by Teri Harman
The butler retreated, leaving the office door open. Archard and Rachel had moved back into his home in the foothills of Denver after the success of the healing spell. Officially, the house had been sold after his death, but it still belonged to him. The careful scheming to ensure the validity of his demise had gone smoothly, thanks in large part to Rachel. She’d sold the house and then purchased it under a false name. She’d planted the body in the cave and switched the results of DNA and dental testing so that it was identified as Archard. She’d written the obituary and even wept over his grave for the funeral officials to witness.
No one but she and his butler knew the truth.
“Rachel!” he called. Soon she came into the office. He held the box out to her with a smile.
Her eyes lit up as she snatched it and sat in the nearest chair. She pulled a thin, sharp knife from inside her boot and sliced open the packing tape. Her hand dove into the foam packing peanuts. She pulled out a small tissue-wrapped object and tossed the box aside, scattering the packing across the floor. After stripping the tissue, she cradled the small mirror in her hands and gasped.
“What is it?” Archard asked, leaning forward in his desk chair.
She looked up, icy blue eyes bright with discovery. “It’s known magic.”
Archard returned her grin.
The mirror was a slightly convex disk of pure silver, about the size of a dessert plate. The edge was rimmed in bronze, the back etched with a pattern of the moon’s cycle. The antique dealer had done his best to polish the ancient metal, but a fractured pattern of golden lace, the mark of tarnish and age, remained. Archard crossed to stand over her shoulder. Despite its age, Rachel’s reflection shone clear on the surface.
Archard held out his hand, and she handed him the heavy object. The dealer assumed it had belonged to a noble or royal woman, but Archard felt the heat on the metal, the echo of spells, of magic. This mirror had belonged to a witch. How fortunate for us.
After handing the mirror back, he went to his desk and pulled Bartholomew’s grimoire into his arms. He laid the book on the black marble hearth of his fireplace, a gigantic black opening in the wall, framed by a white volcanic ash glass mantel, and he flipped to the correct page. To all appearances, the page was blank, marked only with faint red lines; but the Dark witches knew it was enchanted and must contain something extraordinary if Bartholomew had hidden it so well. Several of their attempts to uncover it had already failed. But this mirror . . . It must be the answer!
Rachel scooped up three large blue pillar candles and handed them to Archard. He set them along the top of the book, evenly spaced—right, center, left. From the large bookshelves in the corner of the room, she gathered a vial of ocean water, a bowl of seashells, and Archard’s black athame. She handed those to him as well and then went back to find a small picture easel. Kneeling next to Archard, she placed the easel at the bottom of the blank page and set the silver mirror into it, her hands hovering to make sure it didn’t tip. After it didn’t fall, she angled it to reflect the candlelight and blank page.
She nodded to Archard, who snapped the candles to life.
Rachel picked up a pen and pad of paper from the desk and set them next to the book. With the round pommel of his athame, Archard smashed the shells in the bowl into tiny pieces, which he then sprinkled around the perimeter of the blank page. Rachel unstopped the small vial and gently poured the salt water over the surface of the mirror. The water dripped off and formed a puddle underneath the easel.
Everything was prepared.
Eyes alive with anticipation, Archard looked over at Rachel. She smiled broadly, offering the palm of her hand. He held her eyes for a moment and then pressed the tip of his ritual knife to her skin. She didn’t blink as he opened a small cut. He then did the same to his own hand.
Each of them pressed several drops of blood into the bowl, which Archard mixed together with the tip of his knife. Then, carefully, using the knife like a pen, he drew a crescent moon symbol in blood at the top of the page.
Rachel lifted the pad of paper onto her lap, pen poised and ready, and hand trembling slightly with nervous anticipation. Archard’s heart raced, eager to uncover another of Bartholomew’s secrets. After the tremendous success of his healing, Archard was certain Bartholomew would never fail him. He knew the answer to exacting his revenge and forging his own Covenant was in this book. He only had to find it.
