Page 10 of Florescentia

One ritual was all it took; they listened and heard me. The patent was mine.

I doubted it would have happened if I hadn’t harvested luck. Women might be smarter, quicker, more intelligent—yet a man would always have the upper hand.

A bit of luck never hurt anyone. I wouldn’t feel guilty for it.

A cool sensation against my ankle, along with a light purr. Absinthe was at my feet, the shadowy cloud sticking to my skin every time it bumped against me.

“Is my frustration that palpable?” I reached down, running my fingers through the oil-like creature. A couple of drops floated away from the main mass before zipping back into place. “Is it giving you an appetite?”

I sat down on the stool, and my Peculiar climbed up to my lap, pressing firmly against my chest. One would assume that indistinct shadowy creatures would be hard to tell apart, but it was easier than you’d think. Absinthe had more static, and it formed spikes that sharpened and softened just from speaking to it. Tonic was rounder, more uniform. Rarely did I see a stray droplet from that one.

My fingers disappeared as I touched the creature, chilling sensations overcoming my limb, enough to extinguish whatever irritation remained.

There were many ways to farm luck from the Otherside. The easiest was to be intimate with the Peculiar. Intimate is subjective, but the more personal and vulnerable you are, the more luck you gain. The energy fed them. Most days, I talked to them. I vented, cried, and raged. They listened, they fed, and everyone walked away with something. It wasn’t usually enough for any miracles, but enough to have one good day with very little inconvenience.

If you were looking for miracles, you needed a ritual.

Big risk, deep vulnerability, required a larger vessel. Using sexuality was the quickest way for me to exert such an intense emotional response if I didn’t have time to dig deep for wounds of the soul. Sex worked especially well since larger Peculiars suffered from a rather intense gulosity from their isolation and inability to cross over to our world.

Rituals were the only way I could reach these entities, which I had become quite good at during years of practice. As long as I conducted a controlled release in a strict environment, the process was foolproof.

With that in mind, it was time to prepare.

Chapter Four

The Nova

Typically, I wouldn’t do two rituals so closely together. They were not bound by any laws of reality, but I tried to err on the side of restraint. Good fortune could make one sick with greed, even if it wasn’t as tangible as the weight of gold in one’s palm.

Rituals required a clarity of mind. I did not believe in passive manifestation; work was required, no matter the circumstance. It was about what you were willing to sacrifice to the depths. Blood was good, but baring your soul was better.

With the circumstance of my father’s condition, the strain from the patent preparation, Dorian competing for the most important role in his institution, among whatever else I was letting slip through the cracks in my clouded path . . . one more wish for certainty was all I needed.

The bath oils soaked into my skin like water on salt plains. Dried lemon balm and bacopa clouded the water. Passionflower blooms danced around my legs, spinning along the surface as the ripples disturbed them.

The steam collected on my face, clearing my airways and thoughts.

Cleanliness was a ritual, in a way. It was grounding in the most mundane way. Each bath varied by person.

I reached over to my stool and picked up an Everie card from the top of the deck in its intricate wooden box.

Altair in Eclipse.

An eagle with six wings, three eyes, and a crown tight around his throat.

Reversed image, with the beak pointed down: a negative premonition.

A click of my tongue against my tooth as I flicked the card away, sinking deeper into the bath.

Four seasons, four major constellations in the Everie.

Altair was the patron of Ruina, the season of unforgiving. The coldest months of the year. I was a superstitious person, spiritual even. I believed there was something out there, but maybe not something as literal as deities. All constellations had a patron, an image of which our imaginations created, a form we could conceptualize instead of bursting stars that didn’t even know we were here.

While I believed the divine to be fictional in all the ways that worshippers would regard them, I also believed they were based in logic to navigate the world we lived in. Ruina being the season of unforgiving made sense, especially to those alive when Astrium had been conceived as a religion. A people of little means, in a new land, having to survive the coldest, darkest, most fruitless season. It felt like a predator, waiting to pick off those who were unable to adapt. Death came swiftly, without warning, like a critter in an eagle’s talons.

The Altair represented a struggle between good and evil, the material and the metaphysical, truth and lies. Fierce leader qualities and the struggle that came with being an apex of nature. Infinitely curious to improve things for all people, restless until successful. The card in Nova, upright, represented success in this pursuit. The reversed Eclipse of the same card suggested failures in this realm.

The cards were my mother’s, and her mother’s before her, and so on. As superstitious as passing a horseshoe.