Widdershins

Widdershins

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

An Original Publication of Julie Harrington at Smashwords

Copyright © 2017 Julie Harrington

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author, Julie Harrington.

Smashwords eISBN: 9781370028436

First Smashwords Edition January 2017

Smashwords Edition License Notes: This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this eBook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Fonts used: Garamond & Apple Chancery

Cover design & eBook formatting by StormCloud, Montana, USA

Cover photo 31882306 © Konradbak | Dreamstime.com

Cover photo 62184050 © Branislav Ostojic | Dreamstime.com

Visit Julie at JulieHarrington.net

Widdershins

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Copyright

Inside Cover Page

Chapter 01

Chapter 02

Chapter 03

Chapter 04

Chapter 05

Chapter 06

Chapter 07

Chapter 08

Chapter 09

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

About the Author

Other Books by Julie Harrington

Connect with Julie Harrington

Chapter One

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

Emma Harlow paused, her hand poised to light the last of the black pillar candles arranged on the bedroom floor of her apartment. She darted a quick look at the woman who hovered in the shadows near the door. Probably not.

Fear, doubt, and uncertainty flooded through her again, but Emma dipped the tip of the butane lighter to the candlewick and lit it anyway. The flame flickered, caught hold, and grew. Emma withdrew her hand and set the lighter on the nightstand. She tucked a long tendril of her black hair behind her ear before reaching for the book she'd left open on the bed. Her hands trembled. Did Clara notice? If she did, the willowy blonde didn't call her on it.

Emma skimmed the book's list of instructions once more before comparing the accompanying illustration to the arrangement of candles. Perfect. She cleared her throat. Okay. That's it. I'm ready.

Emma, I don't know about this. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

It wasn't a good idea. It was a bad one. Really bad. Borderline suicidal, actually, but what choice did she have? The police weren't going to help, and Emma couldn't defend herself. Not against this. Plus, she was out of allies and tired of running into closed door after closed door. Everyone she went to – even those who'd claimed to be lifelong friends – had turned their back on her. So much for loyalty and camaraderie. They'd all abandoned her to certain death. Well, all of them except for Clara Pierce.

Emma smiled at her friend, loving and respecting her more than ever. Clara hadn't wanted to help at first, of course. She was an eternal Good Girl, the one sure to follow all the rules. But she and Emma had been through too much together to simply stand on the sidelines and watch the other sink. At the same time, Emma knew Clara's position, influence, and reach was limited by that same Good Girl nature. As a result, there was only so far Clara could go. Only so much she could do. That left Emma with one last desperate choice if she wanted to stay alive. Considering she was only twenty-six, she hoped Death would hold off for at least another sixty years.

So it all came down to this. Her last resort. What was it her grandmother always said? Desperate times call for desperate measures? Emma was most definitely desperate.

Emma placed the book on the floor at her feet. She slipped her hand into the front pocket of her jeans for the piece of paper she'd tucked there earlier. She unfolded it and, as she smoothed out the lines and creases, glanced at her friend. You should probably leave now.

Clara's jaw dropped. She looked at the candles, the book, and up again. Are you kidding me? I'm not leaving you alone.

Clara.

No, Emma. You might need help. You might need—

Clara.

The other woman stopped.

It's better if I do this by myself.

Clara shook her head. I never should have given you that damned book.

I asked you to. Technically, she'd begged.

Clara rubbed her forehead. The coven's gonna have my neck.

The coven, Emma said, as she studied the sigil drawn on the paper in her hand, can kiss my ass.

You should at least draw a circle. Nine feet. Clara fumbled for her purse. I brought chalk—

No! Emma jerked her head up. No, the book says no ritual circles. Any precaution like that, any attempt to control a demon after performing a summoning, will only enrage it.

Clara raked her fingers through her blonde hair. This is insane, Emma. You have to protect yourself. You can't just let that creature into your home without any idea what it will do to you.

Yeah, well. Emma tipped her head toward the glass of water and the platter of fruits, breads, and meats – if one could call pre-packaged, factory-processed cold cuts 'meat' – she'd placed on her nightstand. Let's hope that'll be enough of an offering for it, because the only other food I have is a box of macaroni and cheese, and I'm all out of milk.

That's not funny.

It wasn't meant to be. It was simple truth. From what little Emma knew of demonic summoning, the key ingredient was Respect. All the books agreed and stressed the same vital points. Don't piss off the demon. Don't insult said demon. Don't mock it. And maybe, just maybe, if she was nice and polite, and could offer something of interest in return, the demon might be amused enough, bored enough, or intrigued enough, to agree. Maybe. Possibly. Or, conversely, it could decide to chew her face off, eat her heart, and then pick its teeth with one of her cracked ribs. It was a coin flip.

Emma hurried to Clara's side. She caught her elbow and shepherded her toward the bedroom door. I don't want you here. Go home.

Clara dragged her feet. You're only saying that to protect me. You don't want me here in case something goes wrong.

Nothing's going to go wrong.

But it could.

It won't. Emma opened the door and gestured to the hallway. Go.

I'm not leaving you alone.

You probably won't hear from me for a couple of days. Don't worry about it, okay? But if, at the end of the week... She swallowed, glanced over her shoulder at the candles, and shivered. Cover your own ass with the coven. Tell them I stole the book and blame everything on me.

Clara's shoulders sagged. Deep frown lines carved themselves at the corners of her pinched lips. Emma.

Go.

Her friend wanted to argue. Emma could see it in the telltale way Clara's eyes narrowed and her mouth puckered. In the end, the blonde silently gathered her coat before walking out of the bedroom and down the hall to the foyer. Emma waited until the front door banged shut and the deadbolt clicked into place. Once they had, she turned back to her bedroom.

Midnight cloaked the benign little space where she normally meditated and slept. Shadows seemed longer. Deeper. All of her protections – her crystals and her guardians, even her cat – were nowhere to be seen.

Emma released a long sigh as she rubbed her suddenly chilled hands together. She approached the center of the room. Okay, she said, her voice loud in the quiet apartment, let's get this show on the road.

She toed her shoes off and nudged them aside. Sinking to the floor, she crossed her legs, rested her hands easily on her knees, and closed her eyes. It felt odd to try and draw this much power without being sky-clad, but if the summoning ritual went wrong, and if – by the grace of the Goddess – she actually got the chance to escape, the last thing she needed was to be arrested on Madison Street buck naked.

Emma exhaled, long and low. Her lashes lifted. She focused on the makeup mirror propped up in the middle of the candle arrangement. The flickering flames cast shimmering, slithering light on the walls where their radiance battled writhing shadows – opposing forces of the Universe. Light and Dark. White and Black. Good and Evil.

She let her eyes drift shut and conjured the magickal symbol from the book in her mind. Surely if those forces could exist in harmonious balance, this plan could work.

It had to work.

Or she died.

Her brow furrowed. She forced the pessimistic thought away. Negative energy wouldn't help the situation. Calm. Clear. Focused. That was the key.

Her breathing deepened. Her heartbeat slowed. The sigil took shape in her mind's eye. Emma latched on to it, finding hope in the archaic symbol and solace in a design that should have instilled fear.

Obey these words of power, Emma said, her lips barely moving, each word rising and falling with the smooth rhythm of her lungs. "Watchers