Page 216 of Lost in the Dark
THE FILLED VESSEL
C.M. NASCOSTA
Tara
The altar was as ready as it was ever going to be.
It seemed an odd thing, Tara thought, calling her vitesjö coffee table an “altar.” The round, glass-topped model had been purchased alongside a bag of Swedish meatballs and her bookshelf, which had come in approximately five hundred pieces. The table usually held nothing more exciting than several cups and glasses and a plate or two, a pile of junk mail she meant to go through, and her e-reader and laptop, all within an easy arm’s reach from the sofa. Seeing it now—draped in the dark red cloth and staged with the necessary accessories for her ritual—was a use she was sure the furniture superstore hadn’t thought of advertising.They really should; it’s a perfect height…
She fussed at the cloth, tugging the corner and smoothing the material, ghosting her fingers over each item she’d painstakingly placed on its surface. It was all perfect. The brass bowl, sitting on intricately-carved clawed feet like a miniature bathtub, filled with a specific blend of herbs she’d endured considerable inconvenience to procure. The athame, a ceremonial knife with a handle made from round globes of raw amethyst, lay near it. A small ramekin of salt sat beside an identical one filled with water and a toneless bell that, when rung, sounded like a call into the void with its sharp, echoing clank. Her purple-hued cup was an intricately stemmed chalice that had once been filled with Halloween candy and wrapped in cellophane, but she’d decided its humble origins mattered little, especially when it matched the knife so nicely.
The altar display was finished with several thin, red candles, each no thicker than her index finger, surrounding the squat, black and red marbled candle that sat in the center of the display. The altar cloth was the pièce de résistance, as beautiful as it was expensive. Dark red, rich like blood, hand-embroidered with a hundred tiny glyphs in black embroidery floss, circling the cloth like a flock of birds until they converged pell-mell on the center. The shape they formed resembled a flower—its petals spreading open from the center of the cloth, leaving an empty circle where the stout candle now sat. She still wasn’t sure why she’d allowed Holt to convince her it was necessary, but she couldn’t deny that it was beautiful.
The candle was an amusement. Short and thick in circumference, it had a slightly pooled base as if it had already been melted once before, even though it was clearly fresh and new. Her fingers hadn’t quite closed around its girth as she lifted it from the brown craft paper bag that afternoon, surprised by its heft. As she carried it to where the altar cloth was spread, she had laughed to herself over the shape. The squat pillar had a line of shallow depressions up one side, giving it a ridged texture, while a slightly deeper depression in its wax neck provided the top third of it a bulbous impression, amplified by the way the red marbling seemed to emphasize the shape.
It looks like a cock. A really fat cock.The thought made her snicker as she placed the candle at the center of the cloth, surveying her setup. Everything was ready, as ready as it ever would be. The placement of the candle in the flower-like design’s center made her snort. The embroidered glyphs seemed less flower-like with the thick intruder at their center, and the combined effect undeniably resembled the lips of a woman’s labia, the cunt in the center taking in the massive cock greedily.
This is ridiculous. Just think—if this doesn’t work, you wasted an entire paycheck on all this stuff.It would be Holt’s fault if it didn’t work, and make no mistake, she’d be going back to the Cat & Crow to give the green-eyed prick a piece of her mind.Ithad better work. Itwillwork. Just look at how official all this shit is!
Her hands acted on their own accord, sliding open the box of matches and removing one as she hovered over the formerly innocuous coffee table, positioning the match head against the strike strip before shaking herself to a stop, remembering the step-by-step instructions she’d been following up until that point. Slowing down was not always easy. She had always struggled with paying attention and following through, acting on instinct and sometimes paying the price for her short-sighted hastiness: burnt meals and baking disasters, projects that never turned out the way she’d envisioned, and tardiness to events that she’d been prepared for many hours before they started. Her goal for the ritual was to gain the clarity she lacked, to open herself to her untapped witchy abilities, and to slow down her racing mind.
Deep breath. Slow down. If it doesn’t work, you want it to be Holt’s fault, not because you forgot to take something out of the bag.The instructions that had come with the altar cloth had been easy enough to follow up until that point, calling only for the proper ritual tools, with which she’d been well equipped after her last visit to the Cat & Crow.
Light an ember in the incense. Purify your blade tip and anoint your beacon.Carving the symbol into the base of the squat cock candle with her athame was not as easy as it sounded, but she managed well enough.Light your cardinal candles from east to west, then your beacon. The incantation was trickier, and she stumbled over the unfamiliar Latin, feeling like a fool as the candles’ flames wavered, holding her breath when she was done.
Nothing happened.
Tara waited. Perhaps it was a delayed reaction, the evidence that something had happened still generating.You spent too much money on all this shit to be impatient now; just give it some time.She shifted as she waited, noting that none of the signs popular culture taught her to look for had occurred. There was no sudden extinguishing of the candles—their flames didn’t even flicker. There was no gust of an unfelt breeze lifting her curtains, no doors slamming throughout her apartment, fingers at the back of her neck, or an otherworldly voice hissing at her ear.
