Witch's Bell Book One (17 page)

As the protection spell broke
under Ebony's effort, her mind suddenly went to the journal she
always kept by her bed. It was old, leather bound, and its only
decoration was a tattered red ribbon that marked the current page.
She wrote in the journal every single night. But she didn't jot
down the events of the day for the purpose of memory or nostalgia.
No, she wrote down the contents of tomorrow, the next day, and the
next. She didn't try to foresee them, or use any type of divination
tool to try and know the future before it happened. She simply
wrote about what her life would be. She would have a good day, she
might write on one page. On another, she might note how much she'd
learn. On another she might write about the wonderful news she
would receive. And so on. But the trick, the absolute trick, was
she did not write in order. She would simply turn to some random
page, and write a single wish on it. The pages were in order in the
book, of course, but her wishes never were. It was a way of writing
her future while still keeping it a surprise. Different wishes,
different wants, may indeed come to her as she'd written they
would
– but
in the random, capricious order she'd decided. And she never kept
track of old pages – once written, they remained unseen.

Ebony flung the door open, her
hand now hot where it had once held the handle. Her other hand was
clasped around her gun, which she'd quickly recovered from the wet
grass after her altercation with the gargoyle. The funny thing
about her Journal of Life, as she'd so plainly named it, was not
just the order it chose to unfold in
– but the order in which she'd filled it
with her heart's desires. It was a common witch rule, and a
fundamental rule of magic, that you could never wish for the same
boon twice. You could only wish to win a fantastic sum once, go on
a free holiday a single time, or meet your favorite author for just
one day. You couldn't repeat wishes, because magic was all about
novelty. So when it came to those fundamental life experiences such
as love, children, achievement and so on – you had to be extra
special careful.

Ebony had a very vivid memory of the
moment her mother had given Ebony her Journal of Life. Avery Bell
had sat on the edge of Ebony's bed, the light of a full moon
filtering in through the half-open curtains. While journaling
wasn't a necessary witchly activity, it was certainly a Bell family
tradition, one that Ebony's mother had been sure to pass onto her
daughter at just the right time.

Her mother had handed her the
journal, that old knowing smile on her lips.
“Here you go, little witch,
here's a present for my daughter.” Ebony had been so excited, that
she'd snatched up the book and instantly leafed through the blank
pages. Her mother had just laughed at the confused look on her face
when Ebony had realized there simply wasn't anything in the book.
She'd probably been expecting a book of spells, or some great
story, or at least a picture book – but not something
empty.

“
This, my child,” her mother had
played her fingers against the spine of the book, “is possibly the
best gift you'll ever give yourself.” Ebony's mother had gone on to
explain the process as best she could to a young child. “But you
have to promise me,” she eventually warned, dipping in low to
ruffle Ebony's wispy fringe, “that you'll be careful what you wish
for, and especially when you wish for it. There are things, little
witch, that everyone wants – love, wealth, a meaningful life. But
as a witch, you have to be very careful when and how you form these
desires, and especially when and where you write them down. I don't
doubt that someday you'll form the thought of the man of your
dreams, and with the carefully practiced words of a witch, you'll
be able to write exactly what you want on the pages of your
journal. But right now, little Ebony,” she patted the tip of
Ebony's nose, “you must wait. I'm giving you this journal now,
because it is tradition. But I want you to promise me that you
won't start writing in it yet – not until you're old enough to know
what you really want. The wishes and dreams of a child aren't the
same as an adult, trust me on that.”

Ebony couldn't quite remember, but she
was sure her mother's words had been completely lost on her. All
she'd cared about was the funny blank book she had in her little
hands.

Her mother had left the room,
with one final warning,
“promise me, darling, promise me you'll be careful
what you wish for.”

Ebony had promised her mother,
only to drag the journal out from under her pillow that very night,
steal down to her father's office and borrow one of his pens
– and start writing
in it at once. She'd snuck out onto the porch, and under the full
light of the moon, had scribbled down different little wishes on
random pages throughout the book. As an adult, Ebony could no
longer remember exactly what she'd written, but the moment still
haunted her to this day. Oh why, oh why hadn't she been able to
listen to her mother? Who knows what ridiculous things the young
Ebony had written? She was a child, for crying out loud, she'd
probably written about saving the world, riding dragons, and eating
more cake than was humanly possible. Ebony sometimes shuddered when
she imagined the possibilities. She couldn't remember what she'd
written, let alone where she'd written it – so it was fully
possible that a doddering Ninety-year-old Ebony would open the
front door one day to see a fire-breathing dragon with a saddle,
waiting to take her on a quick trip around the world. Or tomorrow
Ebony could be standing behind the counter of her store, only to be
inundated by an unexpected lifetime's supply of chocolate and
boiled sweets.

But what really irked Ebony, what
really made her regret the whole business altogether, was that she
was half-sure she'd written something terribly romantic in there.
She'd formed some silly idea of her perfect match, and written it
on some random page of her Journal of Life. Who knows what
ridiculous man she'd written of, and who knows when she'd written
it for!

The whole experience had set
such a bad taste in Ebony's mouth, that she had always had a
careful relationship with the journal ever since. She only wrote
little things: trivial meetings and sudden boons
– rather than epic
life-moments. She preferred to think that regardless of tradition,
and regardless of the journal, Ebony wrote her life every day.
Though there certainly was magic behind the journal – she didn't
doubt that – she still tried to keep it to a minimum. Ebony tried
to live each day as it came, she assured herself as she carefully
took the darkened steps that led down into the belly of the crypt.
She wrote each day at a time, and never the whole story in
advance.

