Night…trustiest Keeper of my secrets and stars,
who, together with the moon - follow on from the
fires of the daylight. And you, Hecate, of the Three
Heads - who know all of my designs - who
comes to help my incantations, and the Craft
Of the Witches…
The voice in his head grew louder, deafening his thoughts. Desperation drove him up the steps. The hidden trapdoor—he had secretly made after his discovery—remained closed beneath the floorboards. The stench grew stronger, dulling his senses, while sinister, conjuring words of immoral implication attempted to corrupt his reason. The voice now screamed in his ear:
…and of the Earth who furnish us with power over
mountains, and seas…
He reached up to open the little door, but was unable; it was bolted from the other side. He pressed against it. It refused to budge.
Someone had locked him in.
‘Who could have—’ He stopped, unable to think for the voice in his head, its persistence troubling him. ‘The voice… the voice… the—’ His eyes widened. ‘That voice!’
He looked back from where he came. It will take too long, he realised, growing anxious.
He cast his lantern aside—the light extinguishing the moment it left its Master’s hand—and placed both hands on the door, manipulating it with his fingers.
‘Open!’ he commanded.
Instantly, the door flew open, of its own accord, to the bewildered faces of Sofia, and Petrio.
‘Where is Lucia?’ he demanded, taking hold of the boy’s arm.
Petrio stared at him, his dark eyes filled with tears. ‘You’re hurting me!’ he cried.
Frustrated, he turned to the cook. ‘Per favore! Where is she?’
‘I do not know, mio Signore!’ she replied, raising her hands in confusion. ‘I… I have not seen her in a while. Is she not with—’ Sofia stopped herself.
‘No, she is not with him,’ he snapped, aware his cook had been privy to the girls’ rendezvous with her lover. ‘But I wish she was.’
He cast a quick eye about the cucina, noticing another absence. ‘Where are the dogs?’
The cook glanced around her small domain before it dawned on her. She had not seen them, either. They were always with Petrio, following at his heel. It had irritated the Mistress, so much so, she regularly threatened to “rid the house of them”.
Sofia’s silence was enough to arouse his dread and, sensing the boy trembling beneath his grip, he released him. As he moved to question them further, he winced—the throbbing voice in his head growing louder. If it didn’t stop, he imagined it would drive him to insanity. He clasped his hands over his ears, trying to block it out; he had to stop it. Disturbed by their Master’s unsettling behaviour, Sofia and Petrio shared worrying glances.
Then suddenly it ceased, giving him time to think. In his moment of clarity, he felt drawn to the upper chambers of the house—and as he looked up, the disturbing voice returned:
… and may the Gods of the groves, and all the Gods
of the night, be present to help and serve me.
Renew my soul
Renew my life
Renew my beauty…
The incantations continued, clouding his thoughts again.
‘Wait here!’ he insisted, his voice urgent, as he turned on his heel.
‘Signore?’ Sofia called after him.
He stopped in the doorway of her little cucina and turned, to see the look of bewilderment on her face, her eyes wide and her mouth gaping—and the boy staring up at them, his innocent eyes darting from one to the other, equally confused.
‘Stay with him,’ he urged, eyeing Petrio. ‘And do not follow me, Sofia,’ he added, his warning made clear by his sideward glance, ‘… no matter what!’ He then hesitated, now seeing a different look in her eyes—one of fear. ‘Remember what I told you, should anything…’ His voice trailed.
Sofia’s face then dropped; she knew what he meant. Then, taking hold of Petrio’s little hand, she nodded her silent assurance.
‘Grazie!’ he returned, through a forced smile, then left.
Quickly, he ran passed the pantry and on through the little corridor, leading to the servants’ quarters, taking him away from Sofia and the boy. As he stormed up the steps, which lead to the main hallway, a deathly chill crept its way through the great house, engulfing it with its menace. He felt its omen as he approached the hall, but as he began to quicken his pace, he was forced to stop. There, slumped at the base of the staircase, lay the lifeless bodies of the boy’s much-loved pets.
