Le Sanglier was in Little Italy despite its French name. It was a dimly lit restaurant in an unassuming brick house. The patrons were a vibrant bunch; from a rowdy gaggle of short, stout men drinking enormous pints of beer, to a pair of quiet and sophisticated women who wolfed down dozens of plates of raw beef in minutes.

I spotted my friends in a corner booth by a frosted window, accompanied by a tall woman and a short man both wearing stylish clothes. Amelia and Charon ran to hug me tightly. I grasped onto them like they were going to disappear if I let go. When Elias warned them about making a scene, they let go.

“You’re such a fucking dumbass,” Amelia said and punched my arm.

“I guess I earned that,” I admitted.

“You did,” Charon said. “What happened? Where did you go?”

“Let’s talk about it when we’re alone, okay?” I said. I eyed the other people at the table suspiciously.

Elias ushered us to the booth. I was introduced to Barbara Bullock — a witch in her 30s, with a purple tinge in her natural curls and a shiny golden band around her ring finger — and her husband, Bryan Berger. He was a head shorter than Barbara, and he had auburn hair and a matching silver ring. He wore a suit that was a little bit too big around the shoulders, a black hat and round glasses.

“Well, isn’t this nice?” Barbara said as a waiter in a deep red suit brought us drinks menus.

“I could argue with that,” Elias muttered under his breath.

“Listen, I really appreciate the dinner and everything but my friends and I are in a hurry,” I said.

“Too busy to have a good meal? That’s ridiculous,” Bryan said.

“But—“

“Ooh, look at that!” Barbara gasped and pointed at the menu. “They’ve got that Merlot we had on our anniversary.”

I figured arguing was pointless. We’d just have to get through the dinner quickly. Maybe food would do us good, anyway — I didn’t know about my friends, but I was starving.

Barbara ordered a bottle of Merlot for herself and her husband, beer for Elias and sodas for me, Amelia and Charon. A cold coke had never tasted so good.

“Could we get one special menu as well, please?” Bryan asked when our drinks arrived and the waiter handed all of us menus.

“Right away, sir,” the waiter said.

“What’s the special menu?” I asked. I was eyeing my own menu, which looked pretty special as well. I had never heard of most of the dishes. The safest option was probably one of the steaks, but even they had weird dressings and sides.

“It’s not for you, dear,” Barbara said with her big signature smile.

The waiter showed up again with a sleek black two-sided card and handed it to Charon. My eyes fell on a man at a different table holding the same menu in his hands and drinking something that stained his lips red. It dawned on me why Charon was getting a different menu.

“There’s no… human in any of these, right?” Charon asked the waiter uncomfortably.

“All of our special dishes come with the chef’s la sauce au sang, but I assure you that the… erm, main ingredient, in it is all harvested from donations. Completely ethical. Other than that, numbers 3 and 4 on your menu are vegetarian,” the waiter explained.

“Oh… Can I get number three without the sauce, then?” Charon said.

“Are you sure?” the waiter asked. He looked offended.

“Yeah. I’m sure,” Charon said. He gave the menu back to the waiter, who nodded stiffly and left.

“So, how are you all liking Chicago so far?” Bryan asked.

Everyone except Barbara looked at him like he was crazy. “It’s… exciting,” Amelia said.

“It sure is,” Barbara agreed. She planted a moist kiss on Bryan’s cheek, and he went as red as a tomato.

The next time the waiter came back, the rest of us ordered food as well. I got one of the steaks I had seen on the menu because frankly, snails and scallops scared me. Surprisingly, Elias did order escargot.

“Now, let’s talk plans,” Barbara announced when the food had arrived. Charon’s plate was stacked with various raw meats that had been made to look remarkably appetising. Whether it was because French people could cook or because I was starving, I didn’t know.

“We know where we need to go. We’ll just head there after dinner,” Amelia said casually.

“Oh, no, no,” Barbara tutted. “From what I’ve understood, you’re on a rescue mission, which isn’t children’s business in the first place. It also requires detailed preparations and intricacy—“

“They’ve made it this far, haven’t they?” Elias grunted.

“Barely! They’re children, Elias. I agree that getting Killian Monroe back to California is essential, but it shouldn’t be up to them,” Barbara ranted. She swung her fork around so animatedly that a garlic clove went flying towards another table. A patron dressed in all black dodged it in horror.

“Hey, we didn’t ask for your help,” I pointed out.