The sound of a soft, stuttering moan
met her ears. It brought her back to the here and now, pushing her
off the path of memories, and onto the road of magical policing.
She had strengthened her memories, wishes, desires, and general
life-purpose. And she hoped that it would be more than enough to
keep her from being magically rewritten, to put it simply. She felt
more like herself than usual, more at home in her skin. And it
would have to be enough, because that chanting was only getting
louder.

As Ebony descended further into the
bowels of the crypt, she wondered at just how deep this thing went.
Either this crypt was a giant basement of a thing, housing a whole
lineage of some wealthy Valian family, or time and space were
playing a trick on her. That was one of the things about magic.
When a lot of magic built up in a place, it tended to stretch
itself between the two pillars of time and space, until reality
became thin, hazy, and different.

But the chanting was growing louder,
and regardless of how long these steps were, or weren't, Ebony had
a job to do.

In another second, she rounded
a corner, the body of the crypt finally opening out before her. It
was a large room, but not as epic as Ebony had previously
envisioned. There were six or seven tombs raised on plinths, all
lined up in a row. Right at the end of the room, around the final
tomb, was set a circle of flickering candles. The flames danced
violently, as if there was a vicious wind roaring about the room.
There was hardly a breeze though. The air of the crypt sat as still
and stagnant as air trapped in a bottle and buried deep underneath
the ground. The flames would be reacting to a different
force
– the
welling, spiraling, breaking magic that would be seeping up from
the very ground itself. It was hot, raw, and strangely ticklish –
leaving Ebony with the feeling she was standing on a hot
grill.

A man stood before the tomb, intoning
deep, mournful words. His head lolled this way and that, like a
drugged snake. His voice occasionally peaked with a sudden, manic
pitch, before drawing back to its steady drone. Before him, he had
a book, probably a diary of some description.

Ebony stared for a moment, trying to
take the whole scene in, before deciding how to act.

The book would contain the spell or
the story, rather, that the man would be trying to create. Whatever
he wanted would be written on its pages. When Death was summoned,
and its magic released, that spell would be enlivened. Ebony hadn't
been lying when she'd told Nate that Death was the force that kept
things alive. Death kept things going, by ensuring nothing truly
stopped.

By writing down the present as he
wanted it to be, ripped from the bounds of the past, the man would
be hoping that the power of Death would breathe life into the
spell.

Powerful, but incredibly
stupid.

With a sudden spike, the light of the
candles glowed as if ignited by a puff of gas. They illuminated the
edges of the crypt, showing Ebony exactly what she didn't want to
see.

There was a woman curled up against
the far wall, her head tucked into the crooks of her arms. It
seemed like she was trying to make herself as small a target as
possible, or as if she was receding from the scene like a flower
closing before the night.

Perhaps she sensed Ebony, or perhaps
the flash of light awoke her, but at that exact moment, the woman
looked up and straight at Ebony. Even from a distance, Ebony could
see the woman's eyes alight, widen at the sight of someone
unexpected in this terrible crypt. Her lips dropped open too, a
tiny gasp managing to escape.

The man suddenly paused in his
mutterings, dipping his head to the side to stare at the woman, and
then over to whatever she must be staring at
– Ebony.

Ebony's stomach tightened. She
had barely a moment to think about how bad this was. This maniac
had gone and done precisely what Ebony had assured Nate wouldn't
happen
–
he'd kidnapped a near-and-dear from the ghost's life, in order to
keep it in check. Whoever this woman was, she would be so important
to the recently deceased, that its ghost wouldn't dare risk
attacking the crypt. It was a classic hostage situation, in a way.
Well, a classic magical hostage situation.

The man had an ashen face, with sallow
skin that seemed to drip from his bones like rubber that has melted
in the sun. His eyes were large, too large, and had the blue-gray
tint of pale storm clouds. He was young, maybe late thirties or
early forties. But whatever life he'd led, whatever horrors he'd
subjected his body to, they'd aged him decades. He had short,
cropped, black hair, and wore a black robe to match it, the hems
embroidered with silver symbols. He wore a medallion too, which
hung low on a gold chain, until it rested against his solar plexus.
Ebony wasn't close enough to see what the medallion was made off,
or what symbols he'd managed to scratch over it, but whatever it
was it would be there for one purpose.

“
What?” Ebony let the word slip
from her mouth. “You idiot,” she said, the word as vicious and
sudden as a blow from a whip. The medallion would be acting as a
beacon – a gathering point for magical forces to be channeled
through the man, and into the rite he was performing. But just like
any beacon, the thing would be broadcasting on all ranges.
Attracting to it, not just the magic of the void, but the magic of
any creature nearby that could pick up the signal. It was the
equivalent of painting a target on your head, in witch-terms, and
walking up to a hardened criminal, handing him a gun and then
insulting his wife. There was only one way this could
end.

The man's face suddenly soured.
Maybe he wasn't expecting a woman to walk in wearing a sodden white
dress and a police vest, and maybe he wasn't expecting she'd have
just enough reverence for his magical rite to call him an
idiot
– but
the man's expression only grew into a deeper, stranger mix of
anger, frustration, and hatred.

“
Who,” he said the word with a
sharp exhalation of air, “are you?”

“
You don't get to know that,”
Ebony leveled the gun, “all you have to know is, I'm here to stop
you.”

The man didn't snap back his
head and laugh, like the maniacs always did in the movies. He just
watched Ebony for a moment, his eyes fixed on her with such
concentration it appeared as if he'd never look at another thing
ever again.
“You can't do that,” he eventually offered. “This is a
magical rite. You cannot disturb the forces I have
summoned.”