Page 27 of The Slug Crystal

Mirella's apartment transforms before our eyes like a magician's quick-change act.

Heavy velvet curtains emerge from a trunk and are hung over the windows, casting the space into artificial twilight.

Candles materialize on every surface, fat pillar candles, delicate tapers, tea lights in colored glass, until the room pulses with their golden glow.

The scent of burning herbs fills the air, tickling my nose with notes of rosemary and something earthier.

I watch, Alex's terrarium clutched against my chest, as our host flits about the room with practiced efficiency, her scarves trailing behind her like exotic plumage.

"Is this... necessary?" Jake whispers, close enough that his breath warms my ear.

I shrug, keeping my voice equally low. "At this point, I'd dance naked under a full moon if it would help us find Sarah."

His eyes widen slightly, and I feel heat rising to my cheeks as I realize what I've said. Ben, overhearing, gives me a speculative look that I pointedly ignore.

Mirella gestures toward a round table in the center of the room where she has drawn an elaborate chalk circle, surrounded by symbols I don't recognize. "Please, sit. Place your little blue friend nearby. He should witness."

I carefully set Alex's terrarium on a small side table she indicates. He's awake, antennae extended as if curious about his new surroundings. Sometimes I swear there's still something human in the way he observes the world.

The five of us awkwardly arrange ourselves around the table. I end up between Jake and Luca, with Ben directly across from me and Marco to his right. Mirella remains standing, placing candles at specific points around the chalk circle, muttering to herself in Italian.

"The spirits respond to certain... atmospheres," she explains, lighting the last candle with a practiced flick of a long match. "We must create the proper environment for communication."

Jake's knee presses against mine under the table, whether by accident or design, I'm not sure. The touch anchors me, familiar and solid amid the strangeness.

"I've read about the psychological foundations of séances," Marco offers in his professorial tone.

"The ambiance, darkness, candles, and unfamiliar scents creates suggestibility in participants.

The mind becomes more receptive to pattern recognition, more likely to interpret random stimuli as meaningful. "

"You're saying it's all bullshit?" Ben asks, earning a sharp look from Mirella.

Marco adjusts his glasses. "I'm saying there are neurological explanations for why people experience seemingly supernatural phenomena in these settings."

"Such skepticism," Mirella tuts, placing a small crystal at each of our places. "Science has not yet measured everything that exists." She sets a bottle of deep red wine on the table and pours five glasses. "For opening the spirit pathways," she explains, then takes her seat between Marco and Ben.

"All of this feels like verbiage that should be used for an advertisement. Like ghost Tinder," Ben says, wiggling his eyebrows. "Swipe right on the afterlife."

I can't help the burst of laughter that escapes me, tension breaking momentarily. Even Jake cracks a smile, though he tries to hide it by taking a sip of wine.

"Join hands, please," Mirella instructs, reaching for the hands of Ben and Marco. "We must create an unbroken circle."

Luca's hand closes around mine, warm and steady.

On my other side, Jake's fingers intertwine with mine, his thumb brushing over my knuckles in a gesture that feels oddly intimate.

The physical connection to both men sends a confusing current through me that I don't have time to analyze as Mirella begins to chant.

Her voice starts low, almost a whisper, then gradually rises in pitch. The words are a mixture of Italian and what sounds like Latin, flowing together in rhythmic patterns. The candle flames seem to respond, flickering and dancing in time with her voice.

"Focus your energy," she instructs between phrases. "Think of Sarah. Visualize her face, her essence."

I close my eyes, trying to picture Sarah as I'd seen her in the Crystal Witch promo materials and our Instagram finds. Dark hair, knowing smile, eyes that seemed to hold secrets. The woman who changed my life with a crystal and a spell I never thought would work.

Mirella's chanting grows more intense. The air feels thicker, charged somehow, and despite my skepticism, goosebumps rise on my arms. Jake's grip on my hand tightens slightly. When I peek at him, his eyes are closed, brow furrowed in concentration.

The wine beckons, dark and promising in my glass. My mouth is dry from nerves and the herb-scented air. Without breaking the hand circle, I lean forward, reaching for my glass with my hand joined to Jake’s.

My elbow knocks against something, Mirella's candle or Jake's glass, I'm not sure, and suddenly my own glass is tipping, falling in what feels like slow motion.