There was nothing. No indication that it had worked, no sign that she had done anything at all. All of this, Tara realized, frustration nearly choking her, had been a waste. A huge waste of her time. A fantastic waste of her money. And worst of all: a waste of the hope she had foolishly allowed to gather within her. Holt was a salesman, nothing more. A snarky, rude, two-bit peddler of gimcrack and lies, and he and his eyeliner had seen her coming.
There would be no third eye-opening for her, no clarity, no inner balance. He had told her she needed to allow herself to be filled, filled with knowledge and calm, she had hoped. Now the only thing she felt was shame over having been duped and disappointment at how badly she had wanted it all to be real.
Her shower was always the best place to have a good cry. Tara let herself choke out her frustration under the spray, sniffle her way through the embarrassment she felt over having spent so much money on this silly ritual, and washed away the scent of the incense on her skin along with the shampoo in her hair, vowing that she would never again step over the threshold of the Cat & Crow.
It wasn’t worth even attempting to get her money back for anything. He was a huckster and would argue that it had been used, and she would wind up feeling defeated and angry and humiliated all over again.Just put it behind you,she told herself.The money is gone. Use the altar cloth as a tapestry and the athame as a cheese knife.The brass bowl could be requisitioned for her bathroom, the perfect size to hold bath bombs or decorative soaps. She always liked burning candles, preferred the wavering glow of them in the evenings over actual lights, and she knew she would burn them down to stubs.See? It’s not that bad. At least it’s all stuff you can use for other things. Just put it behind you.
Sleep, at least, came easily. She was exhausted. Exhausted from the ritual, exhausted from the disappointment that it had not worked, tired of feeling dissatisfied with her life andknowingthat she was destined for more... She was worn out, and sinking into her pillows and pulling her fluffy duvet over her once she dried her hair was a relief.It’s done. Just forget it and move on. It was good advice, she thought, closing her eyes, and she intended on following it for change. The Cat & Crow wasn’t the only metaphysical and curiosity store in Bridgeton. It couldn’t be. Surely there were others, tucked down back alleys and half-forgotten avenues. She wouldn’t give them any more of her money, wouldn’t givehimthe satisfaction of sneering at her again, would not go back.If I never see that smug fucking asshole ever again, it will be too soon.
Corviss
The apartment was empty, save for the girl. There was an annoying, repetitive drip coming from the kitchen, one that would need to be fixed if he was going to be forced here each night, but the rooms were dark. Half-opened curtains cast long shadows across the floor, easy to slip within.Perfect. He’d flown in through one of the shadows, dropping with a muffled thump as he changed, rising upright, navigating his way down the short hallway until he reached the bedroom.
The girl was a lump. A rounded mound beneath the bedclothes. He didn’t know why he’d been half-expecting her to be stretched across the bed naked and writhing or else already secured spread eagle to the bedposts, his for the taking. Instead, she was a lump beneath her covers. She didn’t appear to be any more alluring or lascivious than any other human he visited in the course of his work, no different than the countless other lumps of flesh upon which he’d squatted. He sighed in vague disappointment.
Corviss wasn’t sure what he was meant to do, and the very notion was enough to ruffle his feathers. Ambiguity was not something with which he was comfortable or familiar—his job was one of a straightforward nature, and he did it well. He disliked beinguncertain, a distasteful emotion if there ever was one. He didn’t enjoy being in this position in the first place, didn’t care for what was now expected of him, and dearly wished he’d simply skipped out on the responsibility.This is what you get for making deals with devils.
“It’s the easiest gig in the world. By the time you’re on the third or fourth visit, these humans are begging for it. You show up, blow a load, and clock out. By the end of the month,you’llbe beggingmeto make the switch full-time.”
The incubus’s words were earnest and confident, his voice oily and cocksure. If the bastard was angling for a crossroads gig, Corviss thought, rolling his eyes, he’d not be surprised to hear it. Besides—he already knewhehad the easiest gig in the world—squat on their chests, render them immobile and let them sink into an inner world of fear. That was it.
He’d done his taxes last year on the job, squatting on the chest of a CPA, picking through the man’s consciousness for hidden loopholes. Just a few months ago, he’d secondhand watched several seasons of a popular true crime drama through the mind of the human who had binged the show earlier that day, leaving him engrossed in the storyline and jotting down a note in his calendar to revisit the woman once a few more seasons were released.
What the demon described sounded strenuous, and the thought of having to actuallyworkwas hardly appealing, but he was, alas, in no position to decline the offer.
“Enjoy the sulfur springs,” was all he’d said tonelessly to the smug incubus, vowing to himself that he’d never be persuaded into socializing off the clock ever again. He had come up short in a gamble, and now he was forced to pay back the debt.Once this is done, you’re never drinking again.
Sighing heavily once more, he unzipped his long, black coat, shaking out his wings. The girl stirred when he pulled back the blankets, a small prey-animal whimper coming from her throat as he pushed up the long t-shirt she wore before climbing onto the bed. She was bare beneath, which at least made things a touch easier, he supposed.