Page 27 of Florescentia

I hung up the receiver.

The tremors of my hands did not cease when met with the hot skin of my face. My tears only made them clammier. Either my mind was playing cruel tricks on me in my grief, or I was dreaming altogether. This all could be a dream. I was hysterical, ill.

Briiiing!

I picked up again. “Enough!” I screamed into the microphone. “Leave me be, you ill thing!”

“Ma’am,” the polite voice wavered in concern, “this is the coroner’s office. We were calling about delivery for viewing.”

The static was almost thrumming in tune with the blood rushing to my head, stars in my vision.

“Hello? Are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here.” A thick swallow as I patted my forehead with my sleeve. “Address is 626 on Sixth Avenue. Please phone Maxim Collesano for organizing a delivery date.”

“Of course. Have a pleasant evening.”

The phone went dead.

Pleasant. I didn’t think it was possible in this state.

Maxim would take care of it, I knew he would. He was organized to a fault and couldn’t bear unfinished tasks.

Stop worrying, I chanted to myself. Focus.

Then there were the matters of a wake and funeral, something that Dorian’s family and I most likely wouldn’t agree on. I wasn’t keen on preparing two funerals to appease everyone. I prayed the death mask was done well, or I would make it everyone else’s issue. At least the funeral would be a single-day event, especially with the traditional refusal to embalm. With everything to consider, I could not think about it until tomorrow.

Tonight, I had work to do.

Summoning was no different from luring any other creature. Before, it felt like light romancing. Now, it was a trap. My last preparations were not enough, not for whatever was blocking my way through. I needed something stronger.

The lazy steam rose from the freshly drawn bath. Clean, clear.

My fingers danced along the bottles of the vanity, one by one, until I found it, a deep azure glass in a tall teardrop shape. Usually, I might add only a drop or two. The oil was so rich and pungent, a small amount was enough to carry the scent through the steam.

I emptied the entire bottle.

The liquid trickled in a thin line as I circled the bath, shaking the bottle to assure that not a drop was wasted.

The room radiated with the scent of iris, strengthening by the minute. They said the alien-looking flower was a staple in spiritual practices, used for divination and sharpening one’s manifesting. I was hoping this meant it would act as a beacon when I did my own summoning.

I dipped one leg in, then the other. As I sank into the basin, the hot water tingled, engulfing me in the steam.

The oils made the bronze of my skin glow rich and the white markings pearlescent. The melanin on my right arm had started to return in patches and spots since the failed Otherside encounter. Conversely, new patches of vitiligo were forming across my face, my brows, even moving closer to my lips. Markings spread around my knees and crawled up my thighs. Some formed by the dimples of my hips. Most were symmetrical, with some wayward patches, except the marking on my face. Even the star-shaped piece on my chest seemed to stretch its points farther.

Some days they felt like a compass, telling me when I was near the unknowable. Tonight, I could only hope they would burn bright.

The candles were set, the space was clear of any tattered carpets, and the lamps were covered by my nice set of dining napkins, just in case there was another combustion.

The beads of the sheer robe glistened in the dim light, the trim teasing just off the shoulder. My hair was down, free, with an iris pinned by my ear. The scent stung my nostrils, the pollen, mixed with the lingering perfume oil, making me feel like I could have been in a garden rather than my dusty library.

Tonight, I would do what I had to. There would be no yielding until I got what I wanted.

I whistled for my Peculiars. They came with very little haste, a sluggishness to their movements. Even as they gathered over the vandalized flooring, they avoided colliding.

I held the grimoire to my chest, clutching it as if to force my hopes on it straight from my heart, and into this fickle collection of sentient paper.

“I will toss you in the river if you don’t help, do you hear me?” I whispered to it, useless threats to make myself feel better.