Hedge Witch Diaries Complete Series Boxed Set, page 14
“Sorry,” I murmured, setting the bloody bullet in an ashtray on my coffee table beside the remnants of an already-smoked joint.
To my surprise, the wound was already beginning to heal, the torn flesh knitting itself back together as if guided by an invisible hand.
“Your curse,” I breathed, awestruck. “It’s healing you.”
“Told you,” Dorian panted, his face still pale and drawn from the pain. “I can’t be killed that easily.”
“I’m not sure it’s a curse. I wouldn’t even know you without it.” I tried to sound more confident than I felt. “There’s no telling what this wound would have done otherwise. It was a nasty one. Could have gotten infected.”
“Still, it’s not something I’d wish on anyone,” Dorian replied, his voice strained. “It comes with its own set of problems.”
“Let me clean you up.” I grabbed a warm, damp rag from the bathroom. Gently, I wiped away the blood smeared across his back, revealing the now-closed wound beneath.
“Thanks,” Dorian murmured, his eyes meeting mine before he looked away. The vulnerability in his gaze was disarming and made my heart twist.
“Right, you’ll need a shirt,” I announced, trying to break the tension. I rummaged through Aiden’s closet, searching for something to fit Dorian. My fingers brushed against a cotton T-shirt, and I couldn’t help but laugh when I read the words printed across the front: “Don’t you wish your boyfriend was hot like me?”
“Here, try this on.” I tossed the shirt to Dorian. He caught it with a raised eyebrow, then chuckled as he read the words.
“Your brother is quite the character,” he commented, pulling the shirt over his head. It was a tight fit, the fabric stretching across his broad shoulders, accentuating his impressive musculature.
“You have no idea,” I rolled my eyes, smiling at his reaction. “Aiden’s got a good heart, but he has a real weakness for the ladies. And the booze. And the weed…need I go on?”
“Family is family.” Dorian chuckled. “I haven’t had much of that in centuries. Don’t take it for granted.”
I chuckled. “I try not to. Aiden can be a challenge, though.”
“Speaking of challenges.” Dorian’s expression turned serious. “We need to alert the Morai about what happened with Jim Bob and the Honeycuts.”
I shook my head vehemently, my heart racing at the thought. “No, absolutely not. We can’t trust them.”
“Look, I’m not saying we trust them,” Dorian admitted, his dark eyes searching mine for understanding. “We might not have a choice. I’ve seen what happens when a few folks start to get into a frenzy about witches. I’ve lived through more witch trials and inquisitions than I can count. Trust me, whatever threat the Morai might pose, it’s nothing compared to that. It’s better they hear it from us before they find out for themselves. There’s no telling what they’ll do if they find out a band of locals is set on killing witches.”
“Witch trials? It’s the twenty-first century. Surely that wouldn’t happen. We’re talking about a few backward rednecks who barely know their asses from their faces,” I countered, feeling frustration bubble up inside me. “The Morai tried to kill you before. I’d rather take my chances with a few ignorant hillbillies.”
Before he could respond, a loud knock on the door startled both of us. My heart raced, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. I feared it could be Jim Bob or the Honeycut brothers coming to finish what they started.
“Wait,” Dorian whispered, pulling me back by the arm. He looked tense, his jaw clenched, and every muscle in his body tense like a coiled spring. “Let me handle this.”
As I stood behind him, the seconds stretched out, feeling like an eternity. The weight of uncertainty hung heavy in the air, the threat outside our door a haunting reminder of the dangers lurking in the shadows. Who knew what we would find when that door was opened—friend or foe, ally or adversary?
Whoever was on the other side of the door wasn’t dissuaded by the rain. It definitely wasn’t a local Girl Scout trying to peddle her cookies.
Dorian cautiously opened the door, and I peeked from behind him. To our surprise, standing on the doorstep was none other than Gareth, flanked by two attractive young blonde witches. Rain dripped from their hair and noses. Their eyes were steely and cold, their expressions unreadable. They seemed to be sizing us up, like predators assessing their prey.
