by Lenore Wolfe
PROLOGUE
SOMETHING WICCAN IN OUR MIDST
Denver, Colorado—Present Day
A young Wiccan woman sat before her altar. She’d lit her candles, cast her circle. She sat, closing her eyes in meditation, communing with her guides, at peace, a brilliant sense of spirit filling her. She loved these moments.
Something flitted across her lids—a darkening—then disappeared. She opened her eyes. Nothing. She glanced around. She must have imagined it. She scanned her surroundings one more time, a bit spooked, now. Seeing nothing, she closed them.
The darkness flashed again, and she’d already started screaming before she could open her eyes again, clawing at her throat with her hands, her scream cut off by something she couldn’t see.
Shadows crossed over her. Red cast a halo across her vision, as a lack of oxygen caused the light to narrow to a pinpoint. Then, right before she blacked out, at the very last moment, his face swam before her.
Dante, her mind screamed. Then, she saw no more….