He checked the dogs over; they were dead, but not by natural causes. He stared down at them, in disbelief—the saliva still dripping from their gaping mouths; and their vacant eyes open, staring into the abyss of death. He then looked closely, seeing their teeth; they were stained black, reeking of evil. It was clear something else—something malevolent—was to blame.
How am I going to tell Petrio? he thought, shaking his head. This will break his—
He looked sharp, his attention now directed up the grand staircase.
It’s coming from up there, he realised, keeping his thoughts to himself, fearing, whatever was trying to gain control over their home, would hear him.
Reaching for the baluster, he attacked each step, in earnest—the voice still in his head:
… night wandering Queen, look kindly upon this
Undertaking.
I command you!
Serve me well
Serve me always…
When he reached the top of the staircase, he stalled; it was unusually dark, and bitterly cold. Not a single lantern was lit, adding to the grim atmosphere. As he stepped onto the landing, an eerie silence gripped him.
The voice had stopped again.
He quickly glanced up and down the landing, unsure, then hesitated, feeling its over-bearing ice-cold presence. Suddenly he drew back, seeing it—the sight of it almost causing him to stumble from the top step. There, out of the darkness, a pale, misty hue appeared from the far end of the landing. He watched as it floated over him, swirling, as it crept back and forth down the hallway, as if searching for something… or someone.
It then stopped—outside her door.
He surveyed its ghostly hue for several moments as it hovered, before deciding to follow it. But as he took a step towards it, it seemed to take the shape of a woman.
Then it was gone.
Fearing for the Mistress’s safety, despite their differences, he rushed forward, reaching for the elaborate gold-plated handle, then paused; it was tarnished black, like coal. But even before his hand touched it, he knew he would be unable to gain entry—the unfamiliar power preventing it, its menace pushing him back.
He then heard a noise coming from behind the door; it was the deathly sound of someone gasping for breath. Panic struck him. He had to open it; and there was only one way.
‘You shall not keep me out!’ he snarled at the unknown force.
Reciting ancient words from his inner greatness, the door flung open on his command.
Inside, the room was filled with blinding light, stopping him in his path. However, as he raised his hand, to shield his eyes from its intensity, it quickly faded at his intrusion.
As the light diminished, the blurred image of a figure came into view. He focused on it, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Slowly, the silhouette of a woman emerged. He drew back, stunned.
‘Kristene!’
Her eyes flickered at the sound of another presence in her chamber. She lowered her head, scowling, in acknowledgement of their unwanted company.
‘Kristene! What have—’
As the aura around her gradually dwindled, it exposed her new persona.
He reached out his hand. ‘Come to me, Kristene!’ he urged. She appeared dazed. He dared to move closer.
She stepped away.
‘Please!’ His hand remained extended, waiting for her to ta
ke it.
She did not waiver.
‘I won’t harm you,’ he said, keeping his eyes focused on her, taken back by her appearance; she was barely recognisable from the woman he knew. Her features now radiated—enhancing the beauty of her oval face. Her flawless, ivory skin, glowed with the renewal of youth. Her long, thick hair—once a deep shade of brown—now gleamed of vibrant, intense copper, and flowed loosely over her shoulders.
He moved to encourage her further, stalling, when she suddenly looked down. She was holding something. Curious, he followed her gaze.
Clenched in her small hand, he saw a dagger. It looked unusually substantial in her tiny grip; and she clutched it with such ferocity, her knuckles almost protruded her soft skin.
The long blade bore symbols, deeply engraved in its steel. He struggled to recognise their origin. The image of an unorthodox cross resurfaced from his subconscious. Beneath the unlikely symbol, a mythical creature: a dragon, with its tail touching the cross, uniting them. He could not determine where he had seen it before. He desperately scoured through his turbulent past, when his concentration was abruptly broken by the horror of what had occurred inside her chamber. The shock of it struck him hard as he looked closely at the stained dagger; it was covered in fresh blood.
