Chapter 22
Summoning the Forgotten
The resurrection chamber feels like an ominous place to go right now. Had I not known my dad had been dead for over a year, I would have been getting this space ready to bring him back. Or at the very least gearing up to try. Now, the best I can do is put his body to rest so his soul can be at peace.
But even if it were possible to bring him back, which I’m pretty damn certain it’s not, I’d be defying all of the rules of the Moirai anyway. Who knows what kind of hell I’d be bringing down on myself and anyone who might be unfortunate enough to help me.
It’s not a risk I’m willing to take.
“All right, I’m going in to consult the grimoire,” I say, handing Wade my phone. “This won’t take long.”
“Tell me again how this works,” he says, clutching my phone in his hand. His eyes are deep, dark pools of concern and I wish I could do something to quell his fears. But they’re the same ones I have.
“I’m going to astral-project—at least, I think that’s what it is. It’s faster than trying to physically maneuver the tunnels in the catacombs,” I say, reaching for his hand and giving it a squeeze.
I take in a slow, steady breath and sit down on the floor. I cross my legs, like I plan to do a meditation, and rest my back against the stone wall. The quasi-cool stones make me shiver, but I know what’s waiting on the other side brings a whole new level of chill.
“And you’re absolutely sure you can do this?” Wade asks, squatting beside me.
“I am,” I say, nodding. “I’ve done it before, remember? If Dominic arrives before I’m out, just wait for me. Don’t do anything until I’m back. Okay?”
Wade nods. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” He bends in, placing his free hand along my jawline. Bending in, he brushes his lips against mine. Then, as he backs away, he winks at me. “Now, go do your thing, Dr. Strange.”
I smile, shaking my head at the reference. “Let’s hope there’s more chance for this working out, than there was for the Avengers. Here goes nothing,” I say, hoping I look more confident than I actually feel.
Closing my eyes, I settle into the energy around me. There’s an intense level of anxiety rolling through me and I have to actively push it aside so I can focus enough to reach the astral plane. I stretch my neck and place my hands on my knees.
After a few moments, the energy settles and my body feels as though it’s sinking into the dirt floor beneath me. Despite my eyes being closed, colors burst beneath my lids. Bright, energetic signatures that vibrate around the edges of each item in this space. Suddenly, I pull back from myself, able to see the room in a whole new way. I stand up, but this time, I can tell I must not be connected to my body anymore, yet I’m somehow still bound by the rules of gravity.
Unlike in the physical realm, where the stones are all still in place on the wall, the stones I removed last semester remain cast on the ground. It’s like they’re the ghostly remnants of a different time and place. I suppose technically, they are.
Taking a deep breath, which doesn’t even feel like it reaches my lungs, I bend down and walk through the hole. Somehow, the frigid cold from the catacombs rushes at me. Shivering into the darkness, I keep my eyes closed and my senses open.
It’s strange how I can interact in this space, almost as though I’m doing it in my physical body. But this time, I know I’m not.
I follow the distance of the tunnel, mesmerized by the vibrating colors. They’re even more prominent than before. I don’t know if it means something, or if I’m simply getting better at concentrating. I just hope it’s not an ominous sign.
When I reach the end of the tunnel and cross the threshold into the circular chamber, the ethereal torches along the walls ignite, lighting the space with an eerie glow behind my lids. I open my eyes, taking in the space. Each tunnel leading to various grave sites fades into the darkness beyond, but in the center of the room, the stone pedestal rises from the floor, revealing the grimoire. It’s like it was ready and waiting.
“Abigail?” I call out, hoping she’s nearby and can guide me to the spell we need. However, I also know she’s doing her best to restrain my father’s malevolent energy.
When she doesn’t answer, I walk up to the grimoire, confident that even without her, I can find the answers I need. She wouldn’t have told me where to look if I didn’t have the ability to do it on my own.
I run my fingertips along the edges of the ancient-looking tome, feeling the reverence and mystical energy vibrating beneath my touch. Even though this book exists in a different realm, it’s imbued with a magical essence and it demands respect. Straightening my shoulders, I slowly flip open the book. I turn the pages with utter care, knowing how ancient it must be. Even if the book’s pages themselves aren’t real, I refuse to be the one who damages them with assumptions.
The paper is thin under my touch, and each page is handcrafted, written in a delicate scrollwork that is made in ink—and something else. Gold? Blood? All of the above?
The first few pages are familiar, showing me aspects of things I already know—things I’ve either learned or searched in the grimoire before. But nothing that stands out in terms of a location spell for my dad’s remains.
I narrow my gaze.
“Where are you?” I whisper to myself as I turn the pages.
Then, I remember something from my dad’s journal. He mentioned the grimoire can show me things about our family history—if I ask it.
