2. Chapter One

The potent scent of cinnamon floods my senses, and I let my eyes drift closed as I breathe it in deeply. I've always loved cinnamon, mostly because it reminds me of the safety of my childhood home, and the delicious homemade banana bread my mom used to bake for our family every Sunday afternoon.

Reaching into the fragile glass jar that holds the aromatic spice, I pinch a small amount between my fingertips and set the jar aside. As I hold open a pocket sized brown cloth bag with my spare hand, I sprinkle the cinnamon over the mixture of herbs already deposited inside.

I lean forward slightly so that I can better peer inside the plain pouch, admiring the heady blend of burdock root, blackberry thorns, thistle, bay leaf, witch hazel and now cinnamon. The warm, earthy scents rise to meet my nose, and I allow my eyes to drift shut for a second time as the fragrance soothes me like a healing balm to my soul.

This isn't the first beginner spell I've attempted to cast, but the energy flowing around me right now makes me think that it will be the most powerful one yet. My lips part on a happy sigh, and I speak my intentions into existence, my body swaying gently back and forth as the incantation flows from me.

"I draw energy from the North, the South, the East, and the West," I begin, one hand cupping the brown pouch while the other moves in circles just above it. "I invoke the power of earth, air, fire, and water. Ancestors and spirit guides, hear my voice and lend me your power."

As I open my eyes, my attention is stolen by the silky wisps of flame from the five black candles set before me, each one placed at the five points of a pentacle at the center of my altar. The gentle, amber light of the fire fights dutifully against the shadows clinging to every corner of this small walk-in closet that I recently converted into my altar room.

The space is big considering the size of my apartment, the landlord had mentioned they turned a second bathroom into closet space. There is enough room for me to kneel comfortably before the compact, custom built altar made of dark oak, with additional space around me to spare. The table is lined in a sheer tapestry, and adorned with various statues and symbols of witchcraft, all of which I purchased from a cozy little occult shop here in downtown Toronto.

The five candles are handmade from the occult shop as well, but it was me that carved intricate sigils into the soft, dark wax. Four runes to assist with the manifestation of the protection magic I am calling upon today, and one special sigil engraved into the candle situated at the top point of the sacred star.

I place the protection spell bag down at the center of a silver and black pentacle disk, surrounded by the burning candles, before reaching for the mortar and pestle on the far corner of the table and setting it in front of me.

Reaching into a medium sized selenite bowl on my left, I take out a smooth shard of obsidian and a rough piece of black tourmaline and drop it into the bowl before beginning to crush the fragile stones and combine them into a single, glittering dust. Using a delicate, decorative silver spoon, I gather up the crushed stones and deposit a generous spoonful into my protection spell bag. The crushed gems fall like stardust, settling over the herbal mixture. When the candlelight catches it just right, it looks as though I've caught tiny stars in my spell bag.

Chanting again, I steady my voice and lift the half-filled pouch up in my cupped hands. "Ancestors and spirits of protection, I invoke thee. I call upon your defensive energy, bind it to this bag and guard me against all that seek to harm me."

Closing my eyes, I visualize the manifestation runes I carved into my spell candles. I hold them in my mind's eye, directing all of my own energy towards them. Then comes the lone protection candle with the unique sigil. When it flashes to the forefront of my mind, I feel a surge of dark power that has me drawing in a sharp breath.

This particular sigil is ancient, that much I know for sure. I discovered it when I was exploring an occult shop that belonged to an elderly woman, her beautiful store was hidden among the back alleys of Rome.

The antiquated shop had a beautiful, old occult library situated at the back of the winding aisles. I spent well over an hour browsing through her collection, in awe of the dusty old books containing all the knowledge and guidance a new witch could ever dream of. I had never seen such an incredible collection anywhere else.

I was in Rome on vacation with my best friend, and she was upset when she woke up to find me gone from our hotel room, having spent half the morning in this woman's occult shop without her.

In the far back corner, there was a heavy, old book kept secured in an oversized glass box under a pair of bright lights. There was even a camera in the top corner of the room, directly facing the eerie hardcover book. I ignored the camera, because I felt compelled to look inside of the old tome, despite it clearly being off limits to the public.

Something from within the book was calling out to me, that much I'm sure of. The compulsion to open the box and get my hands on the old, worn out pages was so intense that I felt as though I was on auto-pilot as I lay my hands on it.

