Beatrice had perished during the Gray Plague. So had many others close to him. Over that horrific winter, a hundred thousand American souls had been lost to the mysterious disease, and the government, looking to cover up their own incompetence in handling the crisis, had falsely blamed witches and called for their immediate capture, arrest, and executions.
As a witch-hunter, his name and reputation became legend across the nation. Especially when he came up with the idea of burning witches in giant birdcages over a bonfire. The symbolism had taken hold along with the methodology; Crowe’s familiar was a black crow, so the image of witches in birdcages had possessed an elegant sort of logic. Vengeance artistry.
And then he’d met Crowe face-to-face.
When he finally managed to track down her hiding place—a stone cottage deep in the forest, a silly fairy-tale cliché, really—he’d been enormously pleased with himself and grimly eager to present her to the authorities in chains before performing her execution himself. Crowe was picking flowers in her garden when he arrived… another fairy-tale clich. Roses and lilies and anemones, he recalled. She hadn’t even flinched when she saw him standing at her gate, his rifle slung across his shoulders and murderous intent written across his face. What followed had shattered his entire world.
His whole life had been a lie.
A noise startled ShadowKnight from his reverie. He jumped up from his chair, knocking down his bottle of Mountain Dew as he did so, and did a quick sweep of the gaming room. Everything was in its usual place… the multiple high-def TVs… the Xbox, PlayStation, Wii, and Switch equipment… the elaborate routers… the boxy old PCs running Pac-Man and other vintage arcade games… the pinball machines… the VR corner with the Oculus and HTC headsets.
And just past the gaming room, on the other side of the Chinese screen, thirteen candles flickered on the round mahogany table. Next to it, Penelope Hart lay unconscious on the velvet settee. The other body—Mrs. Feathers’s, which was not quite as far along—was still stored in the greenhouse among the jasmine and black nightshade that he grew for his lunar sorcery; he was still contemplating what to do with her. Near Penelope, two large vials of reddish liquid bubbled on Bunsen burners. The lamassu, too, was in its usual place on the bookshelf next to the latest editions of Vigilante Bots and Princess Tokyo, two of his favorite manga series.
Where had the noise come from? ShadowKnight did another sweep, inspecting everything carefully. Nothing was awry. It must have been one of the gaming machines, then. Sometimes, he felt as though they were autonomous and sentient, that they had lives of their own. Which they did in a way, which was why gaming was everything. He only wished they’d had video games back in his century; perhaps he would have been a happier person.
On his way back to his main desktop, where he’d paused his Witchworld game, he passed his favorite scrying mirror hanging on the wall; it was one of a dozen in the house. He peered at his reflection and smiled, then unsmiled, then smiled again. He was glad to be here in the twenty-first century, alive and intact. Although he wished he hadn’t had to dabble in this heart-fire business. Why would Crowe concoct such a perverse “cure” in the first place? Or had that little detail been out of her control, and she’d simply been following a predestined path—for herself, for him—which involved sacrificing several witches to save all witches? What had Spock said in one of the Star Trek movies? The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. What was the loss of a few lives compared with the salvation of many, many more?
Whatever the case, he’d killed witches before, and he’d do it again, albeit much less enthusiastically. He already believed in the truth of the prophecy. Its veracity, its universe-shattering importance, had burned bright inside him when he touched the scroll. And so, with Mrs. Feathers’s help, he’d built his magical mansion in the forest—not like Crowe’s silly cliché fairy-tale cottage, but a 2.0—then set about to locate the scions. He’d taught himself about computers and hacking to try to unearth this information. And along the way, he’d developed a passion for video games. And for Witchworld. And for his favorite Witchworld friend, Pokedragon2946.
Like him, Binx was devoted to witches’ rights and had a deep hatred of the Antima movement, and so he tried to gain her trust by telling her about Libertas. Not the real Libertas, which she wasn’t ready to hear about yet, but a made-up version that would make her like and trust him, and that would have achieved a similar goal, had it really existed. And, underhanded as it was, he solicited her assistance to find Callixta’s scions so that he and Mrs. Feathers could harvest their heart-fire ASAP and restore his ailing health. Little did he know that the first two scion victims would turn out to be Binx’s friends Penelope and Greta.
