by Corey Edward
“That’s a lot of Spellcrafters,” I said, awestruck. “I thought we were almost extinct.”
“We are,” said Molly. “This is one of the largest Covens in the entire country. The Blue Moon Coven.”
My gaze wandered around the clearing and fell upon a face I recognized as Alexander Carter, pepper-haired lead curator of the Boston Museum of Ancient History. He was laughing with a couple of witches and one wizard, a chicken leg in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. My heart sank in my chest as it dawned on me that I had deceived him into thinking I was someone else only just yesterday. What would he say if he found out who I really was? I could blow the entire investigation if I wasn’t cautious.
“What do you think?” Molly asked. “Pretty cool, huh?”
“It’s awesome.” And truthfully, it was, in every sense of the word. Even if I was mainly there to gather intel about Alexander Carter, I found it impossible not to admire this secret gathering in the woods. It all felt so sacred.
“Those two over there are my parents,” Molly said, gesturing toward a robed couple standing beneath a tree chatting and laughing with another couple. “I’ll have to introduce you later. They look busy now.”
An uneasy silence suddenly rippled over the Coven. Those who didn’t stop talking were quickly shushed as Alexander Carter, director of the Boston Museum and target of yesterday’s sleuthing, stepped forward to address the crowd.
“Merry meet and blessed be, fellow Spellcrafters, on this most glorious of full moons,” he began. “I am pleased to see you all here and healthy, for much has happened since we last met. We have had some great triumphs and we have had some bitter defeats. But it is thanks to magic that we are bound together here today. It is thanks to magic that we are able to gather once more.”
He was a good speaker, that much was true, with an enthusiasm that was almost infectious. I looked over at Molly and her parents to note that all were listening with rapt attention.
“Once, long ago, a special boy named Merlin was born unto human parents,” he spoke. “That boy was unlike any other human before him, for he was chosen by Fate to inherit the powers of magic. He saved his world from the apocalypse and will come again to save it once more. It is thanks to his guidance and protection that we have survived much persecution and hatred throughout the centuries. Today we celebrate Merlin and invoke his blessing over our celebration of the coming full moon tonight. So mote it be!”
“So mote it be,” echoed the crowd.
“The first thing that must be addressed before we begin tonight’s celebration,” he continued, “is a matter of grave importance to all Spellcrafters of Boston. You may have heard on the news that an employee of the Boston Museum of Ancient History was found murdered yesterday in his apartment. Murdered in the same way that my other employee, Marcus Robinson, was weeks ago. I can confirm that this news is true — and can also confirm that he was indeed a Spellcrafter, like Marcus before him.”
A ripple of cold, emotional energy swept over the forest. I felt it all the way down to the depths of my soul. It was so silent, so still, that even a single whisper would have been far too loud.
“As you know, the revelation of our existence to all of humanity has been a goal of mine since I took command over this Coven. That goal will soon come to fruition. Alas, there are those who seek to come in the way of everything we stand for. These deaths cannot be a coincidence. Not while we are so close.”
It was basically the same speech he’d given me yesterday at the museum, and I still thought it was crazy. Not all humans were as friendly or welcoming to our kind as Frankie and Enisa. There were just as many who would seek to have us wiped off the face of the Earth. And if humanity found out magic was real, who knew how they’d respond?
“Witch hunters,” he said, pausing for obvious dramatic effect. “That is who I suspect is responsible for these deaths. An organization of witch hunters that are well-coordinated, well-funded, and endemic throughout every city and town in America. They oppose our ultimate dream of a world where we don’t have to hide who — and what — we are. I have no doubt that it is they who struck down not only my employees, but also James Candle, who was investigating the murders at the time.”
Tense, hushed whispers rippled through the crowd at the mention of my father’s name. I couldn’t tell if everyone believed his accusations or if they thought they were as ridiculous as I did.
Witch hunters?
Seriously?
No.
No way.
My dad would never have been brought down by some lowly human witch hunter. He had dealt with some before and they were never much of a challenge for him. And besides, witch hunters typically carved crosses into their victims’ chests, not Ouroborus.
I didn’t even think he believed it himself. No, Carter knew something. And that something was important to my investigation.
“But don’t fear, my brothers and sisters in magic,” Carter continued, holding out his arms. “As you may know, I attended an archaeological dig this past summer in Egypt with several of my colleagues. This dig included an exploration of the tomb of a henceforth-unknown pharaoh whose secret burial chamber had recently been discovered. This chamber was filled with mystical objects that suggested this pharaoh was a Spellcrafter. I plan to use these artifacts in our exhibit, ‘Real Witchcraft’.”
Objects including a tome of black magic bound in Darkon flesh. Which “suggested” that this pharaoh was not a Spellcrafter, but a Darkcrafter: one who obtains their magical powers through evil dealings with the Nether Realm.
“The sacrifices of our brothers in magic will not be in vain. Their wishes — our wishes — shall be made manifest. The exhibit and the show will go on as planned: on Samhain night, we will reveal ourselves to humankind as one race united.”