“Good evening, Dorian, Briar,” Gareth greeted coolly, his voice smooth as silk but carrying an undertone of something sinister. “We need to talk. There are important matters to discuss.”
My breath hitched in my throat, and I glanced at Dorian, who looked as wary as I felt. His eyes narrowed, and I saw the gears turning in his head, trying to figure out why Gareth was suddenly on our doorstep. With company, no less. From the little I knew about the Morai, they weren’t the kind to show up on a social call.
“Y’all can stand out in the rain all I care,” I snapped.
Gareth tilted his head as his eyes met mine. “I told you before. I intend you no harm.”
“Can’t say the same about Dorian,” I grunted.
“Let them in,” Dorian replied, his voice low and guarded. “But you’d better make this quick, Gareth.”
As the trio stepped inside, I couldn’t help but feel a shiver run down my spine. Something about this whole situation felt off, like a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit. Why were they here? Did they know about Jim Bob and the Honeycuts? Or was it something else entirely?
“Have a few towels?” Gareth asked.
I watched as the water dripped off them, puddling on the floor under the witches’ feet. I sighed. “Fine. Give me a second.”
I returned a few seconds later with three bath towels. I tossed them at Gareth and each of the witches. They snatched them from the air.
“Thank you for your hospitality,” Gareth stated, a sly smile on his face.
“All right, Gareth.” Dorian folded his arms. “What’s so important that you had to come here in the middle of a storm?”
Gareth’s eyes danced around the trailer. He spotted the first aid supplies by the couch, the bullet in the ashtray, and Dorian’s bloodied shirt.
“I think you know why we’re here. It seems you’ve already been targeted. I can’t say I’m not disappointed they did not succeed, but I suppose I need your help now as much as you need mine.”
Dorian’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of help?”
“The kind of help only you can provide,” Gareth replied, his voice dripping with honeyed words. “As you know, the Morai have been keeping a watchful eye on the witches in this area. We’ve noticed a disturbing trend, a sharp rise in the number of witches who have gone missing over the past few months. We suspect foul play, but we can’t be sure.”
“What does that have to do with us?” I asked, feeling a knot form in my stomach.
“We need your help to find out what’s been happening to these witches,” Gareth explained. “We believe whoever is responsible is likely connected to those who attacked Dorian. We need to stop this before anyone else gets hurt.”
“Why should we help you?” Dorian asked, his voice laced with skepticism. “You tried to kill me once before, remember?”
“Bygones?” Gareth smirked. “This changes nothing between us. Between any of us.”
Gareth shifted his glance toward me.
“There is no us, Gareth. Never will be.”
A shit-eating grin split Gareth’s face. “Time will certainly tell.”
Dorian tilted his head. “If what you say is true, the men who shot me tonight must’ve been after some vengeance for me breaking up their fight the other night at the bar.”
Gareth inhaled sharply. I glanced at the two other witches who stood next to him. They hadn’t said a word, but, damn, they were beautiful women. Apparently, witches weren’t all old hags and homely eccentrics. “There’s a group that’s moved into town. They’ve been here for several weeks. They hail from Europe originally but make no mistake, this group of zealots has dispatched more than one coven in their time. They’ve been making their way across the country, eliminating one coven after the next. They know what they’re doing.”
“Well, that’s not the folks we’re dealing with. I know the guy who shot Dorian and the men with him.”
“This group has a standard operating procedure. They spread rumors among the local population. They recruit from among them. Their goal is to turn everyone against us so we have little place to hide. Wherever they go, it always ends the same.”
“What is this group?” Dorian asked. “I’ve dealt with inquisitors before.”
“Which is precisely why the Grand Coven insisted I set aside our personal differences and beg your assistance.”
I tilted my head. “The Grand Coven is behind this?”
