Devour – 3

Last updated on May 23, 2021

3.

It was four in the morning when Daniel Emrys stopped the spell. What the hell did he expect? Chris Shane to come walking into his room?

I should have told him my address. But that wasn’t in the spell. It was the repetition of the words “Come to me, you are mine.” And eventually the subject of the spell would appear.

Emrys sighed, sat back on the floor. What the hell. He did everything the gypsy Baron Cimitiere said. What did he do wrong?

If he could get Chris Shane to do what he wanted, he would be a famous man. He smudged out the circle of salt and picked up the wine glass. Maybe he got the wrong wine glass. Maybe he didn’t use enough oil. Too many maybes.

“Baron Pierre is never wrong,” he said to himself. He had used the Baron’s money powder to good effect.  He used the job spell to get him the job he worked at right now—a very successful courier for Fed Ex. Normally, he wouldn’t have been able to get at Chris Shane, but he did have a friend of a friend in the coal industry, who got him in the party.

He wanted Chris Shane for one simple reason: Why was he such a recluse? Emrys was a recluse himself, but was it for the same reason?  He wouldn’t admit to anyone but himself that he was infatuated with the man, his angelic good looks, his mystery and charm. But when he first saw him on the cover of the Wall Street Journal, he wanted to know more.

Emrys tried to discover everything he could about Shane. There wasn’t much. Even his Wikipedia entry was devoid of much other than the WSJ story.  But it had his picture, the blond cherubic man, the wisp of blond hair layered back in a haircut too many people emulated now. Emrys didn’t; his raven hair curled if left too long. But short, he had an endearing cowlick that he kept brushing away from his face.

He sighed, still holding the wine glass. He thought about throwing it in the trash, but decided against it. Emrys walked over to a shelf and placed it there, moving aside some books to make space. At least it was a memento of a fancy party he had gone to.