What in the name of Merlin was going on? This wasn’t right. This was… well, risky is an understatement.
“Though we have lost three of our brothers in magic, their deaths will be avenged,” continued Carter, his voice filling with acid. “Of this, I promise you. We shalt not suffer a witch hunter to live. Not now. Not anymore.”
“This plan is heresy,” someone said. A member of the coven stepped forward and lowered her hood, revealing a woman with short blonde hair and striking blue eyes. “I’m sorry, but I can’t stay quiet and listen to this nonsense any longer.”
“Heresy?” Carter turned to face this witch, shaking his head. “No, sister. It is justice.”
“Not according to the Council of Magi. Exposing our race to the world will result in not only our banishment to another dimension, but also in the deaths of many of our kind. When we are exposed, we are burned.”
“And when we stay silent, we are also burned,” came another voice, this belonging to a wizard. “Either way, we are victimized by humans. It’s a vicious cycle that needs to end, and our visibility in society can do that.”
“How so?” asked the blonde witch. “By letting them know where to set their fires?”
“By putting the struggle of our people into the spotlight, we allow our allies to step forward,” said Carter. “We garner support for our cause. Many will stand by us. And if they do not, we will take allies by force.”
A shudder passed over my body. There was something wrong with Carter – seriously wrong – and it was evident from a mile away. I looked at Molly, and she appeared equally disturbed.
“No,” exclaimed another wizard, moving forward to stand beside the blonde witch. “This is wrong. Enchanter Carter, I hereby announce my intent to challenge you for control of the Blue Moon Coven.”
A ripple of murmurs and shock passed over the crowd. Carter, meanwhile, looked far more annoyed than angry over this challenge.
“Very well,” he said, moving forward to meet him. “I accept your challenge. A fight to the death for control of the Coven?”
“So be it,” exclaimed the man. He raised his hands, shouted something in Latin, and sent a blast of b
lue energy flying toward Carter. Carter stopped the blast with a wave of his palms and sent it right back at the wizard, sending him flying backward into the trunk of a tree.
Someone else stepped forward, the blonde witch. And then came more members of the Coven, each one facing another. The spells flew and I didn’t want any part of it. This wasn’t my Coven or my battle to fight.
I turned around and ran into the night, Rusty at my heels, eager to escape the violence. Molly screamed my name, but I kept moving, bolting into thick fog and thicker branches.
I had no idea where I was, where I was going, or where I was supposed to be. Every direction looked the same, and I couldn't even see the lights of the paper lanterns floating in the Coven meeting place any more.
Carter was out of his mind. I could see that now. Whether he was connected to the murders or not, his plan to reveal our existence to the human race was nothing short of insanity. How could I not have seen that before? I understood it now: he was trying to sow discord and terror.
By the looks of it, he was succeeding.
“Henry,” Molly’s voice came from behind me. “Henry, is that you?”
I spun around to see her running my way, her purse flying through the air at her side. Her face was flushed and her breathing was heavy; clearly, she’d been running for quite some time. How far had I wandered from the Coven? And where was everyone else?
“It’s me,” I called back as she approached. “What happened back there?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Lots of people ran away when the fighting started, and I took off to look for you. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Listen, Molly. There’s some seriously dark magic afoot here and it doesn’t have anything to do with witch hunters.”
She bowed her head. “It never used to be like this. Our Coven used to be about love and hope and magic and light. But then Mr. Carter took over a few months back, and all he ever talks about now is his crazy mission to reveal all Spellcrafters to humankind.”
“There’s so much about his excursion to Egypt that doesn’t sit right with me. The Grimoire, the deaths… there’s got to be more to his tale than meets the eye. And the only way I could find that out for sure would be tomorrow.”
“What do you mean?”
“Tomorrow night,” I said, “we’re breaking into the museum to investigate Carter’s office. We need to find out what he’s hiding. Are you with us?”
It was a risky plan, but I didn’t see any other course of action. If there was something twisted going on with Carter, I’d find it hidden at the museum.
“Yes,” she said. “I want to help. I need to help. I can’t sit by while innocent people die.”
A weird crescent shape materializes over Molly’s shoulder as we spoke. At first, I thought I was just seeing things — that my brain was forming familiar shapes out of darkness and fear. But then the crescent became clearer and more developed, and I soon realized I wasn’t staring at my imagination.
I was staring at a disembodied grin.
“Molly,” I said, “behind you.”
“What?” She whipped her head around and looked, but the grin vanished before she could notice it. “What is it? I don’t see anything.”
And neither did I. I instantly felt crazy in spite of myself. Though I was sure I’d seen the grin, it was fleeting and soon vanished. Maybe it really was just my imagination. Who knows?
“Nothing,” I lied. “I thought I saw something. Sorry.”
“You must be really tired from casting that spell. We should get you back home,” she said, her voice quicker than normal. “Take my hand.”
Yes, I was tired, but not tired enough to be hallucinating devilish smiles in the middle of the forest. It was the second time in two days I’d encountered a disembodied grin: the first was in the library and the second time was in the woods. A pattern was emerging. A very disturbing pattern.