“It’s not a surprise,” Dorian explained. “Any group that’s systematically targeting covens around the world would be of grave interest to the Grand Coven.”
“I did manage to capture one of these inquisitors,” Gareth mentioned before turning to one of the two witches beside him. “Why don’t you show them what we found on his person.”
One of the witches pulled a small but thick book from inside her jacket and dropped it on the coffee table.
The cover simply read Daemonolatreiae.
Dorian’s eyes widened when he saw it. “You’ve said enough. I’ll help however I can.”
I tilted my head. “Seriously? What’s so important about this book?”
Dorian took my hand. “The Daemonolatreiae was written by a French inquisitor and demonologist in the sixteenth century by the name of Nicholas Rémy. He wrote it to serve as a guide for those who might follow in his footsteps to burn witches in subsequent generations. Nicholas Rémy oversaw the murder of more than nine hundred witches in his time.”
I gulped. “Nine hundred? Holy shit.”
“And his followers have condemned thousands more through the years,” Gareth added. “Their methods are clever and effective. They have methods to thwart our magic and spells. Only one warlock has ever stood against them and prevailed.”
Dorian sighed. I glanced at him with narrowed eyes. “Don’t tell me.”
“It’s true,” Dorian confirmed. “For whatever reason, perhaps because of my curse, their charms do not work against me.”
Gareth grinned slightly. “Dorian here wiped out an entire church full of Nicholas Rémy’s disciples in 1743. Isn’t that right?”
“Wiped them out?” I raised an eyebrow.
“I had no choice, Gareth. These people were not open to persuasion. If I hadn’t acted, thousands more would have died at their hand, witches and those merely suspected of witchcraft.”
“How many people did you kill, Dorian?” I asked.
Dorian shook his head. “More than a thousand.”
I gulped. “You killed a thousand people?”
“He killed a thousand witch hunters,” Gareth clarified. “Your boy here can be quite the weapon when his passions are properly focused.”
“I swore I’d never…”
“Then you’d best get to work,” Gareth remarked. “Before their numbers swell. I’d hate to see you forced to break your previous record.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The trailer door slammed shut behind Gareth and his witches, the sound echoing through the cramped space like a gunshot. I glanced around nervously, suddenly aware of how alone Dorian and I were. The air was heavy with the scent of burned sage and lingering magic, and my skin prickled uncomfortably. Dorian remained still, his eyes focused on the spot where Gareth had stood moments before.
“Tell me everything you know about this group,” I demanded, snatching up the book they’d left behind. Daemonolatreiae. I didn’t know what the title meant, but the first part sounded like “demon,” which was enough to raise concern. I traced the intricate designs etched into the cover, feeling the grooves and indentations beneath my fingertips.
Dorian hesitated. “It’s dangerous,” he muttered, his voice barely audible above the quiet hum of the trailer’s air conditioning unit. “It’s best you stay out of this.”
“Fuck that,” I spat, flipping open the book to reveal pages filled with dark illustrations and cryptic text. My heart raced as I tried to decipher the words, each symbol drawing me deeper into the mystery surrounding us. “I’m not some helpless little girl, Dorian. If these people are a threat to me or anyone else, I want to know about it.”
I felt his eyes on me again, heavy with concern and something else. Fear, maybe. But I didn’t care. “You really killed more than a thousand of these people?”
Dorian crossed his arms. “It’s not my proudest moment. Still, it had to be done. If they’d been permitted to continue, they would have killed so many more.”
“Then tell me everything you know about them,” I insisted. “I need to know who we’re up against.”
Dorian sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. “There’s a difference between a witch, a wizard, and a warlock. I’m called a warlock for a reason.”
“So it’s not just a male witch?” I asked.
Dorian shook his head. “Warlock comes from the old English waerloga. It means ‘oath breaker.’ It’s a witch who has broken the unspoken covenant with his spirits and used their power to kill.”
“Because of what you did in the church to defend the witch community?”
