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  Atavus stopped talking again, quietly breathing as if asleep. He whispered, “Before Davis and I left for Eastern Europe, he had married three women.” His eyes flashed open. “Davis was a polygamist.” Darren found his grandfather’s reaction humorous, as if having a polygamist in the family tree was the real scandal rocking their family line. “Two of those women had sons.”

  “Wait,” Darren interrupted. “What happened to Davis?”

  “Ah, well, after we’d routed many of the witches and hordes of Dawsin Gypes from the old country, we traveled west. We planned on returning to the States and were waiting for a ship to sail out of Bordeaux. Davis had heard about an ancient text called the Grimoire of Moloch that supposedly contained all the spells Lucifer had bestowed on the witches from the beginning. He claimed to have a lead to some clue regarding its whereabouts. The last time I saw him was in the catacombs that ran beneath the Cathédrale Saint-André de Bordeaux. I don’t know where it led him. I waited for him to return, but after several days, I began to fear the worst. I spent a month searching for him, but found nothing. No sign of witches either, but they can be canny. When they aren’t casting spells, they blend in with the crowd. I suspected he was captured by a coven hiding in the town, but I could never confirm it. That Grimoire of theirs has been a legend long before my time. It’s mentioned several times in the Grimp.” His hand floated up and waved in the general direction of where Darren was holding the old book. “I think it’s a legend to their kind, like the Fountain of Eternal Youth. Nevertheless, if they were to ever capture a Pessum Ire trying to find it, he wouldn’t last very long.”

  “That man who came the day of Ethan’s funeral?” Darren asked slowly. “Was that Davis?”

  Atavus nodded. “I was back in this valley for twenty years before he contacted me again. He’s been searching for the Grimoire. Complete waste of time.”

  Atavus appeared grayer. He was obviously worn-out as he disappeared into the pillow and his thin eyelids fluttered shut. For a while, the old man simply breathed deeply. At length, he swallowed and continued his narration with his eyes closed.

  “Two of the wives had sons, nine between the two of them. One died of influenza while still an infant. Two others died in accidents before having children of their own. One died working for the railroad; another was gored by a bull working his farm. The other four lived to have families. One had only daughters. The other three had six boys between them. All six were Pessum Ire. Four fought in the Great War; there always seem to be witches in wartime. Of course, I found my way into the battles myself. This war drew the witches like moths to a flame.”

  “There were witches in World War I?”

  The old witch-slayer merely nodded his head. “They weren’t interested in who won the war. They fed off the killing. They set men against men on both sides, walked through the mustard gas, and invited men to join them. They used their spells to appear like women in distress. They were wicked.”

  Darren wasn’t willing to allow the story to end there. “Did any of them have children? Boys?”

  “Two died in the war, ironically, not directly at the hand of a warlock. Stirling died following a witch into a collapsing building. I tried to save him. He’d arrived in the building before me, and when he got there, the witch threw his infernal powder, but not before Stirling had set the thing on fire.

  “I don’t know what happened to the other, Gideon. He disappeared. I’ve always thought the witches got him. There were two other boys who stayed behind to fight witches on the home front. The witches hadn’t moved out west at that point, so Jeremy and David traveled back east where there was a problem.” Suddenly, Atavus’s body sprang forward as he was racked with severe coughing.

  Darren stood and rubbed the old man’s back. He murmured comforting words, some he’d heard his mother use. He glanced back at the door. His parents didn’t rush through, but Crissy, now seven years old, picked that time to shyly wander in. She was wearing a Cinderella nightgown and soft fluffy slippers that looked like small ducks. She wasn’t very tall, and she was so quiet, sometimes Darren forgot she was there.

  “Grandpa’s sick,” Crissy said. She was the only one who ever called Atavus “Grandpa.” She reached up to pat him on the back, but Darren stopped her.

  “He’ll be okay, Crissy.” Shortly after, Atavus eased back against his pillow. His eyes were teary, and his face was flushed with the exertion of coughing. Blearily, his eyes found his granddaughter.

