With the bowl as centerpiece, he measured and poured ingredients from the containers he had brought. Some were as fine as dust, others spherical and of biological origin. Magic took root at the intersection of chemistry and spirit. Together with the medium, a witch became a physical conduct capable of piercing an incorporeal veil. At times, the only thing potent enough to rip through that veil was the essence of life, like the syrupy liquid that James coaxed from the bottle, rotating it so that the excess didn’t drip off the rim. It smelled like blood and cortisol-infused sweat. The thin brush swirled the mixture into an even consistency.
“Hold this.” James placed a smooth disc in her hand. It was dark, a chunk of shale with a trapiche emerald set in the center, green beryl spreading out like spokes of a wheel. He got onto his knees in front of her and put the bowl on Celeste’s thighs. “Try not to move.” James rested his left hand on her stomach to steady himself. He leaned forward, dipping his thumb in the wet compound, and spread it on the bruise near her ribs.