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

Chapter five

Tara

T he first time she had walked through the doors of the Cat something that activated a tiny emergency button in her brain, accompanied by a voice, screaming at her to get away! She had always pushed the creepy sensation aside. It’s probably something in his cologne, some fragrance note you’re allergic to. It was a logical explanation, one she clung to, despite the man not smelling like anything in particular. He’d been there for many of her subsequent visits as well, always scrutinizing her purchases and eyeing her warily, watching her interactions with the Mistress of Crows with a wrinkled nose and disdainful expression.

Tara didn’t know if it was her mood or the sense of futility that had progressively begun to envelope her each day, but nothing she examined on the crowded shelves had caught her interest as she’d plodded through the shop. She’d just replaced a headless doll upon the shelf she was bent before when the voice of the dark-haired man made her jump.

“Finding what you’re seeking?”

He had popped up out of nowhere to appear before her at the top of the aisle, making her swallow hard, casting her eyes around in vain for someone—anyone!—else to rescue her. Not even the goddamned cat is around today. There was something odd in his question, and as always, the hairs on the back of her neck raised at his sudden proximity.

“I-I don’t know what I’m looking for . . . just, um, just browsing, I guess.” Why are you stammering, you didn’t do anything wrong. You’re allowed to just browse!

He’d hummed, straightening items on the shelves as he neared.

“You know, there are groups with whom you can study. The craft is more than pretty trinkets and eyeliner, despite what my co-worker might have led you to believe. There’s a very talented witch, a gifted herbalist, in the next town over. I believe she’ll soon be gathering a coven of beginners. I can give you her card.”

Her fascination with witchcraft had first started, as all bad ideas usually do, in junior high school, leading her down a road of garish eye makeup and monochromatic clothing for more than a decade. Undergrad winged eyeliner and coffin-shaped purses had graduated to Stevie Nicks-style shawls in grad school, and then once she’d landed her first counselor’s job, professional separates in black and grey. Her grandmother had always admonished that black was for mourning, that it washed her out and made her look sickly, and it wasn’t until she had met this spiky, unfriendly man in his head-to-toe black clothing — his sallow-tinged skin making the dark circles under his eyes appear bruise-like — that she understood what her grandmother had meant.

Anyway, it didn’t matter what he said. Tara already attempted to embrace the lifestyle, but drum circles and picnics in the park, potlucks in someone’s basement with half a dozen children running amok held little appeal. She had no interest in driving to the next town to beat on drums and discuss the miraculous uses of hemp oil with the other wannabe witches there.

“I was never very good at chemistry,” she’d said lightly, ignoring his eyes. “But I’d like to buy a magic potion to make life easier. I’m fairly certain you don’t sell that though.”

“Of course I do,” he shot back, lip curling to reveal overly-sharp canines she’d not noticed before. “But who’s going to brew it? You ? With no skill or training?” He let out a sardonic chuckle, utterly devoid of humor. “Ah, but I understand. Pre-made, ready-to-pour. Concentrated, just add water. That’s what you want. Cheap. Disposable. On sale to anyone willing to pay. Forgive me if I take offense to the commodification of my craft by people like you.”

“I was under the impression this was a store ,” she managed to choke out in a shaky voice.

He grinned at her words, his citrine green eyes seeming to glow.

“That it is. Ritual tools, potion ingredients, magical aides for real witches. The rest is just garbage for cluttering up one’s shelves, and that’s fine. Whatever makes the Halloween store goths happy. It’s rare that we get repeat customers who fall in the middle.” One of his thick eyebrows raised, taking her in. “ You are not someone who merely collects headless dolls for your own amusement. You want to be the real thing, and you think that’s something for sale.”

He had come to a standstill in the middle of the aisle, effectively blocking her way. His voice had a strange, hypnotic quality that made her breath catch in her throat and the shelves narrow around her as if he were slowly absorbing all of the energy in the room, and Tara felt herself shrink before him.

“Real magic cannot be obtained without sacrifice and skill. Practice and dedication. One is not simply born into this world. It is up to the witch to follow her calling . . . or be just another accessory.”

He raised a hand as he trailed off, gesturing to the ephemera filling the shelves, and tears burned at the back of her eyes, that empty hole within her widening, threatening to swallow her up. She didn’t want to be as disposable as the seasonal decorations she bought every year to goth-up her apartment, didn’t want to matter less than the broken bell on the shelf beside her.

