There was no answer when she knocked, but when she leaned against the door it slipped open, and she was surprised to find it unlatched. The bells made a small rough sound that announced her presence. Sally called hello and received no answer. She could feel that something had gone wrong. The atmosphere seemed to be shrinking inward, as it does during a storm, and a charge of something resembling sheer, blue electricity raced through her. She passed the piles of books stacked on the carpet, the small refrigerator and hot plate, a sink, a teacup washed and set out to dry on a wooden rack, a glass of whiskey, seemingly untouched. She opened a door into a second smaller space that functioned as a bedroom. The room was dark, but she could see a handsome man lying prone on the bed, naked, although at first glance he didn’t appear to be so; due to his blue tattoos he seemed a painting as much as a man. His eyes met hers, and held her stare, but he failed to object or tell her to get the hell out, though he appeared to be trying to move his mouth.
In a moment, Sally realized that in fact he was gasping for air. It was as if he were drowning, and he spat out water, nearly choking as he did. He could not move or speak and was clearly panicked, both by his sudden malady and by the fact that he was making a fool of himself, uttering gargling noises when he meant only to speak. The palms of his hands were covered with red powder. The glare of that shade of red was so intense it forced Sally to take several steps back. She marveled at her sudden ability to see that color again when for so long it had registered in shades of gray. Red was all she could see now. The ceiling was streaked with the same dye that was on the man’s hands and feet, so that it appeared as if a profusion of blood-hued flowers had bloomed on the plaster, then fallen down upon him. On the floor, beside the bed, bird bones that had been dyed scarlet were tied into a bundle with red string. It was as if only one color in the world existed here. Red heart, red hands, red magic.
The room was steamy, so hot and damp it was impossible to see through the windows for the cold glass was covered with a damp film. Sally shrugged off her raincoat, overwhelmed by the heat and sweating through her clothes. She would have liked to take everything off, but instead only unbuttoned the top buttons of her shirt. On the cluttered bedside table there was a poppet, a hand-stitched doll dressed in a white shirt and black pants, its hair long and dark, its face featureless, clearly meant to represent the man in question. The entire chest of the doll had been marked with spots of ink, then cut open with a sharp knife. Beside it was a small, bloody bird’s heart. Blood blistered down onto the floor, forming into pools that scorched the wood. Sally had the urge to run from whatever masses of dark magic had been released here, but perhaps it had been no accident that she had been the one to choose the shortest straw. It seemed clear to her now, as clear as the branch-like blotches of red all around her, that she was meant to be here. Save a life and a life will be saved in return, Maria Owens had written in the family Grimoire. This was the bargain that would bring Kylie back. This was the person she was meant to rescue, a man made of flesh and blood and ink who stared at her with wild eyes. She found herself thinking, This is the one.
* * *
Not only was Ian unable to speak or move, but his chest was burning as if he were having a heart attack. He likely was; the pain ached deeply and spread out along his torso to the base of his abdomen. He needed an ambulance, clearly, he should be in a hospital, still he was rapt, unable to look away from the woman before him, as if he had fallen under her spell. Her dense black hair was loose, and she smelled like lavender, a calming scent that evoked his childhood, for in his home the sheets had always been pressed with the oil of that flower.
Sally tore down the threadbare curtains to let in some light, which flickered over the half-dazed victim. She spoke a healing spell in Latin, which eased the throbbing pain in his chest. The blur of the red world around him came into focus and his thoughts were less scattered. He gasped and took a breath. Ian knew a witch when he saw one, though he’d never expected such a person to arrive in a sopping black raincoat, her dark hair mussed from the wind, her eyes the color of silver. This most likely would not end well. He tried his best to rouse himself from bed, to no avail, and he wondered if he’d had a stroke.
“Don’t move,” Sally reproached him. It was evident that he was the sort of man who thought himself invulnerable, and it likely stung deeply to be in need of help. But a curse was a curse, and this one was strong. “The more you struggle, the more of a hold it has on you.”