And little did he know that Mrs. Feathers would give him trouble, too. ShadowKnight hadn’t realized how her trip to 2017 affected her cerebral cortex, slowly changing her. But he knew things were over once she’d started hearing “voices” telling her that the two of them had to confess their “sins” and turn themselves in to the police. He hadn’t wanted to kill her, but he’d had to. And he’d had to make it look like an accident.
But now that he’d harvested Penelope’s heart-fire, ShadowKnight was certain he could fix the harm he’d done to her, and simultaneously fulfill the prophecy. In the short time they’d spent together back in 1877, Crowe had convinced him unequivocally that witches were not the enemy. Humans were. They were the petty, power-hungry, violent race… not witches.
“Now, where did I leave my laptop?” he muttered out loud.
Ah, yes… somewhere near the Bunsen burners. He’d been keeping most of his scientific notes on the laptop, and ditto his notes on the true Libertas project. That, too, had a scientific component as well as a magical one. If Libertas was successful, he and Binx and their kind would all become free. No more 6-129, the old edition, or President Ingraham’s proposed “upgrade” known as 6-129A. No more Antima or New Order.
And not only would witches become free—they would rule, forever. Just as the prophecy stated. Just as Crowe had intended.
He picked up the laptop and pressed the power button. As he waited for it to boot up, he glanced down at Penelope’s still body, which he’d managed to move from her grave via lacus. A magically induced illusion of her corpse was still in her grave, in case anyone checked.
The necromancy spells had not worked perfectly. Her heart—her new heart—beat only intermittently. And some of her cells seemed to have an aversion to oxygen, which might be a side effect of the vertero he’d used to help with her transformation. Perhaps he needed to experiment with different herbs—maybe the ones from the Himalayas he’d read about that germinated only once in a decade, or the so-called cyber-botanicals Binx had told him about?—and also rewrite some of the incantations.
It might help, too, to have other witches join in the necromancy effort. Group spells tended to be more powerful than solo ones. He would have to keep trying to win back Binx. And Ridley, her best friend, seemed to have feelings for Penelope, which would be an advantage. Div should be a natural because he sensed she’d already dabbled in necromancy and other dark arts. And if Div could be convinced, then the other witches in her coven—Mira and Aysha—would surely follow? He wasn’t sure about Greta, though, or Iris. Or the new one, Torrence.
He sat down at the edge of the velvet settee and touched Penelope’s cheek. It was ice-cold. He then touched the tiny heart-shaped mole on her sternum, the mark that had identified her definitively as a scion. It seemed to have changed color from yesterday, from blue to lavender. It was also warm.
Hmm. This was new. And perhaps scientifically relevant.
He opened the corresponding document on his laptop and began to type.
19
TRUTHFUL LIES
Enemies can sometimes turn into friends.
(FROM THE GOOD BOOK OF MAGIC AND MENTALISM BY CALLIXTA CROWE)
“Hey there, Mira, the councilman is on a call, so he’ll just be another min.
How’s school going?”
“Fine, thanks, Ms. Ortega. How is your family?” Mira asked politely.
“Can’t complain. Why don’t you girls have a seat?”
Mr. Jahani’s assistant waved to a row of red vinyl chairs, across from a closed door with a plaque that said COUNCILMAN NEAL JAHANI. As Mira and Div checked their phones, Greta glanced around the room. This was her first time in a councilperson’s office; actually, it was her first time in the Sorrow Point City Hall building, period. Framed certificates covered the wood-paneled walls—awards and accolades from the Downtown Business Association and the Chamber of Commerce and the League of Women Voters—and a lone plant dangled from a macramé hanger. Devil’s ivy, Epipremnum aureum. Next to Ms. Ortega’s desk, the October page of a calendar sported a menacing-looking jack-o’-lantern with the word Boo! inside a dialogue bubble. Greta touched her throat. Her amethyst pendant wasn’t there, so she pretended to rub the back of her neck.
It’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay.