I still remember the smell of the book vividly, and the way the stiff pages felt beneath my fingertips. While it was obviously old and exposed to years of dust, it also smelled faintly of wood smoke and midnight air. For the short period of time I held it in my hands, I was mesmerized by it. Obsessed with what it contained, with an intensity I can't explain. The language written inside was foreign to me, but that didn't stop me from devouring all that I saw.

The very first page that I opened it to had the word praesidium written in a heavy, old script at the top, with the most beautiful symbols painted onto the page beneath it. Four symbols, to be exact. It was one in particular, however, that stood out to me. I knew the moment that I saw it, that I would never forget it. The strange seal remains stuck in my memory to this very day.

When I eventually checked the internet for translation of the word I had found above the inked symbols, it became clear to me that its meaning pointed towards protection and defense. Since protection is both the reason for, and the primary focus of my journey as a witch, it felt like I was receiving guidance from some force within the universe. Something greater than me had called me to investigate that shop, and led me straight to the mysterious book hidden in the back.

A witch must always trust her intuition, and mine told me that I was meant to find this shop, this ancient book, and the memorable sigil contained inside. I had no intention of ignoring what could be a message from the universe, or divine guidance from my spirit guides.

I left Rome less than twenty-four hours after finding that book, something the shopkeeper obviously intended to keep away from the general public. The symbol I found printed on those well-worn pages was burned into my mind's eye, and the plane ride home was full of obsessive thoughts of what I had discovered that fateful morning.

As soon as I got home, I carved the sigil from memory onto one of my black candles and then set it back among the others on my altar. That particular one, which I deemed my official protection candle for future spell casting, stood out among the rest. The rest of the candles were simple enough, with well known manifestation and intention runes etched into the soft wax.

Intuition guided me once again this morning, and I made the easy decision to use that sigil in today's important spell.

With my eyes still closed, I continue to cast my spell over the bag I now hold securely in my left hand. My right hand is held up, palm facing the candles on my altar. My body rocks forward towards the flickering lights, then back again, as I sway gently in the darkness.

The dark space outside of my closed eyes suddenly becomes brighter, which has my eyes fluttering open against the creeping shadows that surround me. The flames of the candles have doubled in size, flickering wildly as though charged with energy from my manifestations.

"Forces of divine protection, power of unbreakable defense, guard me. As I will it, so it shall be," I whisper with excited breaths, repeating the mantra three more times before tying the protection bag closed with a thick, black thread.

Once secured, I tuck the protection pouch into the front pocket of my jeans and rise from the floor, rubbing my now sore knees as I lean down to blow out the candles. Once they are all out, I turn away from my altar and reach out for the closet doorknob, only to find it suddenly illuminated by a single flickering flame from behind me.

Startled, I turn to stare at the candle that has once again become lit despite my surety that I blew it out a few seconds prior. I watch it for a moment, the orange and yellow flame dancing proudly before me.

Frowning, I step closer and blow it out a second time. I wait in the darkness for a few moments as the scent of smoke from the charred wick reaches my nose.

When it doesn't ignite back to life on its own yet again, I turn and leave my walk-in closet and re-enter my bedroom. The spell bag in my pocket is a comforting weight, and I sigh from the relief its presence brings me.

I feel good about the spell I've cast today, confident in my success. I may be new to witchcraft, but everything feels so natural and innate for me. It is as though I was destined to walk this path.

As I head for the bedroom door, my phone rings, vibrating along the top of my dresser where I set it down before heading into my altar space. I grab it as I leave my bedroom and head into the kitchen to make some tea.

"Hello?" I answer as I walk into the kitchen, immediately searching the metal tin on the counter for a suitable bag of tea.

"Hi Selene. How are you feeling this morning, honeybee?"

Involuntarily, I wince at my mom's nickname for me. When I was a kid, she explained that it was because I was sweet as can be unless someone was mean to me. My temper was apparently comparable to the sting of an angry bee.

As a child, the nickname used to make me feel special. An innocent, affectionate gift from my doting mother. It used to be a positive moniker, up until my uncle spoke the word into my ear while he forced himself on me.

It fell from his twisted mouth, defiled and poisoned. Now whenever I hear it, I have to fight back the urge to throw up.