‘What have you done?!’ he cried, in outrage, grabbing hold of her wrist.
Her eyes, devoid of all sense of reality, stared back at him. He regarded them with caution, before seeing it: their colour had changed. They were no longer hazel, like his, but deeper, intense yet disturbingly familiar.
A sly, smirk crawled across her mouth, its menace disturbing him. Her new amber eyes then slid towards the bed, encouraging him to pursue her. An instant feeling of dread rushed through him.
Reluctant to follow her emotionless gaze, he knew he could not ignore his inner voice. I have to know, he told himself. I have to—
His mouth fell open, in dismay, as he let go of her wrist. At first, he was speechless, struggling to grasp the reality of what he was forced to see, until her name poured from his mouth.
‘Lucia!’
Draped over the large, four-poster bed—he and her Mistress had once shared—the body of their young, loyal servant lay motionless.
‘No! No!’ he yelled, in disbelief, racing to her side.
‘Please—Lucia—be alive!’ he begged, staring in horror at her garments as the blood continued to seep through, where the dagger had been driven into the centre of her innocent heart. Frantic, he pressed his hands firmly on the fatal wound, to stem the blood flow. But as he looked into her pale, dead eyes, locked in death, something struck him: Her eyes! Impossible!
As denial began to set in, clouding his judgement, he shook her lifeless body, in his hopeless attempt to rouse her, repeating her name. ‘Lucia. Lucia! Lu—’
‘The girl is dead.’
He stopped, hearing the familiar, deep voice from behind. He drew back sharply, his doleful eyes still fixed on Lucia’s corpse. Staring down at the stain of her death on his hands, he thought his ears had deceived him.
But the sinister voice spoke again.
‘She is of no more use to you… Lord Oran.’
Chapter Seven
Magia Nera: The name itself was the epitome of corruption, fused with dark depravity.
The tall, slender figure watched and waited in silence, while surveying his rival. Oran felt his searing eyes scrutinise him from behind, while imagining the smirk on his mouth. He contemplated his own dagger, concealed beneath his cloak, deciding it would be ineffective against the individual he was about to face.
It was time to confront his past.
Oran slowly turned, stealing another glance at Kristene, who remained in a transient state of detachment.
‘What have you done with her?!’ he demanded.
‘Is that how you greet your old friends, Lord Oran?’ his rival mocked, in his thick accent.
‘Do not call me that!’ Oran snapped.
‘Denying your true identity?’ Magia persisted. He slowly shook his head, tutting. ‘Such a betrayal! What would they say if they heard you now?’
Outraged by this ridicule, Oran subconsciously reached for his dagger.
Magia Nera threw his head back in laughter. ‘Oh, Amico mio! You were always the humorous one.’
Oran reluctantly returned his weapon to its sheath, feeling somewhat the fool, and seething inside.
‘I had no more use for mine,’ Magia sneered, acknowledging the dagger still clutched in Kristene’s hand.
Oran stared at him, calling to mind the symbols on the blade. His face dropped as it began to register.
‘Ah! I see you remember!’ Magia observed. ‘I began to wonder if time had endured itself on your memory. Clearly not! Although… I do see traces of it etched on your face and’—he gasped, drawing back, feigning horror, as he placed his hand on his chest— ‘Are they silver hairs I see, Lord—’
‘Be warned, Magia!’
‘How long has it been? One? Two, perhaps? The centuries seem to slip, from one to the next—far too quickly.’
Oran tilted his head, scrutinising the dark Warlock, then drew closer. As he did so, he watched with amusement as Magia stretched his height in a bid to meet his rival’s, lifting his head, inviting his nemesis to admire him. It had been more than two centuries since their last encounter. Though, similar in age, Oran noticed little change in his adversary. His sable hair was as he remembered it: long, full, and drawn back from his narrow face. His skin—the colour of ivory, and flawless. Oran recalled the scars that had once marked it—now long vanished. The finest clothing hung gracefully on his frame, as though created by the gods themselves. The perfectly tailored silk shirt, matching that of his skin, exuded excellence. But it was the full-length, sleeveless damask cloak, that stood out—its charcoal colour, Oran surmised, matching that of its owner’s black heart. Oran quickly glanced down at his rival’s soft, leather boots and smirked—the long coat failing to hide the thick heels, fooling the eye into a false impression of height and stature. However, despite his deficiency, Magia Nera’s intimidating presence dominated the chamber.