Dorian nodded. “When I confronted the followers of Nicholas Rémy, I unleashed such a powerful force that it changed me. The spell I used, the way I forced the spirits to alter the net, how it sucked the life out of everyone in that church. It took me more than a century to recover from the darkness that consumed me.”
As Dorian spoke, the weight of his past settled heavily on his shoulders, and I couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for him. We were both scarred by our pasts in different ways. Me, a constant reminder of the parents I’d lost and the secrets I was only beginning to uncover. Him, a reminder of the lives he’d taken and the darkness he’d fought to overcome.
“Thank you for telling me,” I whispered, my fingers gripping the edge of the book tightly. “But you’re impervious to their charms, right?”
“I was back then,” Dorian admitted. “Who knows how their methods have changed since?”
“Let’s assume you are,” I suggested. “We can find another way. You don’t have to kill them. Did you have a copy of this text back then?”
Dorian shook his head. “I did not. I’d only heard rumors of its contents.”
I picked up the book again and flipped through the pages. “Then we figure it out. We find their weaknesses. We fight them the right way.”
“Listen, Briar.” Concern strained Dorian’s voice. “Most witches who turn into warlocks never live long enough to overcome the darkness accompanying such power. If I have to engage them the way I did before, you won’t recognize the man I become. You won’t want anything to do with me.”
I glanced at him, my heart aching at the protective note in his tone. “Dorian, I told you. We will find another way.”
“If there is another way.”
“Look!” I snapped, slamming the book shut with a resounding thud. My eyes locked onto his, an intensity burning within them. “Maybe this group has changed their methods over the years. But you’re different now, too. You see the animal spirits like me. You said my gift is unique. Maybe there’s a way you can use that.”
Dorian rubbed his brow. “I suspect I can’t access your power if we aren’t together. I’m not going after them with you, Briar. I might be able to resist their charms, but you can’t.”
“You don’t know that. Besides, it doesn’t matter. If you’re with me, and you can still access my power, you can send my spirit animals after them. If my animals kill them, it doesn’t alter the net, right?”
“Technically, no.”
“Then no darkness. The net is only used when we forge the spell that allows the animals to appear in the flesh.”
“I don’t know, Briar. It’s risky.”
I shrugged. “It’s an idea. The point is we can find another way, something you couldn’t do or didn’t know you could do back then. History doesn’t have to repeat itself.”
I could tell he wanted to argue further, but instead, he sighed and nodded in agreement. “Okay. You’re right. Maybe there is something else we can learn.”
“Good,” I stated firmly, then paused before adding, “Pretty damn convenient for Gareth, don’t you think?”
“What do you mean?” Dorian asked.
“He knows what this did to you before. He knows it would change you. Sounds like a great way to drive a wedge between us.”
“Perhaps,” Dorian conceded. “But none of that really matters. If what Gareth said is true, this group still has to be dealt with, and if the Grand Coven advised him to recruit me to handle it…”
“The same Grand Coven where his parents, who betrothed us, are authorities?”
Dorian nodded. “That’s right. It doesn’t mean there’s a connection.”
“There hasn’t been an inquisition like this in ages. You really think it’s a coincidence that when Gareth’s parents get involved with the Grand Coven, suddenly this anti-witch hate group pops up, using texts from some long-dead inquisitor?”
“You’re talking a conspiracy, Briar. I’m not saying you’re wrong. However, it’s not unthinkable to imagine Nicholas Rémy’s followers enduring in small numbers for all this time. A little fear is all it would take to make their ranks swell.”
“Then we need to find out more about them.” I clenched my fists in determination. “We use this book to find their weaknesses. Whatever holes there might be in their methods we can exploit. There has to be something we can do to stop them that doesn’t involve you going all dark side of the force.”
Dorian hesitated, his gaze drifting to the leather-bound tome lying on the table. The title, Daemonolatreiae, stared at us as if to challenge our resolve.
