“There is no end, so long as there is love.”

Father Lazlo reads the inscription on the tomb one more time, slowly tracing his fingers across the dusty stone. His mentor, also Father Lazlo, taught him this vigil when he was but a child.

“Come, listen son,” the old priest had whispered to him as he shifted aside the heavy altar and revealed the secret stairs. “Someday my duty will be yours, and someday you will pass on this duty to another.”

He’d asked old Father Lazlo as they descended into the bowels of the rock when the vigil began. At the time he couldn’t imagine back too far, thinking it was perhaps a few generations old at most.

With a weary chuckle, old Father Lazlo answered him. “Long before the church itself, son. Long before Christ was reborn, died, or was born. Certainly longer than we have records. The first Father Lazlo to write down his term claimed the temple, for it was not yet a church at the time, had stood before the village itself formed around it. Evidently a family settled here and began the watch, and slowly a community coalesced about them. They were the first watchers, and now we are the watchers.”

Lazlo hadn’t understood at the time. He was just an orphan left at the church one night, his parentage as mysterious as the meaning of the words. There was something odd about the tomb, something eerie and otherworldly. Father Lazlo could never pinpoint exactly what, but he clutched his rosary close every time he entered. Perhaps it was the way he understood the words perfectly despite the fact that the tomb was quite possibly older than writing. Perhaps it was the lack of age, the fresh looking cut to the rock and lack of erosion.

Whatever it is, Father Lazlo never lingers in the tomb. He always does his duty and then hurries back up the steps murmuring a prayer all the while. At least he will hurry back up the steps, once he finishes his duty. One hand still clinging to the rosary, Father Lazlo reaches into his vestment and retrieves the vial of blood. Uncapping it, he pours the carmine liquid across the rock and whispers, “And no love worth having, save yours.”

“I agree.”

Father Lazlo whirls about, dropping the vial and letting it shatter against the rock. Stumbling backwards, he thrusts out his rosary in fear and shock as his eyes take in the sight before him.

“In the beginning there were five witches,” begins the figure as it steps forward into the light. “Death, Poison, Curse, Deception, and Hex. Each of them a monster in their own way, uncivilized queens of Hell who brokered deals with the wickedest of demons for power beyond compare.” Smiling, the man lifts his hand and gestures toward the fragments of the vial, which slowly repair themselves. “Magic. They sold hundreds of souls, sacrificed thousands, and almost brought an end to the human race for something as trivial as magic.” The man shakes his head in disappointment as the glass vial rotates slowly in midair. Then he drops his hand and the vial follows, breaking again on the rock. “What a waste,” he murmurs. “What an utter waste.”

Terrified, Father Lazlo stammers out, “W-what?” With his eyes bulging and fixed upon the shards of the vial, he almost misses what the strange man says next.

“It’s disappointing, really. The stupid women traded the lives of all their kin for nothing. Magic wasn’t the demons to give in the first place.”

“Gahhhh,” chokes out Father Lazlo as he tries to pull himself to his feet, one hand still firmly on his rosary.

“Demons aren’t the source of magic. They just knew it existed long before the witches. Which was unfortunate because in making a deal, the witches gave demons license to restrict some of the more potent and important magics away, locked up in the pages and blood price of the texts.”

Rising to his feet, Father Lazlo asks tentatively, “Who, who are you? What are you doing here?”

Sparing him an unconcerned glance, the stranger continues speaking. “Magic is, at least my theory is that magic is the language of God.” Waving a dismissive hand at Lazlo’s proffered rosary, he continues. “No, not a God who’s Bible can be written in human words.” Pausing, he cocks his head to the side and adds contemplatively, “Perhaps this universe is his bible, written on pages of reality and chapters of existence.”

Recovered from his shock and fear and disarmed by the inane ramblings of the stranger, Father Lazlo straightens himself. Insistent this time he asks with all the authority a church leader can muster, “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

“Who am I? Who are you,” retorts the stranger. Then he calms and adds wryly, “As for what I’m doing here, well if this is the greatest God’s bible then I am but a character long since written off and forgotten.” Then, with a quick motion, his hand flashes up and a jagged piece of glass from the broken vial flies forth and punctures Father Lazlo’s neck in a single motion.

“But you know how it is with characters in a book,” he adds conversationally as though he has not just brutally murdered the priest, “they have a way of taking on a life of their own.”

Carefully, he steps over Lazlo’s body and walks up to the lettering on the tomb. As he passes over Lazlo’s corpse, he whets his hand in the blood welling from his throat. Then, when he arrives at the inscription, he smears it across the phrase. A second later, the sound of stone grinding emanates throughout the cavern and the casket opens.

“Have you been feeding this thing at all?” he murmurs incredulously, “Death is practically bereft of power, barely enough for that trick with the glass.” Glancing down at Father Lazlo he sniffs and adds, “You blood is essentially worthless unfortunately.”

With this, he reaches into the tomb and retrieves a black book covered in spindly lines that form the word, “A Witch’s Guide to Death: Spells, Incantations, and Rites.”

Smiling, Thorm Athow adds quietly, “One book down, four more to go. And then my darling Belinda we will be reunited once more.”

Smiling, Athow whispers in relief, “Darling. I still love you.” Relaxing, and tracing his hand over the book in his hands, he adds, “I had hardly dared say your name for fear it would be diminished in my mind and yet…” He sighs. “You are still my beloved.”

