Page 1 of The Filled Vessel (Cambric Creek After Darkverse #4)

Chapter two

Tara

T he altar was as ready as it was ever going to be.

It seemed an odd thing, Tara thought, calling her vitesjo 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 normally 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, 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 certain 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 gone through 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 off 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 entire display. The altar cloth itself 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 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 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 copious 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 to 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. She also possessed a healthy fear of forgetting she’d lit anything at all, of leaving candles unattended, using a heavy cast-iron plate beneath anything she lit. The plate was her safeguard against her inattention to details, and Tara knew she would burn the candles down to stubs eventually.

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 and knowing that 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 Holt any more of her money, wouldn't give him the 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.