“Might as well take a look at the book,” I suggested as the rain continued to hammer on the trailer. “Unless you’re inclined to teleport yourself out into the rain.”
To my surprise, the wound was already beginning to heal, the torn flesh knitting itself back together as if guided by an invisible hand.
“Your curse,” I breathed, awestruck. “It’s healing you.”
“Told you,” Dorian panted, his face still pale and drawn from the pain. “I can’t be killed that easily.”
“I’m not sure it’s a curse. I wouldn’t even know you without it.” I tried to sound more confident than I felt. “There’s no telling what this wound would have done otherwise. It was a nasty one. Could have gotten infected.”
“Still, it’s not something I’d wish on anyone,” Dorian replied, his voice strained. “It comes with its own set of problems.”
“Let me clean you up.” I grabbed a warm, damp rag from the bathroom. Gently, I wiped away the blood smeared across his back, revealing the now-closed wound beneath.
“Thanks,” Dorian murmured, his eyes meeting mine before he looked away. The vulnerability in his gaze was disarming and made my heart twist.
“Right, you’ll need a shirt,” I announced, trying to break the tension. I rummaged through Aiden’s closet, searching for something to fit Dorian. My fingers brushed against a cotton T-shirt, and I couldn’t help but laugh when I read the words printed across the front: “Don’t you wish your boyfriend was hot like me?”
“Here, try this on.” I tossed the shirt to Dorian. He caught it with a raised eyebrow, then chuckled as he read the words.
“Your brother is quite the character,” he commented, pulling the shirt over his head. It was a tight fit, the fabric stretching across his broad shoulders, accentuating his impressive musculature.
“You have no idea,” I rolled my eyes, smiling at his reaction. “Aiden’s got a good heart, but he has a real weakness for the ladies. And the booze. And the weed…need I go on?”
“Family is family.” Dorian chuckled. “I haven’t had much of that in centuries. Don’t take it for granted.”
I chuckled. “I try not to. Aiden can be a challenge, though.”
“Speaking of challenges.” Dorian’s expression turned serious. “We need to alert the Morai about what happened with Jim Bob and the Honeycuts.”
I shook my head vehemently, my heart racing at the thought. “No, absolutely not. We can’t trust them.”
“Look, I’m not saying we trust them,” Dorian admitted, his dark eyes searching mine for understanding. “We might not have a choice. I’ve seen what happens when a few folks start to get into a frenzy about witches. I’ve lived through more witch trials and inquisitions than I can count. Trust me, whatever threat the Morai might pose, it’s nothing compared to that. It’s better they hear it from us before they find out for themselves. There’s no telling what they’ll do if they find out a band of locals is set on killing witches.”
“Witch trials? It’s the twenty-first century. Surely that wouldn’t happen. We’re talking about a few backward rednecks who barely know their asses from their faces,” I countered, feeling frustration bubble up inside me. “The Morai tried to kill you before. I’d rather take my chances with a few ignorant hillbillies.”
Before he could respond, a loud knock on the door startled both of us. My heart raced, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. I feared it could be Jim Bob or the Honeycut brothers coming to finish what they started.
“Wait,” Dorian whispered, pulling me back by the arm. He looked tense, his jaw clenched, and every muscle in his body tense like a coiled spring. “Let me handle this.”
As I stood behind him, the seconds stretched out, feeling like an eternity. The weight of uncertainty hung heavy in the air, the threat outside our door a haunting reminder of the dangers lurking in the shadows. Who knew what we would find when that door was opened—friend or foe, ally or adversary?
Whoever was on the other side of the door wasn’t dissuaded by the rain. It definitely wasn’t a local Girl Scout trying to peddle her cookies.
Dorian cautiously opened the door, and I peeked from behind him. To our surprise, standing on the doorstep was none other than Gareth, flanked by two attractive young blonde witches. Rain dripped from their hair and noses. Their eyes were steely and cold, their expressions unreadable. They seemed to be sizing us up, like predators assessing their prey.
