The COMPLETE Witching Pen Series, Boxed Set: The Witching Pen, The Sands Of Time, The Demon Bride, The Last Dragon and Wilted

by Dianna Hardy

  “You met a Shanka demon.”

  “You know about demons? What's a Shanka demon? Why have you never told me before? Why don't I know about demons?”

  Ignoring most of her questions, as usual, her mother got straight to the point – as usual. “Demons rarely cross dimensions. Shanka demons are one of the few that do. They are a type of incubi, and their women, succubi – they connect with you through your dreams, often to seduce you so they can steal your sexual energy to feed their own strength, sometimes so they can impregnate you to ensure continuation of their bloodline in this dimension, and occasionally for some other, greater purpose that's not always known to us. As a tribe, they have exactly one goal and they are ruthless in attaining it: they want to rule over our dimension.”

  “And … they're using the pen to help them do this?”

  “I would say so – not just the pen, but you too.”

  Elena's stomach sank. She felt sick. Her throat forced out the word that was eating away at her brain. “Impregnate?”

  Her mother ignored her. “The plane crash was a demonstration. It was to show you what they are capable of and that they're serious about it.”

  “Those words were in my handwriting.”

  “Yes. Your demon wanted you to understand the power that he has over you.”

  “Why? And he's not my demon.”

  Her mother sighed. For a fraction of a second, something that looked like tenderness shone through her features and Elena remembered a moment when she was five, both of them laughing together, sitting on the swings in the park … then the softness was gone and her distant, cold mother stood before her once more.

  “You're a thirteenth generation witch, Elena – and a virgin. He's come to claim you, and your magic, as his own.”

  ~*~

  Karl's limbs were starting to hurt, because he was stiff as a board. He didn't dare move. If he moved, he may just lash out and hit something. Hearing that Elena was in any way drawn to the demon was enough to churn his blood, but hearing that he – it – wanted to claim her, had violated her through her dreams, had his blood boiling with an anger very few people had the misfortune to witness. He remembered the scream she'd let loose that had pierced the night. He'd touched her … he'd touched her.

  What the hell was 'claiming' her supposed to mean anyway? Elena belonged to no one – she wasn't some kind of possession...

  The thought of someone forcing himself upon her sickened him. But this wasn't someone, this was something. Once again, this was a magical incident – once again, he would be rendered useless and unable to do anything to help. Because he was not magical.

  He gritted his teeth. If anyone thought he was about to lie down and just let Elena be seduced by some demon, they had another thing coming, magic or no magic.

  Elena's pinched tone brought him out of his thoughts. “How do I stop him?”

  “I don't know that you can.” A crack sounded in Mrs Green's voice. The woman's façade was breaking – twice he'd noticed this since she'd arrived and it was twice more than he'd have expected. Maybe he should be relieved that she wasn't a complete ice queen, but he was more worried about what it meant.

  “Then … how do I stop more planes going down? How do I make sure he can't control what I write?”

  “I'm not sure of that either. You'll have to try and fight him, or use a protection spell before you sleep; he can only reach you in your dreams – that's the only time he's corporeal. Any other time, he's just a shadow … maybe have Karl protect you...” She said this reluctantly, her disdain audible. He was used to it by now. He'd always assumed it was because she didn't want her daughter losing her powers to him – he was the ultimate threat to her and her lineage. Until now.

  He spoke for the first time since she'd gotten here. “Maybe we should tell The Council.”

  “Really, Karl … and what do you know of The Council?”

  “Mum, stop it – you can't ask Karl to protect me one minute, then treat him like shit the next.”

  Elena's voice was trembling. She didn't usually speak out against her mother.

  I guess feeling responsible for a plane full of people dying will alter your priorities, thought Karl, wryly.

  Mrs Green exhaled sharply. “Fine. But we're not involving The Council. They'll turn your lives upside down to solve any problem.”

  “If people are dying, is that really an issue?” asked Karl.

  A smirk turned up the corner of the woman's mouth. “They'll interrogate you, leave no stone unturned and nothing you hold dear will belong to you any more, it will belong to them – you have no idea, boy.”

  He bristled at the insult, but remained silent, refusing to let her push his button. He didn't know why, but he was sure something wasn't right. All the information Mrs Green had given them had been to the point and concise – too concise...

  “Mum, what do you think I should do with the pen? Should I hide it? Maybe then, the demon won't know where it is. You seem to know more about this than me – maybe you should take it and keep it safe.”

  Her mother looked surprised. “And how would I be able to do that when you're the only one who can touch it?”

  Elena looked at Karl in confusion. His super-logic kicked in straight away and he shot her a glance he hoped she'd interpret as 'keep quiet'.

  “Yes, of course. In all the chaos we forgot … Elena, remember what happened when I tried to pick it up?”

  “Oh...”

  He held his breath, hoping she'd trust him enough to go with the lie.

  “Yes, of course...”

  Good.

  “Well, Elena, I have to go now – I have appointments I can't cancel. But these are for you.” She produced two small, leather-bound books from her bag. “This one contains stories of myths and legends; there's one called The Witching Pen – maybe you'll find it useful. And this one...” She hesitated before giving it to her daughter. “This is about the Shanka tribe and their history. Consider it your demon bible until we know better what to do. I'll see myself out.”