She crossed and uncrossed her legs, then plucked a loose thread from her sweater, which was a happy, messy jumble of colors: lavender, pale pink, moss green, cornflower blue. Mama had knitted it for her last winter out of half skeins of yarn left over from various projects. She’d added a heart design on the pocket because that’s what she used to do when making clothes for Greta and Teo when they were little. She’d made this particular heart very small, so no one but Greta would see it.
“Please let me do most of the talking,” Div whispered without looking up from her phone. “Both of you.”
“But he’s my dad,” Mira whispered back.
“I’m aware of that. If you must speak to him, please keep it very brief. We can’t afford to get emotional and have the conversation degrade into an argument.”
“O-kay.” Mira shrugged and returned to her texting.
Greta started to protest, too—we’re here because of my mom—then changed her mind. She’d asked Div to help with the daunting task of getting her mother out of jail for a reason. Div excelled in impossible situations. Nothing seemed to scare her. She could charm a deadly snake or outmaneuver a hungry panther without breaking a sweat. Greta and Mira really did need to follow her lead and obey orders, stay in the background.
Greta closed her eyes briefly and tried to feel her mother’s presence. Nothing. Ysabel had to be in this building, too, perhaps deep in the basement or subbasement. Papa had explained that when a person was arrested, they were typically kept in a cell until a judge could decide whether or not to release them on bail.
The police officers had taken Ysabel away on Sunday at approximately five p.m. It was now four p.m. on Monday, which meant she’d spent almost twenty-four hours in jail. Papa’s lawyer friend Lionel was trying to help, but so far, he hadn’t made any progress on speeding up the arraignment or getting the charges dropped. In the meantime, Div had suggested that they appeal to Mira’s father to intervene; as a councilman and possibly the next mayor of Sorrow Point, he could surely pull some strings? At first Mira had objected to the plan, saying that he was a stickler for rules and never granted special favors, even when it came to friends and family. But Div had insisted and Mira had relented, and had asked her father to meet with the three of them. For once, Greta was grateful for Div’s alpha personality and general bossiness.
The door with the name plaque swung open, and Mr. Jahani poked his head out. “Hi, Mira, honey. Hey, girls. Come on in!”
Mira stood up, smiled tensely at her father, and headed into his office. As she passed him, he gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, which she accepted wordlessly. Div and Greta followed. Greta didn’t know Mira that well, but whenever she saw her at school or a joint coven meeting or the like, she was usually charming and talkative. The discovery that her dad was so anti-witch must have devastated her…
… not to mention the news about ShadowKnight/Maximus Hobbes, which had devastated all of them. Right now, the other witches—Iris, Ridley, Binx, Torrence, and Aysha—were at Binx’s house strategizing about how to find him ASAP and make sure he was no longer a threat to Callixta’s descendants. He’d apparently claimed that Penelope was still alive, too, although surely that was just a ruse, a red herring, to confuse them?
I tried to warn you about him, Binx. And you didn’t listen.
Inside the inner office, Greta, Mira, and Div sat down on a couch. Across from them, Mr. Jahani perched on the edge of his very large, very cluttered desk. Greta had never seen him in person before, although she’d glimpsed his face on political posters and on TV a couple of times. He was tall and slender and bore a strong resemblance to Mira. His eyes were sharp and bright, although his face seemed strained by worry… or overwork… or both.
She tried to sense his emotions, his inner state. He was worried and overworked. But there was something else inside him.
Fear.
What was he afraid of?
“How’s school going? You two are sophomores like my Mira, right? What kind of sports and clubs and other extracurriculars are you involved in?” he asked Greta and Div.
“Well, I’m in choir,” Greta replied.
“I’m on the Homecoming Committee, like Mira. And after that wraps up, I hope to run for student government,” Div said with a hair flip.
Greta stared at her, as did Mira. Student government? That didn’t seem like Div at all. Neither did the hair flip. Or perhaps this was all an act for Mr. Jahani?
“Wonderful! I was president of student government when I was a senior. Very fulfilling work.” Mr. Jahani crossed his arms over his chest. “So what can I do for you girls today?”
“Well, Daddy—” Mira began.