  “How’s Grandpa’s little girl?”

  “Grandpa better?” She gazed up at him with her little brown eyes big and wide.

  Atavus nodded. “Much, little one, much.” He cleared his throat. “I’m going to have to rest soon.” He turned his attention back to Darren. His cheeks were hollow, and dark puffy rings swelled beneath his eyes. “Where was I?”

  “The two Pessum Ire who went back east to fight witches,” Darren reminded him.

  “Witches are scary,” Crissy offered. “I don’t like witches. They make you sneeze.” Crissy was always blaming someone or something for causing sneezes.

  Atavus continued. “Jeremy and David. We all travelled to Pennsylvania by railroad. It was 1937. Many of the Pessum Ire were destroyed. But I was positive we’d routed or driven the witches into hiding. Certainly we’d killed most of them. It’s hard to know. We’d seen through a blanket spell they’d cast, their cauldrons smoking a screen of illusion around them. We found them and a terrible battle ensued. There were the three of us, and our Guardians, and even our Oracles got involved. There was a warlock who could control certain natural forces. Not all witches can control the weather. And when a witch learns a new spell the others can’t do, they guard it jealously. He sent a hail storm against us. The hail struck the ground like bullets from a machine gun. If not for our Oracles, we would’ve all died. They foretold the storm, and we were able to flee. The witches flew at us, using their magic to rout us. In the end, our use of fire overpowered them, and we destroyed most of them. The few that remained fled. Afterwards, Lauren, my Oracle, told us they’d left the world. We assumed that meant they’d gone into hiding. I didn’t see witches again until the Second World War, but even then, not that many.

  “David and Jeremy both had sons, but they were too young to fight in the Second World War. The three of us went to that war. Somehow we’re drawn to the witches, or they are to us. The few we found were casting spells to put men in disarray. Hundreds were killed because of those spells.” He paused and turned to Darren. “Hand me that water.”

  Darren moved quickly to the desktop across from the bed, where a pitcher of water stood next to an empty glass. He poured it, slopping water onto the desk in his haste, and brought it back to his grandfather. Atavus drank it down slowly. Darren watched the lump at his skinny throat bob up and down.

  “Grandpa’s thirsty,” Crissy told Darren.

  At last, Atavus handed him the glass and went on with his story. “The witches and warlocks turned men against men. ‘Friendly Fire’ is not always a mistake in planning or execution in a war. Witches can make men see things that aren’t there. Make them see the enemy when they are really comrades. They loved this trick and filled the air with their hollow laughter. It didn’t work on us, not exactly. We could see through it. But that didn’t stop them from killing both David and Jeremy. I went to avenge them. There was a warlock called Hamlet, who had killed them from the skies. I could never find him.” Atavus’s face contorted in anguish and frustration. Being unable to avenge their deaths was a bitter memory to the old man.

  “David had a son, Charles David, who—though he wasn’t a Pessum Ire—went on to become a Guardian.”

  “You mentioned Guardians before,” Darren interrupted. “What are they?”

  “Guardians protect Pessum Ire. You’ll have one. They gravitate to you, and when they are with you, they will fight beyond human ability. You’ll know when he arrives. You’ll also have an Oracle, someone who predicts or gives you informatio
n you’ll need. Other than lengthened days and being able to see through witches’ spells and kill them with fire, we don’t have any abilities. The Guardians and the Oracles, by comparison, seem supernatural.

  “I am so tired,” Atavus admitted. He was already lying back against his pillow with his eyes shut, and his speech tapered off during his recitation. “I must rest. I’ll tell you more tomorrow.” His lips kept moving for a second, and Darren was certain he was murmuring goodnight to the two of them.

  “Come on, Crissy. Let’s let Atavus sleep.”

  “Grandpa’s tired,” Crissy agreed.

  “Yeah, Grandpa’s tired.”