  With a curt nod to Karl and not even a goodbye to Elena, Mrs Green made her way out of the flat, leaving them both in silence.

  The door clicked shut behind her.

  Elena spoke first. “Wow. What a lot of information – and also not a lot, if you know what I mean.”

  Karl said nothing, lost in thought, staring at the pen on the kitchen table. He walked over to it and picked it up.

  “What was all that about? Nothing happens to you when you touch the pen.”

  “But your mother seems to think it does … seems to think you're the only one who can touch it.”

  “Why not just tell her the truth?”

  “Because I'm afraid we can't trust her, Elena.”

  “Karl, I know she's cold, but this is big stuff – she wouldn't keep anything from us, surely. Why would she?”

  “I don't know why, but she is. You never told her what the demon looked like over the phone, and yet she pulled out a book about that very demon from her bag. She's not telling us everything. I'm sorry, Elena, but we can't trust her.”

  Chapter Four

  Elena's eyes were starting to hurt. All she could see in front of them was black and white print, the word 'demon' and the vision of a plane crashing as people screamed. To make things worse, every now and then she caught an image of her future self, her belly blown out and undulating with demon spawn. Gross. Gross, gross, gross!

  She and Karl had just read all about 'the witching pen' and the Shanka tribe from the books her mother had given her, and she wasn't sure she was any the wiser. The story of the witching pen was straight forward, the purpose of the pen, a bit clearer – she just had no idea what it had to do with her. The history of the Shanka was interweaved with the myth of the witching pen. From what she could gather it told the tale of the creation of the demon world, sort of like the story of Genesis, only for demons. She would therefore assume that some of it would be half-truths, steeped in ag
e and mystery – clues rather than fact...

  At the dawn of time, seven demon tribes walked the earth: the Lagool, the Brujii, the Malattal, the Brokk, the Totilemi, the Dessec and the Shanka.

  Lokoli was the queen of all demons, with magical abilities that were unmatched and a bloodthirsty nature that knew no mercy. Similar to any archetypal God or Goddess, how she actually came into being was not known. But Lokoli was responsible for the creation of all demons, able to build and destroy worlds at a whim with her pen – the witching pen. More powerful than her wand and greater than any known magic, it belonged to its master alone, the fires of death coming to all others daring to even touch it.

  One day, tired of being alone and of having no one to share her creations with, she decided that she needed a mate – not just any mate, but the strongest, most bloodthirsty demon – one that she would regard as an equal in every way. So, with the witching pen, she wrote six races into being. The Lagool lived in water – oceans, rivers and swamps – and she gave them the gift of sight. The Brujii lived in the forests and woods, and were given the gift of magic. The Malattal lived under the ground, in caves, and held the gift of prophecy. The Brokk inhabited the cold places of the north and were given the gift of immortality. The Totilemi were not limited to a region, but travelled the earth, and were given the gift of knowledge. Finally, she created the Dessec to inhabit the hot deserts, and gave them the ability to bend time.

  Observing her work, Lokoli still felt unhappy. She realised that in order for a mate to truly be her equal, they would have to match her in power. So she decided to create one more race: the Shanka. They were given the gift of creation itself – power over life and death would be theirs. But too afraid they would one day use their gift to destroy her, she banished them from the earth, forcing them to live ethereally, only able to enter this dimension through shadows and dreams.

  Centuries passed, and the seven demon tribes grew strong and proficient in their separate crafts. The time had come to find her mate. She declared that each tribe must choose a worthy champion to represent them. The champion must show her to what extent he had mastered his gift. The one who had learnt to use it most wisely, to its fullest potential, could claim her as his and share in her power. Together they would rule over all.

  One by one, each demon champion showed her the best he could conjure with his gift. She remained unimpressed. They showed her nothing she couldn't do herself – until the champion of the Shanka began to appear in her dreams. He was nameless and faceless, moving within shadows, living only in her dreamworld. She could not grasp him, could not control him, and with every new night, she found herself more and more intrigued by his mystery and powerful magic, until she became obsessed with lust and passion for him. He filled her mind.

  She announced him the winner and the new king of demons, to rule beside her. She presented him with the infamous witching pen – now he would wield it too.

  That night, as promised, she allowed the Shanka to claim her and her powers. But she did not know the seething anger that the Shanka tribe held towards her – an anger they had kept hidden in the shadows where they lived. Enraged at being outcast from their rightful home, that night, in the throes of Lokoli's passion, the Shanka stole her life as well as her magic...

  “I wonder what happened next,” said Karl.

  Elena flicked through the last few pages. “There's just a bit more about how, even though the Shanka were now rulers of all demons, they couldn't actually rule over them because even with Lokoli's death, they could still not materialise in this world. But they kept the pen, which was now rightfully theirs, and have made it their mission to find a way into our world, which they consider their rightful home … And that's pretty much all it says.”

  “Why not just write what they want into existence?”

  “Maybe they can't. Maybe the conditions of their creation are too big for them to undo … or maybe they can't hold the pen because they're not corporeal – who knows.”