“We’re here on behalf of Ysabel Navarro,” Div cut in. “Greta’s mom. She’s been arrested for supposedly violating 6-129. But there’s been a terrible mix-up.”
Mr. Jahani raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“The police came to the Navarros’ home last night because Greta’s name was on a list of suspected witches. Mrs. Navarro let herself be arrested to protect Greta because, well, that’s what any parent would do, right? Protect their children?” Div paused and leaned forward. “Mrs. Navarro isn’t a witch. Neither is Greta. She and I have been best friends since junior high school, so I should know.”
Div turned to Greta and squeezed her hand. Surprised, Greta squeezed back. Was this more acting, or…
“Councilman Jahani, we believe Greta’s name ended up on that list because one of the Antima activists at our school asked her out and she turned him down, and he got mad and decided to lie and accuse her of witchcraft,” Div went on.
Greta blinked. That was definitely not true.
“That’s not good. Not good at all. Who was it?” Mr. Jahani asked.
“Honestly, I don’t feel right naming names,” Div said apologetically. “I have no interest in getting him into trouble. I understand how important the cause is and that sometimes people can get carried away. In fact, my boyfriend, Hunter, was telling me just the other day that—”
“Hunter Jessup?”
Div beamed and hair flipped some more. “Yes! Hunter was telling me just the other day that when it comes to witches, it’s best to cast a wide net. Some innocent victims, like Greta and her mom, are bound to get caught up in it, but they’ll eventually be freed when the facts get sorted out. Don’t you agree, Councilman Jahani?”
“Yes, yes, of course….”
Greta glanced over at Mira, who was biting her lip and scrolling absentmindedly through her phone. The poor girl, having to watch her friend and coven leader pose as Antima to deceive her father, who actually was Antima… or pro-Antima, anyway. If there was a difference.
Mr. Jahani reached behind him, picked up his phone, and pushed a button. “Cindy? Yup, I’m aware… but first, can you find out for me if Chief Myrick has contacted the US Attorney’s office yet about the case of Ysabel—” He paused and peered at Greta.
“Navarro,” Greta said quickly.<
br />
“Ysabel Navarro. If yes, get me Keisha Anderson. No, I don’t want to speak to one of the AUSAs. I need to speak to Keisha herself.”
He put his hand over the mouthpiece and winked at Greta. “Don’t you worry, we’ll take care of this. If all goes well, your mom should be home by dinnertime.”
Greta exhaled. Oh, thank Goddess.
“And that’s how it’s done,” Div whispered in her ear.
“Thank you,” Greta whispered back.
“You owe me, Gretabelle.”
“Gretabelle” was Div’s old nickname for her, from back in their junior high school days. Div used it only occasionally now, mostly to disarm or distract Greta. At the moment, though, Greta was neither disarmed nor distracted. Just grateful to her former BFF.
She reached over and squeezed Div’s hand. This time, it was Div’s turn to be surprised.
20
NECESSARY DANGER
Never stop seeking the new or revisiting the old. The craft is infinite.
(FROM THE GOOD BOOK OF MAGIC AND MENTALISM BY CALLIXTA CROWE)
Binx leaned back against her Princess Zelda throw pillow—the B.A. Breath of the Wild Princess Zelda, not one of the other, wimpier incarnations—and fanned her Pokémon deck in her hand. Around the circle, the other witches—Aysha, Ridley, Iris, and Torrence—were gathering their own materials for the calling of the quarters ritual. Nearby, Lillipup was napping in his little dog bed next to Binx’s desk and making adorable snuffling noises in his sleep.
She picked a random card. Slugma, the fire-based lava slug. Figures… Slugma’s stats were super-weak across the board, everything from HP to Attack to Defense to Speed. Plus, if it ever became exposed to the cold, the magma inside its body would harden and slow it down. Normally, Binx would be willing to work with a less-than-stellar card; she enjoyed having to be resourceful and creative that way. But this was a serious coven meeting with serious stakes—they needed to locate ShadowKnight ASAP so that she could cast a double, triple, quadruple aegresco on him, for starters—which meant that she needed to line up an all-star Pokémon roster if possible.
Witch Rising Page 17