Settling down, he leans over and whispers to Father Lazlo’s body conspiratorially, “I was worried you know that she would be lost to me forever. The loss of my magic I can ignore easily enough, it was never more than a means to an end. Besides, the presence of the Books mitigates this issue significantly. Thankfully, my apprentices were ever faithful and buried me with the most important tome in my collection. I was prepared for Death to be lost, but it is fortunate that the name Thorm Athow is not forgotten, not completely.”

Leaning back, Athow settles into a cross-legged sitting position. “It feels good to speak with lips once more, to feel the rush of oxygen down my throat and through my flesh.” He raises a hand, watching his fingers curling and uncurling. “It’s glorious to be human again.”

Pausing, Athow bends and pokes himself for a few minutes, testing the flesh and limits of his new form. Finally satisfied, he settles back into his seat and begins to breathe in and out slowly. “It will take time. I underestimated the difficulty of handling a body again. Still, Soneillon was right I hardly miss my soul.”

Lightly, Athow taps the cover of the book. Then he adds, “But for a person without a soul to return from the grave, now that has to be sending reverberations throughout the universe. I wonder what slumbering giants I’ve woken?”

Across the world, a guard cocks back the hammer of his pistol and says confidently, “Freeze criminal! Turn around slowly and put down the Grecian artifact!”

Chuckling, The Chauvinist replies, “Grecian? Oh no, no, no, I’m afraid your archeologists have made a mistake.”

The guard interrupts him saying, “I said, put it down!”

Ignoring him, The Chauvinist holds up the familiar artifact and says, “This is no Grecian artifact. This helmet is more than a mere artifact I'm afraid. This helmet… this… is… ROMAN!” Raising it high he adds conversationally, “Although the make is more atlantean, but then what else can you expect of armor created by the apprentices of Thorm Athow?”

Suddenly, he freezes. Shivering, his eyes widen and he turns facing something imperceptible. “Speak of the Devil and he shall appear… Thorm Athow,” he whispers, “you’ve returned.”

Tiring of the conversation, the guard fires his gun only to watch the bullet glance off the helm! A ghostly howl seems to emanate from the ringing of the collision before subsiding. A moment later, the chains of The Chauvinist surge forth.

“Soon, I will finish reuniting the pieces of your armor. Then we will have our sweet revenge on Eldritch Maiden together!”

In a farmhouse far on the edge of civilization, a girl covered in mud glances up with hope in her tear soaked eyes.

“Lovely Ash?” she whispers.

A hopeful expression flits across her face for a few seconds before her expression crumbles slowly.

Forlorn, she whispers in abject depression, “No.”

Then she begins to sob heartbroken before reaching over to one of the small piglets and cuddling it close. Rocking back and forth, she continues to ugly cry as she curls her arms around the dainty animal and buries her face in it’s skin. Snot running down her chin, Becca rolls around in the pigsty as the tears continue.

Sitting at his desk, a shiver runs down the spine of Beacon. Shifting uncomfortably, he glances over the only photo on his desk, an image of his original team. His eyes linger on a brother and sister pairing for a few seconds, the brother with his cane and the sister with her metal suit. After a minute spent in quiet contemplation, he shifts again and clears his throat. Then he picks up his pen and glances back down at his desk and the never-ending pile of paperwork.

In the underworld, a demon pauses torturing a guilty soul and smiles jauntily.

“Well finally!” Soneillon exclaims, “I thought you’d never get around to the resurrection you old dithering dullard.” With an amused chuckle, he turns back to the damned and flexes his whip once more.

Buried in the frozen ice of Antarctica, eyes snap open before slowly closing again.

Standing in an underground arena, a man with spikes poking out of his face pauses, distracted. He pauses for a moment, and then finishes his speech, shouting, “-Survive the Trial of Wits!”

Suspended in a circle of nothingness spiraling at incalculable speeds, a shattered leg twitches.

In a cabin in the middle of the Canadian wilderness, Jennifer shifts uncomfortably as a foreign sensation disturbs her meditation.

In the Starry Realm, Belinda screams in futile rage as she reads the omens.

But, dear reader, it is the unassuming teenage girl, Hailey Juniper Penze, whose reaction is the sharpest. Sitting in class, fighting not to fall asleep as Mr. Gjeilo drones on in the background, she is suddenly alert and alarmed as a stab of flame penetrates through her lower spine. Her breath shortens and catches as she begins to panic. Gasping, Hailey shoots straight in her seat as the stabbing sensation continues.

Sweat runs down her brow in the back of the class as she fights to reclaim her breath and remain completely still while the burning spears attack. Pinpricks of tears form in the corners of her eyes as her muscles lock in place. Hailey is hyperventilating now, oxygen rushing in and out of her lungs so quickly it barely has time to help her. Exhaling heavily, her throat closes up as the panic attack takes full control.

The sensation of fire surrounds her as she faints, slumping out of her chair and onto the floor of the classroom. Skin burning, Hailey is almost delirious as Mr. Gjeilo races over and summons the school nurse.

Mumbling, she says in an incomprehensible haze, “Fire! I’m… burning again! Fire… fire… burn… burns me.”

Then her head falls to the side as she collapses unconscious in the middle of the school day!

Sitting in his cave, Thorm Athow shrugs lightly.

“Ah well, I only have one person I care about.” His mouth curls into a loving smile as he whispers the name like a prayer, “Belinda.”

An intense reaction indeed from Hailey and unknown others! Who could these mysterious individuals be? Will Hailey recover from her panic attack in time to save herself from the predations of Thorm Athow? What insidious plan does Thorm Athow have to acquire the remaining Books of Magic? Some questions will be answered and some will remain questions as we hurl toward the confrontation between Athow and Eldritch, find out which next week in… “The Second Book!”