She held out her hands. As I took them in mine, I couldn’t help but notice that they were trembling.
Eleven
Monsters And Meatloaf
I picked Enisa up for school the next morning because she was running late and missed the bus. The text I awoke to on my phone went a little something like this:
OMG, IT’S FRIDAY AND I MISSED MY ALARM AND MY MAKEUP ISN’T DONE AND HELP. COME GET ME. NOW.
I laughed at Enisa’s lateness, which was no new thing. That girl would be late to her own funeral. The best thing I could do was not needle her about it, which was easier said than done because of how funny it all was.
“It was just one of those mornings,” she explained as she stepped into my car in a tizzy. “I couldn’t find a hijab to match my outfit, then I couldn’t find a pin to hold it all together, and to top it all off, I didn’t even get to have my morning coffee.”
“Sounds like we need to make a pit stop at Starbucks.”
She grinned. “It always sounds like that to me.”
We made a run for the Starbucks a block away from Dunwich High, where we often stopped when we rode together. While we waited in the drive-thru, I told her the story of all of last night’s events. It was a lot to tell, and it felt like a miracle that I managed to get it all out without exploding into a thousand little pieces. I finished it up with my plan of infiltrating the Boston Museum of Ancient History later that night.
“Hopefully, that plan still includes us,” Enisa said between sips. “Because I’d never let my bestie sneak into a museum without me.”
“I know,” I conceded. “And, of course, it does.”
“Sounds like a fun Friday night. Just don’t forget Frankie’s show at the Brew.”
“I would never forget that,” I lied. Because shit, she was right: the show’s tonight and I’ve totally forgotten. “It starts at seven, right?”
“On the nose.” She blew on her latte and took a big sip. “Is Molly still coming?”
“As far as I know.”
“Did you tell her about our plans to sneak into the museum?”
“Yeah. I invited her along, actually. It’ll be a big help having another Spellcrafter around.”
“Are you sure we can trust her?”
“Why?”
“Just asking. I think something’s up with her, Henry. I mean, I like her and all, but I really do feel that she’s hiding something.”
“I do, too. Last night was the third time I’ve encountered a weird, disembodied grin, and all three incidents were when she was around. The first was right before she walked into the library. The second was on paper, when the Sigil she drew rearranged itself. And the third was last night.”
“Do you think it’s the work of a demon? Er, Darkon, I mean?”
“Might be. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see if she talks. I don’t want to pry anything out of her if she’s not ready.”
We arrived at school and I pulled into my spot. Now I was running late, too, and most of the students had already entered the building. We hurried through the late crowd and up to the library. We almost made it in when Enisa suddenly burst into tears.
Like all bad crying spells, it came on without warning. Only five minutes ago, she was perfectly fine. What caused this sudden change?
She threw open the door to the library and hurried inside. It was empty as always, but this time, I wasn’t relieved for it. Where was Frankie? Where was Molly? Enisa could use their help.
Enisa pulled out the first chair she saw and practically threw herself onto it. I sat down next to her as she buried her head in her hands and continued to cry. Seeing my best friend and almost-sister in such bad shape made my heart feel as if it was fit to burst. I wanted to do anything to comfort her, but I couldn’t without knowing what was wrong. Enisa Yousefi was tough as nails; this display of emotions was odd, for her.
“What’s going on?” I asked, placing a hand on her shoulder. “You aren’t usually like this.”
“I told my parents about what happened with the Fisher twins and the smoke bomb
,” she said.
“And what’d they say?”
“They said that this school does nothing about bullying and Islamophobia. There’s another school downtown, they said, that might be better for me. It’s called the Taqwa Institute for Muslim Scholars.”
“No.” I knew where this was going, and I didn’t even want to entertain it. “Enisa, you aren’t going to-”
“I’m not leaving you and Frankie.” Of this, she sounded resolute. “No matter how good their pre-med program is. No matter how bad it gets. I refuse. I just don’t know if my parents will care to see it my way.”
“Then let me help you. I’ll go to Principal Whateley and complain about them.”
She scoffed. “Mr. Whateley wouldn’t know anything about injustice if it smacked him in his white, straight ass.”
That was true. The Fisher twins were sons of the biggest donor in the city, the CEO of a pharmaceutical company. Their word, as far as the administration was concerned, was law.
“Then we need to take them down,” I said. “All of them. Just like I’d take down a Darkon.”
“Remember what I said the other day? It still applies. I don’t want to hurt them,” Enisa said. “And I don’t want you outing yourself as a wizard on my behalf.”
“We’re not going to hurt them, no. But we can make them feel as much emotional pain as they’ve given you over the years. They deserve at least that much.”
The library doors opened and in walked Frankie and Molly. The moment the duo laid eyes on Enisa, they broke into a frenzied run, shooting down the library steps and darting toward our table.
“What happened?” Frankie demanded. “Was it the twins again? ‘Cuz, if so, these hands are good for more than playing guitar.”
