The Seven Witches

The library had a parking garage, which meant Francine did not have to step into full daylight, but she kept the cape wrapped tight around her anyway. Sunlight slipped through the concrete slats in narrow beams that seemed to search the floor. She avoided them instinctively.

Deb and Hunter stayed close. Hunter was covered as well. Francine wondered how strange they must look to anyone passing by. Then again, before she knew about the supernatural world around her, she had ignored every impossible thing in plain sight. She had worked beside a crew of supernatural creatures at the Corner Shop and never once questioned it, not until her grandmother’s charm wore off.

The charm had been meant to hide her from her father. Instead, it left her blind. When her grandmother died and the protection failed, Francine was exposed and unprepared.

Now she was walking toward another monster, this one a demon, and she still felt unprepared. Hopefully the Occult section of the library held something that could help.

Stepping into the library felt like crossing into another world. The ceilings arched high overhead like a cathedral, lifting the air with them. Artwork lined the walls in careful rows, and tall windows of colored glass filtered the light into muted blues and reds that pooled across the floor. Francine felt at home here. She felt safe. 

The three of them made their way to the occult section. Francine slowed as they approached the far wall, where seven framed photographs were displayed prominently beneath a brass plaque. The Seven Witches.

She paused in front of them.

One of the women was her grandmother, barely in her early 20s, her expression bright and fearless. Another was a young Mrs. Roberts, long before the silver in her hair and the careful reserve she wore now.

Francine studied the photographs of her grandmother and Delphine, who had gone by Stephanie back then. She wondered if Stephanie had been her first name or her middle name. Delphine suited her now, but she could imagine a younger woman choosing something that sounded lighter.

A faint pressure built behind her eyes.

It was not that anything in the pictures looked wrong. It was that something looked familiar. Too familiar.

Her gaze drifted across the seven witches, lingering on the way they stood, on the angle of her grandmother’s chin, on the faint, knowing smiles they all seemed to share.

She had seen this before.

Not the photograph itself, though she knew it well, but this arrangement. This moment. This feeling.

It had something to do with the witches. With Thomas Blake, the spirit they had once banished. The same one her father had tried to bring back.

The memory pressed closer, just out of reach.

And then it came.

They had banished Thomas Blake. But he had tried to return. Her father, William Blake, had possessed Joseph and used him to obtain dampyre blood. The blood had given him strength. It had given him control.

And blood was the key to bringing Thomas back.

It had not worked. Not completely.

Thomas’s spirit had been released, but his body had been destroyed. He was out there somewhere.

Francine’s pulse quickened. Was he involved in what was happening to Jessie and her daughter? Had he influenced Robbie’s sudden change in behavior?

Robbie had insisted vampire blood could bring someone back from the dead. Sandra had dismissed it as nonsense. An old wives’ tale. Once the heart stopped, nothing could restore the body.

“But the spirit…” Francine whispered. “Could vampire blood release a spirit and allow it to possess a body?”

“That’s an interesting question.”

Francine started. Mrs. Roberts stood a few feet behind them, hands folded neatly in front of her.

“Short answer, yes,” Mrs. Roberts continued. “Under the right circumstances, blood that powerful could loosen a spirit from its bindings. The better question is why. And who, or rather what, would require blood of that potency?”

“What?” Hunter frowned. “Obviously a demon. That’s what we’re dealing with.”

“Are you certain?” Mrs. Roberts asked calmly. “Yes, a demon attached itself to Francine. But demons have entered our world before without the assistance of blood. They rarely act independently. They are invited. Summoned. Directed.”

A chill crept up Francine’s spine.

“So the real question,” Mrs. Roberts said softly, “is not what the demon is. It is who the demon is serving.”

“And I suppose you have the answer to that?” Deb asked.

“No.” Mrs. Roberts’ lips curved faintly. “But I have a book that might.”

Mrs. Roberts led them to a shelf lined with ominous-looking books. The air seemed heavier here, as though the shelves carried more than paper and ink.

One volume stood out from the rest.

Its binding was gold, inlaid with delicate silver filigree that caught the colored light from the windows and fractured it into cold glints. The symbols etched into the spine shimmered faintly, as though aware of her presence.

When Mrs. Roberts reached out her hand, the book slid free of the shelf.

It did not fall.

It rose.

And then it settled neatly into her palm.

The title read, The Book of Veiled Souls.