The air seemed to ripple, the ground suddenly uneven beneath her feet, and she reached out for the shelf to steady herself, realizing too late that she’d been quite mistaken in her assessment of the staff at the Cat & Crow. The woman dressed as a witch, wore a costume of artifice that Tara, in her own quest for superficial trappings, had fallen for. The man before her seemed to vibrate, and she was forced to admit she’d been wrong in who the true witch actually was.

“So I will ask you again . . . what is it that you seek, Tara Perez?”

The question sent a ripple up her back and the man’s strange yellow-green eyes held hers without blinking. What was it that she sought? Another tchotchke for her shelf? Black eyeliner and purposefully tattered clothes? Did she just want to cultivate the appearance of being one with the craft, or did she actually want it?

“I want my third eye to open,” Tara blurted, the words tripping off her tongue like water from a faucet, unable to be held back any longer. “I want–I want to be a witch. An actual witch. I want my mind to slow down so I can focus, and-and for—” She sucked in a breath, steadying herself and pushing back the tears threatening to spill. “I just want some clarity,” she croaked at last, her chest heaving. “I don’t want to feel so empty. I want to feel like I’m out of the fog long enough to see what I’m supposed to do. Who I’m supposed to be.”

She was uncertain how she’d managed to get the words out at all, for the air still seemed to be frozen, sticking in her lungs as the strange man rippled before her, his eyes fixed on hers with a staggering intensity.

“Sacrifice and skill, and those are not things you can buy off one of my shelves. I sense potential in you, Tara Perez. But you are an empty vessel. You must allow yourself to be filled.”

“But . . . I-I just want to find something that will—

“And I just told you it doesn’t work that way,” he snapped. “As I said, skill comes with dedication and practice. Only then can–”

“Then I want to be in-tune with the other side. Every day,” she went on doggedly, interrupting his self-righteous monologuing and ignoring his pursed lips. “I want to be able to feel something outside myself. Can’t I get a spiritual guide or something?”

His head cocked, and for the first time that she could remember, his lips tugged into a genuine smile.

“Like a familiar? One must be singularly gifted or else born into extreme privilege, I’m afraid, and you are neither.” His lips held the ghost of that same smile as he continued. “There are , however, things you can buy that will aid in your discovery. If you want to be filled, you must light a beacon, calling forth a ship to your harbor. There is a ritual . . ." His eyes had taken on a yellow gleam, striding past her with purpose. "You won't be able to get everything today, of course. Some of it needs to be specially made, a few things I’ll need to call in for you. A particular incense blend. As I said, there is a witch in the next town who is a talented herbalist, she will need to blend it for you. It would do you good to meet her anyway. The cloth maker sells to me wholesale, you'd never be able to afford her retail prices. We'll have to put that on order, it can take a few weeks . . ."

"Cloth maker?" She asked dumbly, shrugging in confusion.

"Your altar cloth, of course. It comes pre-marked with the appropriate glyphs. It’s a bit of cheating, I think, but it is incredibly handy for those unskilled enough to draw them in themselves. The irony is you had the genuine article right there your whole life, and you never opened your eyes to see, never bothered to learn. Makes no matter now. You'll pay for the privilege of your ignorance though, prepare yourself for that."

She had listened as he rattled off all the things he alleged she would need—the altar cloth, the incense blend. A ceremonial knife, Cardinal candles, and the centerpiece – the ritual candle, placed in the center of the cloth, he told her.

"Why is a bit of cloth so expensive?!" she had squawked as he wrote up the order.

Holt only rolled his eyes.

"Because each is one-of-a-kind and handmade, and if that weren't a good enough reason for you, she is the only creator making these cloths. Not just in town, not in our tri-state area. They're the only ones who make them at all. Anywhere. Do you want to be cheap? Or do you want to be filled?"

She had handed over her credit card without another peep, taking the number for the witch who would contact her once her incense was finished, following him to a wall lined with candles.

“The question, now, is which,” he mused, running the edge of one of his long, black-painted nails over the edge of the shelf. “Wisdom of ancestors? The guidance of the lamp bearer? Perhaps you would do best with calling upon the favor of a minor—”

“Whichever is going to give me the best results without taking a hundred years,” she snapped, suddenly feeling utterly drained from the day. “You know, the way this check-out process is.” Her visit to the shop had been meant to cheer her up, but she only felt worse and had somehow been persuaded to spend an entire paycheck in the process. “You said I’m an empty vessel. So whichever is going to fill me.”

Holt’s head had whipped around, his eyes narrowing for a split second, his lip curling into a sneer . . . before it was replaced with a sharp-edged grin, and his hand moved up the wall several shelves, plucking a fat candle from where it rested.

“Careful what you wish for, Tara Perez. I think this one will do nicely. You'll be filled to your limit and then some.”