  Back in his bedroom, Darren went over the words his grandfather—his great-great-great-great grandfather had spoken. It was all so hard to believe, and yet it felt right. Believing what the old man said was sort of like setting a burden down and enjoying the relief that follows. Atavus had sounded convincing when he told of those people and incidents, like it was something he’d remembered, not made up. But 267 years old? It still sounded ridiculous. But was it any more fantastic or unbelievable than seeing Samantha floating in the gymnasium?

  Darren hadn’t mentioned to Atavus that he’d seen the transparent ghost today at school. He should tell Atavus about Samantha. He’d do it tomorrow.

  And, what about Samantha? If she was a witch, and according to Atavus’s explanation she must be, what was he supposed to do about her? Was he supposed to kill her? He was a ‘witch destroyer’ a Pessum Ire, whatever that was supposed to mean.

  He was supposed to kill witches? This whole thing was crazy. His grandfather was crazy, and he was crazy for listening to him. Samantha was a beautiful girl, not a witch. Witches were old crones, casting spells on unsuspecting people. They weren’t real! What was he thinking?

  All Samantha had done was interrupt his basketball game. His mind began to drift, and he pictured her floating in the gymnasium, the wind blowing her blonde hair and the light shining on it in a soft glow.

  As he drifted into sleep, he saw those boys again, only this time they were in the gymnasium, throwing fries at each other. Their feet slipped out from beneath them, and they flew backward in slow motion, floating until they hit the ground. Samuelson’s head hit the ground like a raw egg and splattered into a gruesome display of gore all over the cafeteria floor.

  CHAPTER 5

  That Old Black Magic

  Being a witch isn’t as glamorous as one might think. In Samantha’s case, it meant living on the run, constantly afraid the next stranger in a crowd would transform into a warlock bent on her destruction. Her only hope at survival was to never be found.

  Hiding out as a high school student seemed like a smart strategy. As long as she didn’t do any witchcraft, she’d never be discovered because there wouldn’t be anything special about her.

  She had spent so much of her existence in the Appensus under the Catadromus spell. She was virtually unknown in the world of witches, and, of course, no one in the world of mortals knew her. The Appensus was no life for a child, no place to grow up. It was a gloomy alternate dimension, which all witches had access to as long as they passed through with their familiar. But compared to the world of men, it was like living in a world devoid of life and color. Everything was less vibrant, taste and smell were weak and mild, and there was no hot or cold. The only thing the Appensus really offered was safety. During the routing of the witches throughout the centuries, some had always escaped there to await a new time and circumstance before descending back into the world of men.

  Samantha had left the Appensus when she reached the age of three. For ten years during the 16th century, she and Clara had lived among the mortals in London, England. During that time, the worst event of her life occurred. The Dearth Corner Prophecy was received by her mother. Samantha had been called back to the Appensus only to be cast again into the suspended animated state of the Catadromus spell. But first, she learned her mother had come close to taking her life. She had traveled to the Dearth Corner, an evil vicinity of the Appensus, where she had received a prophecy from her Demon, who offered her clues to her future and that of the rest of witch-kind. Samantha discovered her mother was destined to kill her.

  Having her mother turn on her in this fashion had been devastating for Samantha, even all these years later, but it had drawn her closer to her aunt.

  Samantha and Clara had escaped the Catadromus and the Appensus four years ago through a means her aunt had never adequately explained. Samantha’s mother, Endor, was unable to follow after them, kept prisoner in the Appensus since she had destroyed her familiar and could not leave the realm without one.

  Samantha and her aunt believed that even though Endor was trapped in that netherworld, she could influence things in the world of men. She was an extremely powerful witch. She would find a way to track Samantha down and kill her, even from her prison.

  Fortunately, no other witches knew who Samantha was, though all of them knew of her existence. She was now pivotal to the future of all witches and warlocks. There was no doubt witches from all over the world were seeking her. And that search would end in her death.

  Samantha went by her original name, Sahwin, when around Aunt Clara. Together they shared an old house, deep in a tree lined lot. Clara, who appeared to be in her late eighties, was in her mid-eight-hundreds. Because of the obvious age difference, she always referred to her aunt as her great-aunt when the subject came up. In this quiet little neighborhood, they hoped to remain blissfully anonymous to the world around them.