Archard closed his eyes and said the spell. “Powers of water and sea, we come to you with a plea. Mirror so clear and bright, reveal things lost with your mystic sight.”
The air stirred with magic, first hot and then quickly turning cold, as the Powers recognized the Dark source of the call. The bloody moon at the top of the page pulsed bright red. Rachel’s eyes stayed locked on the mirror.
In his deep and commanding voice, Archard repeated the spell. The temperature of the air plummeted until their breaths plumed out in white puffs. Rachel shivered, but kept her eyes fixed on the mirror, not even daring to blink, afraid of missing something.
“Archard . . .” she whispered.
“Shh,” he hissed, his own eyes carefully watching the silver surface.
A flash of light burst out of the mirror. The sound of whispers crept into the room, but neither of the witches looked up. Finally, it appeared: the page, reflected in the mirror, with the hidden words revealed at last, crisp and clear.
“Rachel . . .” Archard gasped. She ignored him, frantically copying down every word, all of it in Latin, but that was easily dealt with later.
Frost rimed the mantel and the marble floor around the book. The candle flames flickered, almost sputtering out. Archard turned his head, listening, trying to pick out words as the whispers grew louder. Rachel flipped to the next page of her pad. She copied down everything for a second time—just to be safe.
The whispers grew louder and louder until Archard wanted to put his hands over his ears. Then, with a rush of wind, the voices were gone and the reflection in the mirror vanished.
“Did you get it?” Archard asked.
She nodded, taking a deep breath. “Every word.”
Narrowing his eyes in pleasure, Archard turned to the cold hearth. With one sweep of his hand, an enormous fire burst to life, heat instant and wonderful. “Let’s see what Bartholomew was hiding.”
Together, Archard and Rachel sat huddled in front of the roaring fire. Rachel waved a hand over the Latin words, which shimmered and morphed into English. Archard hovered over her, looking down at the paper. Anticipation skittered around inside his gut, and he could hear Rachel’s heart pounding as loudly as his.
“Read it,” Archard commanded in a hushed, eager tone.
Rachel swallowed. Tipping the page toward the fire to catch the light, she read:
Another town rose against us tonight. I grow weary of these ignorant rebellions, but the unenlightened always fight what they do not understand. However, tonight I gave them a display of power they will not soon forget.
I’m pleased with the results of the spell. It took a great deal of preparation, and I had worried about its ability to raise so many, but it worked. With my unique skills and the Covenant’s magic, the Otherworld could not resist my command. A whole graveyard of souls raised, and half a town’s souls extracted and stored in my carefully crafted iron boxes.
I had full control.
Rumors of this power will spread far and wide. Therefore, I must protect it with a most potent enchantment. Otherworld magic is not for every witch who walks the earth, and any attempt to perform this spell—or any similar—without the abilities I possess, will surely result in death . . . or worse.
The air once again grew cold around them, and Rachel’s lips were pale from speaking the Dark words aloud. She paused, put a hand to her mouth, and let her eyes travel down the rest of the page. She looked up at Archard. “He outlines the specifics of the spell here. Every detail. But it takes a Covenant, a black moon, and Bartholomew’s ‘unique ski
lls.’”
Archard nodded, the fire throwing shadows over his angular face. “What were those skills, I wonder?”
She glanced down at the paper. “It doesn’t say here. We know he could control others, and now it appears that he could control the dead, but how . . . ?”
Archard frowned, narrowed his metal-colored eyes in thought. “Just think of the possibilities—controlling the dead, commanding the Otherworld. Let me see the spell.” Archard held out his hand, Rachel handed over the paper. “There’s a black moon at the end of July,” he said absently as he continued to read. After scanning to the bottom of the page, his eyes widened. “This symbol,” he pointed to a stack of three ovals, with a line through the middle of all three. “It was on the page?”
“Yes, at the very bottom, in the corner and kind of small. But I don’t recognize it. Do you?”
Archard tossed the paper aside as he jumped to his feet. He raced across the room to the bookshelves, scanned quickly until he found what he needed. He brought back a small cloth-bound book, sat next to Rachel again, and flipped pages. She watched him intently.