The wine spills across the table like a crimson tide, flooding the chalk circle, turning the carefully drawn symbols into smudged red ghosts of themselves.

"No!" I shriek, lunging to stop the flow, but it's too late.

Jake jumps up, his chair crashing backward onto the floor.

Ben lets out a creative string of curses that would make a sailor blush.

Luca is already on his feet, yanking off his designer scarf to mop up the spill, which only makes things worse as the delicate fabric absorbs the wine and spreads it further.

"The terrarium!" Marco shouts, moving with surprising agility for an academic, diving toward the side table housing Alex's glass home, which wobbles dangerously, likely bumped in all the commotion .

I watch in horror as Marco catches the terrarium, lifting it safely away from the ground and carrying it away from the spreading wine disaster. My heart hammers against my ribs, adrenaline making my hands shake.

"I'm so sorry," I gasp, looking at the ruins of Mirella's séance setup. The chalk circle is now a red smear. The symbols are unrecognizable, and the candles sputter as wine drips onto their flames.

Mirella stands perfectly still amid the chaos, her eyes closed, head tilted as if listening to something only she can hear. She seems entirely unconcerned about the destruction spreading across her table and now seeping into her rug.

"Five grown adults," Ben mutters, using a napkin to dab ineffectually at his wine-splashed jeans, "and we can't manage to sit at a table without creating a disaster."

"Is the snail alright?" Luca asks, giving up on his ruined scarf.

Marco nods, still holding the terrarium protectively. "Not a drop reached him."

Jake's hand finds my shoulder, squeezing gently. "It's okay," he says, though his expression suggests he's not entirely convinced of that himself.

I survey the damage with growing dismay. The candles are soaked, the chalk circle destroyed, and Mirella's rug now sports a stain that looks disturbingly like a crime scene. So much for contacting Sarah through the spirit world.

"I've ruined everything," I say, fighting the urge to cry from pure frustration. We were so close—or at least, as close as a supernatural wild goose chase could get us.

"Our little friend is unharmed," Marco announces, holding Alex's terrarium up to the light with surprising tenderness.

His scholarly fingers trace the glass where wine droplets speckle the exterior, never actually making it inside.

I watch as he produces a handkerchief, an actual cloth handkerchief, like he's stepped out of another century, and methodically cleans each crimson spot from the glass.

The care in his movements makes my throat tight with an emotion I can't quite name.

"Thank you," I manage, stepping closer to examine Alex myself. The blue snail has partially retreated into its shell, its antennae still extended as if monitoring the chaos around him. "I don't know what I would've done if?—"

"No harm done," Marco says softly, his usual academic formality softening. "He's quite resilient, your Alex."

The way he says it, your Alex, sends a pang through me. Is Alex still mine in any meaningful way? Was he ever? The questions swirl as I take the terrarium from Marco, our fingers brushing in the exchange.

Behind us, Luca surveys his wine-soaked scarf with a dramatic sigh. "This was Hermès," he says, but his tone is more amused than upset.

"I'll replace it," I offer automatically, although I have no idea how much a Hermès scarf costs and am certain I can't afford it.

He waves away the suggestion with an elegant flick of his wrist. "Consider it a sacrifice to the spirits. Perhaps they'll be more cooperative next time."

Jake finishes righting his toppled chair, the wooden legs scraping against the floor. "I don't think there should be a next time," he mutters, just loud enough for me to hear.

Mirella finally opens her eyes, regarding the disaster with surprising serenity. "Sometimes," she says, "the spirits speak through chaos."

She seems entirely unfazed by the destruction of her séance setup. She's lighting fresh incense, the stick releasing curls of fragrant smoke that wind through the candle-lit room. Her silver bangles catch the light as she moves, creating fleeting constellations on the walls.

"The spirits are not so easily deterred by a little wine," she says, turning to face us with a serene smile. "In fact, I received a partial message before our... interruption."

Ben, still dabbing at his jeans, raises skeptical eyebrows. "A partial message? Convenient."

"The connection was spotty," Mirella explains with complete seriousness, as if describing poor cell reception rather than supernatural communication. "The wine disrupted the energy flow, you understand. But I believe Sarah has moved to Florence."

"Florence?" Jake repeats, exchanging a look with me that perfectly communicates his doubt.