  Clara silently approached the wing-backed Queen Anne armchair where Samantha sat reading a newspaper from 1957. Using an old wooden staff with remarkable carvings of animals down the side, she hobbled forward, soundless until she stopped beside her niece. When Samantha noticed Clara standing beside the chair, she jumped as if her aunt had suddenly materialized out of thin air.

  “I apologize, my pet,” Clara spluttered. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” She patted her niece on the shoulder.

  “That’s okay, Dear One.” Samantha folded her paper. “Did you find something else you wanted to show me?”

  Clara reached into the folds of her dark dress and held out a black ring in her shaking hands. It was in the image of a serpent wound to fit around a finger, the tiny details of the scales carved by a master artisan. The snake’s head faced forward with its mouth open, its small fangs appearing sharp and dangerous. And its eyes gleamed almost life-like, though made of minute blood-red stones.

  “Something else we took from the Appensus?” Samantha asked, taking the ring and examining it closely.

  “It was your mother’s.”

  Samantha glanced quickly into her aunt’s eyes. “How did you...”

  Clara shook her wizened head. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Why tell me about this ring now?”

  “Because soon the blanket spell will be ready, and we should be safe here for a season. And once we are, we shall have to break the silence with your mother. We need to feel her out.”

  “It’s only been two years, Dear One. If we contact her, she will be able to locate us. You know how powerful she is.”

  “Not even she can penetrate a bubbling blanket spell.”

  “I don’t want to talk to her. She’s dead to me.” Her latent feelings of love warred with the feelings of betrayal, leaving Samantha in anguish whenever her mother was mentioned.

  “No, my pet. She is not dead to you. She has designs on your life that we do not fully understand.”

  “She’s stuck in the Appensus. Without a familiar, she can never leave.”

  “We merely assume she cannot escape. But even so, from that world, she can still bring dangers down upon us.”

  Samantha nodded. She didn’t know how, but she knew her mother could touch this world.

  “I have hesitated to show you these things, but I think it best you see them now. There are things coming. I feel it. You need to fully understand your mother. And no
w is the time to reveal to you her past, as well as your own.” Clara reached into the folds of her dress and produced a small black book. She set it in her niece’s lap.

  Samantha opened the pages and recognized it immediately.

  “A bible?”

  “Open to the first book of Samuel, chapter twenty-eight.”

  Samantha did as she was instructed. Having found the page, she glanced at her aunt, but Clara merely motioned to the book. Samantha started reading. She finished the chapter and arched an eyebrow at her aunt. “I assume this is my mother. She is the witch mentioned in these pages?”

  “She is. This is where she got her name, Endor. Prior to those days, she was known as Andras, and I was Shalbriri. Your mother, however, is the witch that King Saul visited to call up the dead prophet Samuel.”

  “But that was thousands and thousands of years ago!”

  “1007 B.C. is the year Saul faced the Philistines.” Clara’s eyes glazed over as she looked off, appearing to see that far away time.

  “This is an unbelievable story.” Samantha never considered how far back her mother’s life extended.

  “Yes, but the scripture doesn’t give you the complete story. Put on the ring.”

  Samantha placed the black serpent ring on her right index finger. “Now what?”

  “Start at verse seven and begin reading.”

  As soon as Samantha’s eyes scanned the page, Clara began waving her hand over Samantha’s head. Softly she chanted, “Spectare Endor... Spectare Endor...”

  The words on the page blurred, and, along with them, the book and the room. When focus returned to her eyes, Samantha found herself inside a small wattle-and-daub brick hut. Her head turned quickly to the right, and she realized she wasn’t in control, but riding along, looking through the eyes of someone else. Her hand pulled aside a ragged drape to reveal a small room. She caught a glance at the aged fingers and saw her mother’s black serpent ring on the right index finger; the same finger on which Samantha had placed the ring. Ah...I’m inside my mother. Interesting, she thought to herself.