"Hey Mom. I'm good, just about to start getting ready," I tell her, rubbing my eyes with my free hand as I select a bag of fragrant green tea and start brewing it.

"Great! I've got the roast started in the crock pot, but I'm going to need your help with the macaroni salad and the vegetables," she tells me, her voice loud over the clatter of dishes I can hear in the background. She is likely cleaning up as she cooks, something she has always done without fail. She used to tell me growing up that a good housewife didn't leave a mess while she was cooking, she always kept her kitchen clean.

My father used to joke, and lovingly refer to our kitchen as her base of operations. Dad has always been a doting husband to my mother, never failing to thank her for all of her efforts around the home. I was a lucky kid, in the sense that my parents always had a strong, healthy relationship.

"Did you confirm who is coming?" I ask, already dreading her answer. I love my family, all except one particular member of it.

"Oh, yes. It will be me and your father, your brothers, grandma and grandpa. Oh, and Aunt Claire and Uncle Jake are coming too."

I'm looking forward to seeing my paternal aunt, but that's where my excitement ends.

Uncle Jake.I flinch as though his very name is a slap across the face. As my stomach turns, I am suddenly very grateful that I haven't eaten breakfast today because I likely would have lost it right then and there.

I've repressed many memories associated with my mother's brother, even our benign encounters. My subconscious mind has effectively blacked out his name and face from my memories to protect my psyche from the splintering distress of post traumatic stress.

"Okay, Mom. I'll see you soon." My thoughts turn back to the protection spell bag in my pocket, because nearly instantly it feels as though it has doubled in size and weight. The forces that guide me must be trying to remind me that I've cast this spell, therefore I will be safe no matter what I have to face at this family dinner.

My hand, trembling slightly, drops to feel the outline of it beneath the layer of denim fabric that conceals it. I close my eyes and take a steadying breath, trusting in the magic.

"Oh, okay, honeybee. Don't forget to bring the vanilla extract for the cookies. See you this afternoon!"

"Bye Mom."

"Bye Selene!"

I end the call and tuck the phone into my back pocket, grabbing the dark green mug from the coffee maker on my kitchen counter so I can walk it over to stand in front of the sink. As I stand there, I gaze out of the slightly dirty window at my small patio garden out back. The window is large, surrounded by hanging pots with various plants I use for spell casting and wards.

There are several hand crafted hanging ornaments made of old wood and glossy obsidian stone, with protective runes burned into the rough wood pieces, hanging among the assorted greenery. Nobody could enter this space and feel anything but the safe, positive energy I've brought into my living space.

All of my thoughtful warding controls the energy here in my apartment, blocking the negativity that pokes and prods at the barriers shielding me from the outside world.

With a weary sigh, I turn my attention to the large wooden box at the center of my garden which grows atropa belladonna, otherwise known as deadly nightshade. The plant has been growing out of control in the last two weeks, and has required a lot of pruning to keep it in the space I had designated for it.

I haven't done anything differently with my garden lately, so I couldn't figure out why the poisonous plant has suddenly decided to grow rapidly. Especially considering the fact that it's autumn, not spring. At this point, it really shouldn't be growing anymore until spring.

I bring the warm ceramic mug to my lips, tipping it towards my mouth to drink the steamy, earthy tea. The feeling of warmth spreads from my mouth and down to my belly, soothing my nerves.

Lingering on thoughts of my forbidden plant, I can't help but wonder if my own thoughts had anything to do with its sudden speed of growth. It was only a couple weeks ago that I stood in this exact spot, staring at the plant as I fantasized about inviting my uncle over and sharing a cup of tea with him.

A lethal cup of nightshade tea. Sweetened with honey and a few of the midnight black-coloured berries from the unforgiving plant.

I smile to myself, taking another sip of my tea, realizing that it was likely that fantasy that fed my sweet little plant into growing so big for me. I have learned that intention is everything, and since I started my journey as a witch I have been very conscious of how I direct my thoughts and words.

The day I stood in front of this window, watching my deadly nightshade patch while rain poured heavily from the darkened sky above, I set my intentions for it.

Words and thoughts are magic. As above, so below. As I wish it, so it shall be. The fantasy was so powerful in my mind, I must have sown it into the plant itself.