  “So they're using you to do it instead.” His voice was as grim as her thoughts. “Why you?”

  “Mum said they want my powers. Makes sense. Look what they did to their own queen.”

  They both fell into silence, yet their thoughts seemed to bounce off the walls: one of these nights, she might be the one to die in her dreams.

  “I won't let it happen, Elena.”

  Glancing up at him, she marvelled at the certainty in his voice. Karl had nothing to protect himself with, nothing to protect her with, and even though she couldn't quite believe his words, they still felt like a warm blanket around her. She smiled her thanks and hid her worry.

  “I don't want to leave you, but I've got to go to my group.”

  “That's okay. It's not even midday – I won't be going to sleep any time soon.”

  “Yeah, well, call me if you need anything. I'll be back around three.”

  “You just take care of your group; I'll be fine.”

  Every Sunday, Karl ran a group called Fighting Fists. Ever since he was a boy, he and his mother had been regularly beaten by his alcoholic father, who hosted a lifetime's worth of anger issues. His mother was constantly black and blue, at first in places no one could see; then he got more cocky, and when Karl was around fourteen, she'd started sporting the occasional black eye, or swollen cheek. There were only so many times you could fall down the stairs or walk into a door and eventually, people began to talk. His father was too drunk to notice or care. It wasn't long before the police started to turn up – Karl had even been responsible for a few of those calls. Sometimes, his dad would just get locked up for a night, sometimes they only issued a warning. His mother had been crazy-scared of what he'd do to her if she ever filed a report against him, so she never did.

  One day, when Karl was seventeen, he'd come home from school and found his mother dead on the living room floor. Her face had been smashed in with a lava lamp. Who knew those things could be so tough?

  Naturally, Karl had grieved, but with an eerie maturity beyond his years, he had also accepted that there was nothing more he could have done when all the help that was offered her, she'd refused.

  His father was sentenced to fifteen years in prison with the possibility of early probation after ten years for good behaviour, and providing he remained clean. Since Karl's eighteenth birthday had only been two weeks away, social services had dragged out the initial paperwork so that by the time accommodation could be sorted for him, he'd already become an adult by law. They'd left him alone after that.

  Everyone had told Karl he'd been so lucky to avoid his dad's fists; some people had asked him how he'd managed it. None of them realised that he had also, repeatedly, been on the receiving end of his father's tirades, even thrown himself in the firing line to protect his mum. But Karl, was one of those exceptional people that just didn't bruise. She'd seen it herself.

  Once, she'd found him at her doorstep, limping because his dad had jumped on his leg after knocking him to the ground. It had been a miracle his bones hadn't cracked. Fully intending to heal him with her powers, he'd pulled down his trousers to reveal unmarked skin where there should have been blue and purple marks. Even though some of the physical pain remained, the limp had all but gone the next day. Eventually, the pain had gone too.

  Every Sunday, Karl tried to give a group of strangers, victims of domestic violence, what he couldn't give his mother: the courage to fight back, no matter how impossible it seemed.

  Elena looked down at her books, then at the clock. He'd only been gone fifteen minutes. With a sigh she stood and stretched her limbs. She was sick of reading about a problem she couldn't solve. Now would be a good time for the friends she didn't have – catch up on her girly time and get her mind off things.

  Maybe I should conjure myself some friends … she looked at the pen still sitting on the breakfast table and shivered. Maybe not.

  She wasn't sure she wanted to touch it ever again knowing what she knew now.

  T
he doorbell rang.

  She frowned. Had Karl forgotten his keys?

  The audio on the intercom hadn't been working for weeks, so she buzzed whoever it was straight in and opened her front door. Footsteps sounded on the stairs, sounding less sharp than her mother's had – no heels.

  “Hello?” called out a familiar voice.

  Amy? How weird.

  “Amy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Up here – just one more flight.”

  Looking as friendly as ever, Amy's blonde hair seemed to bounce ahead of her as she ascended the stairs. It always looked pristine, as if she'd just stepped out of a shampoo ad.

  Elena's hand flew to her own dark brown mane. In contrast, it was thick and unruly. Its only redeeming feature was that, when the sun shone on it, hidden strands of red and gold came to life.

  “Elena, I hope you don't mind me turning up. I was passing by.”

  “Not at all. Come in.”

  “Thanks.” She flashed a smile.

  Elena wondered if either of her parents were dentists.

  Closing the door behind them, she showed her into the kitchen and pulled out a chair. “Would you like a drink?”

  “Do you have any lemons?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great. Can I have a hot water with lemon?”

  “Coming right up.”

  “Wow, what a sweet place. Do you live here on your own?”

  “I share with a friend.”

  “That's nice. I live on my own and the bills are stupidly high.”

  “It is nice to share costs, I guess … So, what brings you to sunny Wimbledon?”

  “I'm meeting someone here anyway, and, well, I wanted to call in and say I'm sorry if I upset you yesterday when I asked you to lead the session next week.”

  For a minute, Elena caught her breath, thinking that Amy had figured out she'd been the one responsible for her flashing the entire group. She sort of regretted doing it now.

  “I don't want to force you to do it if you're not comfortable with it.”