Oran subconsciously stepped back, tilting his head to the other side. ‘You should be… dead!’ he stated.
‘Should be,’ Magia replied, spreading his arms wide. ‘Yet here I stand, Warlock!’
Oran threw him a disgruntled look, only to have it returned with a smug grin.
‘I see it has been quite some time since someone called you that,’ said Magia.
Ignoring the remark, Oran paced back and forth in front of his rival. He paused as the memory flooded back.
‘But I watched you die… on the battlefield of Wallachia,’ he recalled, staring into his foe’s warm, amber eyes, certain they had once been blue. ‘You fought with us.’
‘And what a great battle it was!’ Magia replied. ‘And you fought well, Warlock… but of course… you were much younger then.’
‘Whereas, you have not aged,’ said Oran, observing him. His eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘Why would that be?’
As the two rivals contemplated each other, it soon became clear, who was the older of the two. Magia Nera maintained his grin, antagonising him further.
‘Answer me, or I shall—’
‘Kill me?’ said Magia, unable to contain his amusement.
‘But I saw you die!’
‘Why, Oran…’ he teased, ‘surely, someone of your worldliness knows, you cannot kill that, which is already dead!’
Oran’s eyes widened as the truth began to unravel, however incredible it seemed.
‘Si! you saw me fall,’ Magia began. ‘But in your haste to win the battle, you failed to notice the figure standing over my dying body, toying with my life, deciding whether I should live… or die.’
‘Tepés?!’ cried Oran, disturbed by what he was hearing. ‘The Impaler?!’
‘You should not have turned your back on me, Oran,’ he replied. ‘It was my last memory of y
ou—fleeing in the moments before I took my final breath. You see…Tepés… restored me to life.’
Oran stared at him, horrified.
‘Life!’ Magia laughed. ‘The irony of it!’
Oran shook his head. ‘Impossible! Did they not—’
‘You are surprised? You wonder, how it is possible? But here I am.’ He pulled a solemn face. ‘Do not look so… disappointed.’
‘How could Tepés have possibly…’ Oran’s words trailed as he tried to make sense of it. ‘They destroyed him! Decades before.’
‘Sciocchi!’ he grunted. ‘The fools! They failed to finish the task.’
‘I don’t understand.’
Magia approached him with menace, casting a quick eye towards Kristene, who still remained in a dream-like state, oblivious to their conversation. He now held Oran’s gaze.
‘They neglected to cut off his head!’ he said. ‘And, in failing to do so, he was not quite… dead! His band of loyal followers retrieved his body from beneath the altar, where he had been secretly buried, and took him back to his homeland.’
‘In Wallachia?’
‘Where else! It was his safe-haven, where he could be renewed. He told me so. And there he stayed, in his immortal world, continuing to fight his battles. His army was sworn to secrecy. No-one else, except his daughter, knew he still existed. And when we fought him, on his soil, he saw his opportunity—I… being the chosen victim for his revenge.
“I will take you as one of my own, Warlock”.
‘Those were his last words to me, before he—’
‘Is she—’
‘No!’ Magia snapped. ‘I would not inflict this curse on her,’ he added, pointing at Kristene. ‘Although… it has its advantages.’
Oran cast him a sideward glance, his suspicions mounting by the second.
‘Tepés lured me into his hidden, fatalistic world, where he nurtured me in the ways of his dark arts, entrusting me into his covertness. He thought it was impenetrable. How arrogant of him.’ He stopped and looked directly at Oran. ‘Do you know his concept of power is—was—comparable to ours. Ours! The insolence of it!’
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