13 Drops of Blood
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Thirteen voices whisper from the shadows—each one offering a drop of blood for power, penance, or damnation.
Izzy chose her candle with the utmost care; red, made of beeswax, and never burned. Next came the anointing with virgin olive oil. Using her fingers, she pulled the oil from the top to the middle, then from the bottom to the middle until the whole thing was anointed.
She picked up her athame. After consulting the grimoire of her 17th century Scottish ancestor, Isobel, she started on the carvings. His name at the top, each line drawing down and stopping at the center. Enzo—she smiled at the mere sight of her beloved’s name. Now, hers at the bottom, every line drawing up and stopping in the middle. Between their names, she carved Celtic love knots.
When she finished, she placed the candle on the palm of her right hand, stretched her left hand out, palm up, and closed her eyes. She visualized Enzo, walking toward her, his body strong and lithe, rather than broken and bloody as she’d last seen him. She’d already asked forgiveness for what she’d done, so now, the imagined look on his face was one of love and acceptance. Harnessing that love, she wrapped both hands around the candle and let the energy pour into the warm, slick wax, then placed the candle into a lovely wrought iron pentagram holder.
With her candle fully charged and ready, it was time to evoke the necessary protection for her spell. She glanced at the grimoire again, hoping her Gaelic was up to the task, hoping she was up to the task.
Thirteen Candles.
Isobel, Isobel
Corse through time
I require your assistance
Isobel, Isobel
I beckon you
Bring my love to me
A dark orb rose from the mirror…then another…and another…
Izzy watched as orb after orb left through the opening in her salt circle. Her heart leapt into her throat as the orbs kept coming. Her gaze flew to the grimoire, landing on a single phrase. A drop of blood—she glanced at the mirror, counted the drops…eleven…twelve…
She jerked her hand away as the last drop plopped on the surface…thirteen…
She leapt to her feet and spun around to find Enzo, and twelve other figures, there, but not there. Transparent. Feet not quite touching the floor.
And looking pissed as hell.
Thirteen authors tell their dark, disturbing, and creepy tales of thirteen apparitions.