The Spirit Witch | Bewitchment #1

Four

Spells trundled across Charlotte's fingertips, weaving back and forth, back and forth, as she stepped into Laeves Keep.

A curse's basic composition included pettiness, jealousy, and a lifetime of vengeance gone sour, concentrated into one tiny drop of blood containing nothing but malevolent intentions. A curse worked alone. Thankfully, it didn't summon more spirits, ghouls, or other beings to its command.

However, two curses could be cast by two individuals at the same time, coupled together to create twice as much chaos. Though their paths remained singular, their intended target was the same.

If this presence—whatever it was—meant to assist The Endless One in escape, Charlotte refused to be caught off guard. She could still feel him chipping away at the protections she had laid out. He hadn't stopped since the moment she put him in that room.

Charlotte stopped in the foyer, spells crackling hot beneath her skin, aching to be released. Shadows drifted like mourning shrouds across the corridors—though not as heavily as the shadows that draped around The Endless One. She could have sworn she tasted ashes on her tongue, bitter and dry.

A thunderous pounding on the door sent Charlotte's heart racing. The large brass knocker berated the wooden door as a hammer would beat against an anvil, relentless with insistence. The echo repeated through the house then faded, like a stone dropped down a well, ricocheting over and over before it finally went silent, drowned in the emptiness of Laeves Keep.

As quickly as the presence appeared, it was gone. The distant fire of its warmth vanished, leaving only the lingering scent of smoke.

A warning? A threat? Or a promise to finish what The Endless One had started?

Regardless of the presence's intentions, Charlotte couldn't feel it anymore, and the pounding on the door wouldn't stop.

Charlotte swept her hands over her face, dulled the magic threatening to burst from her veins, and opened the door.

Jonathan stood on the steps in his old, worn coat, his white hair falling over his forehead.

"Papa," Charlotte breathed with relief and flung her arms around his neck.

He smoothed his hands down her back in reassurance. "I'm so glad you're safe, Charlotte," he said.

At the wedding, she had seen his stricken face, her own horror mirrored in his eyes as she fled the church in search of her crossbow. But she hadn't spoken to him—there simply hadn't been any time to say anything.

"You must have traveled all night to get here," she said, drawing back to look at him.

Her heart squeezed at the sight of him, how tired and stooped he was becoming. His eyes had long since grown cloudy as his vision failed him. Where Nivian had remained bright and youthful up until the day the fever took her, for as long as Charlotte could remember, Jonathan had always seemed...old. Old and fragile.

Her dear father was so frighteningly vulnerable. Especially now. To think of what The Endless One might do to Jonathan should he escape and seek out a warm soul to feed off of to replace the lack of his own soul...

"You shouldn't be here, Papa," she said.

Jonathan cradled Charlotte's face in his hands and kissed her forehead.

"I know," he replied. "But I wanted to make sure you were alive. After that thing on the altar—"

"Please," Charlotte said, her voice trembling. "I need to concentrate. I don't want to talk about it."

"Of course not."

He, above anyone else, understood, Charlotte knew. When Nivian took sick, her magic couldn't cure her. And Charlotte, at only nine years old, didn't have enough working knowledge of witchcraft to help her.