“Good evening, Dorian, Briar,” Gareth greeted coolly, his voice smooth as silk but carrying an undertone of something sinister. “We need to talk. There are important matters to discuss.”
My breath hitched in my throat, and I glanced at Dorian, who looked as wary as I felt. His eyes narrowed, and I saw the gears turning in his head, trying to figure out why Gareth was suddenly on our doorstep. With company, no less. From the little I knew about the Morai, they weren’t the kind to show up on a social call.
“Y’all can stand out in the rain all I care,” I snapped.
Gareth tilted his head as his eyes met mine. “I told you before. I intend you no harm.”
“Can’t say the same about Dorian,” I grunted.
“Let them in,” Dorian replied, his voice low and guarded. “But you’d better make this quick, Gareth.”
As the trio stepped inside, I couldn’t help but feel a shiver run down my spine. Something about this whole situation felt off, like a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit. Why were they here? Did they know about Jim Bob and the Honeycuts? Or was it something else entirely?
“Have a few towels?” Gareth asked.
I watched as the water dripped off them, puddling on the floor under the witches’ feet. I sighed. “Fine. Give me a second.”
I returned a few seconds later with three bath towels. I tossed them at Gareth and each of the witches. They snatched them from the air.
“Thank you for your hospitality,” Gareth stated, a sly smile on his face.
“All right, Gareth.” Dorian folded his arms. “What’s so important that you had to come here in the middle of a storm?”
Gareth’s eyes danced around the trailer. He spotted the first aid supplies by the couch, the bullet in the ashtray, and Dorian’s bloodied shirt.
“I think you know why we’re here. It seems you’ve already been targeted. I can’t say I’m not disappointed they did not succeed, but I suppose I need your help now as much as you need mine.”
Dorian’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of help?”
“The kind of help only you can provide,” Gareth replied, his voice dripping with honeyed words. “As you know, the Morai have been keeping a watchful eye on the witches in this area. We’ve noticed a disturbing trend, a sharp rise in the number of witches who have gone missing over the past few months. We suspect foul play, but we can’t be sure.”
“What does that have to do with us?” I asked, feeling a knot form in my stomach.
“We need your help to find out what’s been happening to these witches,” Gareth explained. “We believe whoever is responsible is likely connected to those who attacked Dorian. We need to stop this before anyone else gets hurt.”
“Why should we help you?” Dorian asked, his voice laced with skepticism. “You tried to kill me once before, remember?”
“Bygones?” Gareth smirked. “This changes nothing between us. Between any of us.”
Gareth shifted his glance toward me.
“There is no us, Gareth. Never will be.”
A shit-eating grin split Gareth’s face. “Time will certainly tell.”
Dorian tilted his head. “If what you say is true, the men who shot me tonight must’ve been after some vengeance for me breaking up their fight the other night at the bar.”
Gareth inhaled sharply. I glanced at the two other witches who stood next to him. They hadn’t said a word, but, damn, they were beautiful women. Apparently, witches weren’t all old hags and homely eccentrics. “There’s a group that’s moved into town. They’ve been here for several weeks. They hail from Europe originally but make no mistake, this group of zealots has dispatched more than one coven in their time. They’ve been making their way across the country, eliminating one coven after the next. They know what they’re doing.”
“Well, that’s not the folks we’re dealing with. I know the guy who shot Dorian and the men with him.”
“This group has a standard operating procedure. They spread rumors among the local population. They recruit from among them. Their goal is to turn everyone against us so we have little place to hide. Wherever they go, it always ends the same.”
“What is this group?” Dorian asked. “I’ve dealt with inquisitors before.”
“Which is precisely why the Grand Coven insisted I set aside our personal differences and beg your assistance.”
I tilted my head. “The Grand Coven is behind this?”
“It’s not a surprise,” Dorian explained. “Any group that’s systematically targeting covens around the world would be of grave interest to the Grand Coven.”