After a moment he jabbed a finger to the page, a triumphant smile on his thin lips. “There. Look. The key to Bartholomew’s powers.” His heart raced, heat swirling under his skin.
Rachel leaned over to look at the page. At the top was the same symbol and below it the explanation of what it meant.
“Holy mother moon!” she whispered.
“Exactly!” Archard returned. “We know Bartholomew was a Mind witch—there are Mind symbols throughout the whole book—but this . . . this explains how he could do all he did.” He pointed to the spell that had raised the dead. “How he could do that.” Archard flipped the grimoire closed and pointed to the worn, indecipherable symbol on the front, below the Luminary sun. “That must be what this symbol is, rubbed out, either by time or purposely.” Archard inhaled deeply. “Unbelievable. Bartholomew was a True Healer.”
He paused to take another breath, attempting to control the fever of excitement burning inside him. “We can’t duplicate his skills, but maybe there is something else. He mentions capturing souls. Those trapped souls would have tremendous power. Those souls will be particularly angry and potent.” He rubbed at his goatee, grown back as thick as before, and stared into the fire. Suddenly, he jumped up and went back to his shelves. Several minutes later, he returned with a large, crumbling grimoire made of crusty brown leather. Releasing the clasp, he threw it open. After flipping pages for a moment, he looked up at Rachel, his eyes full of devious plans. The fire flared, responding to his heightened emotions.
“What?” she begged.
“I think the souls may be powerful enough to use in place of Bartholomew’s unique skills.”
“What do you mean? You think they can make you as powerful as Bartholomew, a Mind witch and True Healer? Why not just snatch that Light witch boy—the one who’s actually a True Healer?”
Archard waved his hand dismissively. “Because this is far less messy than trying to force him to do the work for us. No, we must use those imprisoned souls. They are already connected to the Otherworld and ripe with Dark magic.”
“And do what?”
The fire flared again as Archard’s mind raced toward the possibilities. “We use them to pull ghosts from the Otherworld, just as Bartholomew did. This grimoire,” he pointed to the dusty pages, “is the last surviving book of a very powerful Dreamer with the Gift of Spirits. Long ago, Light witches tried to wipe out all the ghost spells to keep people from trying to raise the dead—too many people died or worse in the process. But this book survived. With these spells and Bartholomew’s, I can pull any ghost I want back from the arms of the Otherworld.”
“And do what with them?” Her brow furrowed as she lagged behind his thoughts.
Archard slowly smiled. “Form a Covenant, of course.” He eyed Rachel and watched her face as the idea took root.
“A Covenant of ghosts.”
“Exactly! One I will control completely, one that cannot die, or leave, or fail.”
Rachel inhaled sharply, smiled wickedly. “Sun and moon!” she whispered.
Archard snapped the large grimoire shut, dust puffing out in all directions. “We have to find those souls.”
Chapter 12
Black Moon
May 569 A.D.
Mist crept through the graveyard like an unwanted guest, slithering over the headstones, tasting the names of the dead. A squat stone church slept peacefully near the gate, the mist a blanket around its feet. Bartholomew’s boots cut through the dense white fog as easily and determinedly as swords. He strode to the highest hill in the small yard and stopped. A chill breeze licked at his long black cloak, throwing it around his sturdy legs.
His eyes, silver and bright, like the color of the moon behind a cloud, carefully surveyed the marked graves and surrounding area. The smell of the dead perfumed the air all around him: foul, meaningful, encouraging. He shifted his eyes upward to the dark sky—the sky of the black moon—and breathed in its power.
Bartholomew felt the man’s presence long before he heard the loud crunching footsteps.
“Luminary,” the man whispered roughly, “everything is prepared.”