My thoughts wander as I stand there sipping my tea, trying not to focus on tonight's family dinner for my father's 56th birthday. I let myself zone out, staring out into the beautiful little garden, until the sound of glass shattering on the floor shocks me out of my quiet contemplation.

I turn so abruptly, if my mug wasn't already mostly empty it would have splashed hot liquid all over my hands. My eyes scan the room until I find the remnants of a glass cup scattered in sharp shards across the floor, on the other side of the room. My eyes focus on the mess, my heart thumping wildly in my chest, before turning to glance at the cupboard to my right.

The cupboard door is cracked open slightly, and confusion settles in as I investigate it. I always do the dishes before bed, and put everything away in the cupboard. It's my nightly ritual, so I know that I didn't leave that glass out on the counter where it could have fallen.

Even if it did fall, there's no reason it should have ended up all the way across the room as far as it could reach. The force needed to send it flying that far across the room must have been significant, much greater than what gravity alone could cause.

It dawns on me how eerily silent my apartment has become. Not a single sound can be heard except for my breathing. Not a single bird is singing outside, none of my neighbours are making any ambient noise, and my apartment is as quiet as the dead. The silence is a living thing, an ominous presence invading my usually peaceful and positive space.

I shiver as goosebumps erupt across my skin, feeling an urgent twinge of fear from the pit of my stomach. Something feels… wrong. I can't quite put my finger on exactly what that something is, though.

"What the fuck," I whisper, and even that seems far too loud in the deafening silence.

I glance around the apartment, and it suddenly feels too empty. Despite living in a triplex on a busy street, I feel strangely alone right now. Alone, but not quite.

It feels like there is something else here, but that thing doesn't feel particularly human. My intuition is telling me that something sinister has invaded my home, a presence I need to try to send away.

My gaze narrows as I stare at the shattered glass, scattered across the worn wooden floor, the broken pieces like a dark omen. With a sigh, I turn back towards my window to grab a bundle of dried white sage from the sill.

There are several smudge sticks scattered around my apartment, gifts given to me by my best friend Talise who is both a green witch and a knowledgeable Indigenous woman. She wanted to make sure I had all of the protection I needed as I began to practice witchcraft, and I was grateful for her foresight now.

Talise told me that her sacred Haudenosaunee ancestors had blessed the bundles during her rituals, which she explained as she placed them around my home one quiet Saturday morning during a visit. My beloved friend assured me that they would lend their strength to help keep me safe on my journey.

That's why I instinctively reach for one now, holding the bundle firmly in my hand and grabbing a packet of matches to use to ignite the tips of the dried herb.

When I turn back towards the shattered glass, I strike one of the matches on the side of the box to light it. With a strong puff of breath, I exhale on the small flame until it reduces to embers, the smoke billowing dutifully from it, filling the space in front of me with fragrant wisps.

I speak in hushed tones, my breath mingling with the smudge smoke, "Ancestors, please guard my home from forces that seek to harm me."

I walk through the eerie silence, each tentative step made with careful consideration for where each shard of glass landed, waving the sage bundle to disperse the smoke. I touch the four corners of every room, repeating my mantra, until my entire apartment is bathed in the cleansing and protective presence of white sage.

When I'm finished, I extinguish the embers and set the bundle back on the sill. Grabbing a broom and a dust pan, I sweep to collect the broken glass so I can throw it away. When I'm done cleaning the mess, things feel better. Whatever presence was here moments ago, it doesn't feel heavy and oppressive anymore.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I put everything away and finish tidying up in the kitchen. I take the opportunity to tidy the rest of the apartment, too. Organizing and cleaning always makes me feel more grounded and in control of my space.

As I wander from one end of my apartment to the next, my thoughts turn to the spell I cast earlier today. Something tells me that the broken glass and the re-lit flame in my altar room are connected, and I can't help but wonder if my protection wards are strong enough to keep me safe as I dabble with witchcraft.

Not even I know what dark entities linger in the spaces between this world and the next. Growing up, the church warned us all to steer clear of magic and the occult. I still remember the Priest warning us that exposing ourselves to magic meant exposing ourselves to the Devil.

What's done is done, and I have no regrets. I've done what I need to do to protect myself from him, and I won't apologize for that. All I can do now is strengthen the protective warding around me and my home, and hope that it is enough to deter any baneful evil that may find me casting spells in the dark.