“I did manage to capture one of these inquisitors,” Gareth mentioned before turning to one of the two witches beside him. “Why don’t you show them what we found on his person.”
One of the witches pulled a small but thick book from inside her jacket and dropped it on the coffee table.
The cover simply read Daemonolatreiae.
Dorian’s eyes widened when he saw it. “You’ve said enough. I’ll help however I can.”
I tilted my head. “Seriously? What’s so important about this book?”
Dorian took my hand. “The Daemonolatreiae was written by a French inquisitor and demonologist in the sixteenth century by the name of Nicholas Rémy. He wrote it to serve as a guide for those who might follow in his footsteps to burn witches in subsequent generations. Nicholas Rémy oversaw the murder of more than nine hundred witches in his time.”
I gulped. “Nine hundred? Holy shit.”
“And his followers have condemned thousands more through the years,” Gareth added. “Their methods are clever and effective. They have methods to thwart our magic and spells. Only one warlock has ever stood against them and prevailed.”
Dorian sighed. I glanced at him with narrowed eyes. “Don’t tell me.”
“It’s true,” Dorian confirmed. “For whatever reason, perhaps because of my curse, their charms do not work against me.”
Gareth grinned slightly. “Dorian here wiped out an entire church full of Nicholas Rémy’s disciples in 1743. Isn’t that right?”
“Wiped them out?” I raised an eyebrow.
“I had no choice, Gareth. These people were not open to persuasion. If I hadn’t acted, thousands more would have died at their hand, witches and those merely suspected of witchcraft.”
“How many people did you kill, Dorian?” I asked.
Dorian shook his head. “More than a thousand.”
I gulped. “You killed a thousand people?”
“He killed a thousand witch hunters,” Gareth clarified. “Your boy here can be quite the weapon when his passions are properly focused.”
“I swore I’d never…”
“Then you’d best get to work,” Gareth remarked. “Before their numbers swell. I’d hate to see you forced to break your previous record.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The trailer door slammed shut behind Gareth and his witches, the sound echoing through the cramped space like a gunshot. I glanced around nervously, suddenly aware of how alone Dorian and I were. The air was heavy with the scent of burned sage and lingering magic, and my skin prickled uncomfortably. Dorian remained still, his eyes focused on the spot where Gareth had stood moments before.
“Tell me everything you know about this group,” I demanded, snatching up the book they’d left behind. Daemonolatreiae. I didn’t know what the title meant, but the first part sounded like “demon,” which was enough to raise concern. I traced the intricate designs etched into the cover, feeling the grooves and indentations beneath my fingertips.
Dorian hesitated. “It’s dangerous,” he muttered, his voice barely audible above the quiet hum of the trailer’s air conditioning unit. “It’s best you stay out of this.”
“Fuck that,” I spat, flipping open the book to reveal pages filled with dark illustrations and cryptic text. My heart raced as I tried to decipher the words, each symbol drawing me deeper into the mystery surrounding us. “I’m not some helpless little girl, Dorian. If these people are a threat to me or anyone else, I want to know about it.”
I felt his eyes on me again, heavy with concern and something else. Fear, maybe. But I didn’t care. “You really killed more than a thousand of these people?”
Dorian crossed his arms. “It’s not my proudest moment. Still, it had to be done. If they’d been permitted to continue, they would have killed so many more.”
“Then tell me everything you know about them,” I insisted. “I need to know who we’re up against.”
Dorian sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. “There’s a difference between a witch, a wizard, and a warlock. I’m called a warlock for a reason.”
“So it’s not just a male witch?” I asked.
Dorian shook his head. “Warlock comes from the old English waerloga. It means ‘oath breaker.’ It’s a witch who has broken the unspoken covenant with his spirits and used their power to kill.”
“Because of what you did in the church to defend the witch community?”