Bartholomew nodded, but said nothing. His energy and attention were elsewhere. With practiced skill, he opened his mind to the energies around him. Immediately he felt the presence of the eleven witches of his Covenant at the base of the hill. He reached past them, found the sleeping graveyard keeper in the crooked shed at the edge of the yard. Farther still was the small town north of the lonely graveyard, and humble church. Each person’s presence filled his head, their intentions shockingly clear.
He exhaled his annoyance. Rebellion was such a bother.
The witch standing next to him leaned closer and whispered. “The mob is now armed and coming this way, Luminary.”
“Of course,” Bartholomew said, his voice like rich, luxurious velvet. “Let us begin then.” He held out his hand, and the witch handed him a moonstone with a crude skull and crossbones symbol etched into the surface, blackened with ash. “Tell them to start.”
The witch bowed and hurried off down the hill to his counterparts, who were already gathered in a circle around a small wooden altar, heavy with candles, herbs, and blood.
Their quiet chanting rose on the air like steam.
Bartholomew lifted the hood of his cloak and focused his mind on the bodies below the earth, turning away from the ones marching up the road. He pushed his powers to their limit and reached into the Otherworld, an icy blast of cold answering his intrusion. His lips twitched into a half smile.
It took immense concentration to push into the world beyond the living, to abuse the link that existed between the spirits of the dead and their decaying bodies, but Bartholomew’s unique powers gave him a keen mind and impeccable concentration.
The stone grew hot in his gloved hand, answering the chant of his Covenant and his own formidable magic. He gripped it tightly, the muscles in his arm and shoulder trembling.
The earth quivered under his boots.
He lifted his other hand and curled the fingers inward, pulling with all his power.
With a mournful cry, like wind over the moors, the Otherworld lost its battle to keep its own. Reluctantly, the ghosts of every body in the graveyard were pulled from the shuddering earth. At first, the wisps of white spirits were indiscernible from the mist, but Bartholomew pulled harder, and they rose above the fog, an army of ghosts hovering over their graves.
His lips pulled into a wide grin.
The ghosts moaned in protest, furious for being ripped from their rest. Lamenting cries flowed from their contorted mouths, staining the air, sending a chill through every person within a hundred miles.
A ways down the road, the mob stopped and lowered their weapons to listen. A whole town in pursuit of evil, blazing torches raised, paused, suddenly harboring fearful doubts. Each heart fluttered with cold dr
ead.
Bartholomew directed the ghosts forward, using his hand to control and direct them. The moonstone in his other hand burned the leather of his glove, reaching for his skin, but he didn’t flinch. The spirits collected in a liquid-like mass at his feet, moaning, shoulders slumped forward, hollow eyes sending daggers at him.
Bartholomew looked into their cavernous faces and felt only the thrill of his impending conquest.
He turned, marched down the hill, his risen army slithering along behind him. They followed, wailing their protests, through the iron gates and onto the road. His Covenant stepped in behind, iron boxes in hand.
They marched until they found the townspeople, huddled like frightened animals in the middle of the road.
Bartholomew stopped, planted his boots firmly in the dirt, and let his ghosts collect around him. They rolled their heads on their feathery shoulders, shrieks rising from their open mouths as they sensed the intentions of the Dark witch. Reaching fluttering arms out at him, they begged to be released. They clawed at his cloak, but, again, he didn’t flinch. Instead, he stared at the pathetic group of men on the road, old and young, with the full force of his moonlight eyes.
At first the group could only stare in horror at the blasphemy before them, but then the panic eroded the shock. Some screamed, some stumbled backwards, and others dropped to their knees in prayer. Bartholomew quickly thrust out a hand and, with a merciless command, froze them all in place, locked in the chains of his magic. The screaming intensified, pushing upwards against the gray clouds.
Bartholomew moved closer. A few men cried out for mercy; he didn’t even glance at them. Lifting his hands, one palm open to the sky, the other gripping the moonstone, he closed his eyes.
Blinding light burst from the stone in a thick ribbon. The witch whipped it forward to wrap around the group, a lasso, a death sentence. His free hand twisted forward, directing the army of ghosts to do their duty.
The ghosts wailed.