warning. Most of her estate went to debts, the rest to me and my mother. This piece in particular, she left to me."

"Your aunt didn't have any daughters of her own, I take it?"

"Not anymore." She licked her lips, tightened them against the slight quiver in her chin. "But she used to. My . . . my cousin, Scarlett. Lettie. She died when I was fifteen. We were almost the same age; my mom and Aunt Percy, they had us less than a year apart. They used to call us Irish twins. And that's what it felt like to us, too. Like we were sisters instead of cousins."

"So you were close," I prompted. The mention of a dead cousin as well as a dead aunt had piqued my interest, but I didn't want to lead her or bias myself. Still, any kind of tight entanglement with the departed was promising.

"Yes." A faint smile ghosted over her lips. "I lived with them for a while before Lettie died, for almost a whole year back when I was twelve. My father wasn't in the picture, and my mother was weathering a rough patch. She has bipolar disorder, with a panic disorder on top of that, and meds back then were even more of a guessing game. It took a while for her to reach something like an even keel. So we agreed I'd move in with Aunt Percy and Lettie, just until Mom found her footing."

"How was that? Living with them?" Emily seemed willing enough to reminisce about her cousin and aunt, but two teenagers circling each other in close quarters could create a frothy turbulence. The sort of psychic turmoil that sometimes left a contrail, a delicious impression that drew some entities like bees to nectar.

"Wonderful," she said wistfully, no bitterness whatsoever. "I'd been living with my mom in Boston before that, in one of the college student neighborhoods she could afford. It was pretty much what you'd expect. Loud, crowded, parties at all hours. But Aunt Percy, she had this gorgeous restored farmhouse in Vermont. Acres and acres of land, a few horses. So much quiet and sky, exactly what I needed at the time. And Lettie and I, we had the run of the place. I even went to school with her that year, and it was like . . . I don't know, an endless sleepover with your best friend in the world. Like I'd fallen into this cozy fairy tale."

"What happened after that?" I asked.

"My mom got better, and I went back to Boston." Emily's face darkened like a storm front. "I'd been gone for almost three years by the time Lettie died, but I visited every summer, sometimes even for holidays. It was a drunk driving accident, the kind where everyone else walked away practically without a scratch. Just awful, cosmically shitty luck."