Dorian nodded. “When I confronted the followers of Nicholas Rémy, I unleashed such a powerful force that it changed me. The spell I used, the way I forced the spirits to alter the net, how it sucked the life out of everyone in that church. It took me more than a century to recover from the darkness that consumed me.”
As Dorian spoke, the weight of his past settled heavily on his shoulders, and I couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for him. We were both scarred by our pasts in different ways. Me, a constant reminder of the parents I’d lost and the secrets I was only beginning to uncover. Him, a reminder of the lives he’d taken and the darkness he’d fought to overcome.
“Thank you for telling me,” I whispered, my fingers gripping the edge of the book tightly. “But you’re impervious to their charms, right?”
“I was back then,” Dorian admitted. “Who knows how their methods have changed since?”
“Let’s assume you are,” I suggested. “We can find another way. You don’t have to kill them. Did you have a copy of this text back then?”
Dorian shook his head. “I did not. I’d only heard rumors of its contents.”
I picked up the book again and flipped through the pages. “Then we figure it out. We find their weaknesses. We fight them the right way.”
“Listen, Briar.” Concern strained Dorian’s voice. “Most witches who turn into warlocks never live long enough to overcome the darkness accompanying such power. If I have to engage them the way I did before, you won’t recognize the man I become. You won’t want anything to do with me.”
I glanced at him, my heart aching at the protective note in his tone. “Dorian, I told you. We will find another way.”
“If there is another way.”
“Look!” I snapped, slamming the book shut with a resounding thud. My eyes locked onto his, an intensity burning within them. “Maybe this group has changed their methods over the years. But you’re different now, too. You see the animal spirits like me. You said my gift is unique. Maybe there’s a way you can use that.”
Dorian rubbed his brow. “I suspect I can’t access your power if we aren’t together. I’m not going after them with you, Briar. I might be able to resist their charms, but you can’t.”
“You don’t know that. Besides, it doesn’t matter. If you’re with me, and you can still access my power, you can send my spirit animals after them. If my animals kill them, it doesn’t alter the net, right?”
“Technically, no.”
“Then no darkness. The net is only used when we forge the spell that allows the animals to appear in the flesh.”
“I don’t know, Briar. It’s risky.”
I shrugged. “It’s an idea. The point is we can find another way, something you couldn’t do or didn’t know you could do back then. History doesn’t have to repeat itself.”
I could tell he wanted to argue further, but instead, he sighed and nodded in agreement. “Okay. You’re right. Maybe there is something else we can learn.”
“Good,” I stated firmly, then paused before adding, “Pretty damn convenient for Gareth, don’t you think?”
“What do you mean?” Dorian asked.
“He knows what this did to you before. He knows it would change you. Sounds like a great way to drive a wedge between us.”
“Perhaps,” Dorian conceded. “But none of that really matters. If what Gareth said is true, this group still has to be dealt with, and if the Grand Coven advised him to recruit me to handle it…”
“The same Grand Coven where his parents, who betrothed us, are authorities?”
Dorian nodded. “That’s right. It doesn’t mean there’s a connection.”
“There hasn’t been an inquisition like this in ages. You really think it’s a coincidence that when Gareth’s parents get involved with the Grand Coven, suddenly this anti-witch hate group pops up, using texts from some long-dead inquisitor?”
“You’re talking a conspiracy, Briar. I’m not saying you’re wrong. However, it’s not unthinkable to imagine Nicholas Rémy’s followers enduring in small numbers for all this time. A little fear is all it would take to make their ranks swell.”
“Then we need to find out more about them.” I clenched my fists in determination. “We use this book to find their weaknesses. Whatever holes there might be in their methods we can exploit. There has to be something we can do to stop them that doesn’t involve you going all dark side of the force.”
Dorian hesitated, his gaze drifting to the leather-bound tome lying on the table. The title, Daemonolatreiae, stared at us as if to challenge our resolve.
“Might as well take a look at the book,” I suggested as the rain continued to hammer on the trailer. “Unless you’re inclined to teleport yourself out into the rain.”