“Technically we did,” Charon said. “But only to find you.”

“Look, how about we get nice rooms from the Marriott and figure it out from there?” Bryan suggested calmly. “We’ll get a good night’s sleep, put our thinking caps on…”

“You don’t understand, we don’t have time!” I interrupted. “Ewart Kane gave Elvira until the new moon to get Killian to him, and that’s tomorrow night.”

“Even if that is the case, we can’t just barge in,” Barbara said.

“Then what do we do?” Charon asked.

“We get backup. I’ll get on that tonight,” Elias said.

“And we won’t use said backup unless absolutely necessary because we’ll negotiate,” Barbara said pointedly.

“Yeah. Right,” Elias said.

“How do we negotiate when we don’t know what they want?” I asked.

“That’s a good point, actually,” Bryan muttered.

“We’ll ask nicely,” Barbara said.

I had a feeling asking nicely wouldn’t do the trick.

“Does Tusk still run this place?” Elias asked nearing the end of the meal.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Of course he does,” Barbara said.

“Who’s Tusk?” Amelia asked.

“The head chef and owner of the restaurant,” Bryan explained.

“Well, he’s the first on my list then.” Elias abandoned the rest of his meal and headed to what I assumed was the kitchen. Barbara looked like she wanted to ask him to come back.

“Why would we need help from a chef?” I asked.

“Tusk can be quite… resourceful,” Bryan said.

“I just don’t think he’s the hog— the man, for the job,” Barbara grumbled.

Barbara did end up getting us rooms in the Marriott. Elias didn’t come with us; he was still in Le Sanglier’s kitchen when we left.

Our room — us being me, Amelia and Charon — had three single beds, a TV, a nice bathroom and a view of Chicago. We all took quick turns in the shower, and then sat down — Amelia and Charon on one of the beds, me on a comfortable rolling chair. Amelia asked: “So? Did you find anything?”

“I did,” I said excitedly. I took out the envelope from my pocket.

“What is it?” Charon asked.

“The prophecy,” I said.

“Wait, actually?” Amelia gasped.

“Yeah,” I laughed breathily.

“Have you read it yet?” Charon asked.

“No,” I said.

“Well, open it!” Amelia urged.

My hands trembled so hard it was hard to get the sheet of paper out of the envelope, but I somehow managed. I was so anxious my gut ached. “I don’t wanna be the one reading it,” I realised.

“Here, I’ll do it,” Charon said and held out a hand. I gave the prophecy to him gratefully.

Charon cleared his throat and read: “A two-blooded son shall rise from his mother’s ashes. Three fates are to be on his shoulders. A charmer without charm, a seer who refuses to see, and an invisible woman. And if the undying dead are to rise before his eighteenth birthday, he shall end the world as we know it and bring justice with him.”

We were quiet for a good minute, contemplating the prophecy. It was eventually Amelia who broke the silence: “That’s fucked.”

“Yeah. It’s fucked,” I agreed.

“Prophecies usually have many outcomes. It just… depends on how you look at it,” Charon said optimistically.

So, we twisted and turned and pulled the prophecy apart every way we could, wrote it on the paper in different orders and picked at every word individually.

“The undying dead…” I muttered. Isobel Whitlock’s finger felt heavy in my pocket. “I think I know what that one means.”

I told my friends all I knew about the Dead Witch.

“I’ve heard of her,” Amelia said. “I didn’t think she was real. Every witch knows it, it’s just a scary bedtime story.”

“Yeah, well. Not every witch,” I said bitterly.

“Right. Sorry.”

“Okay, what about the three fates?” Charon said.

“The charmer without a charm… I think we all know who that is,” Amelia said.

“We do?” Charon and I said at the same time.

“It’s obviously you, Charon,” Amelia said.

“We don’t know that,” Charon said dismissively. “How about the invisible woman? Does that ring a bell?”

Amelia shook her head. “Invisibility shouldn’t be possible,” she said.

“What? Why not?” I asked.

“I’ve studied a lot of illusion magic, okay? You can distract people so they don’t notice you, you can camouflage, you can cast a protection spell that makes you untraceable, but you can’t become invisible for real,” Amelia explained.

“No, you definitely can. I’ve heard stories,” Charon said.

“Those stories are bullshit,” Amelia said. “There’s only one witch who has ever succeeded, and she died doing it. It has to be a metaphor.”

“Okay, so maybe it’s someone who gets underestimated a lot or something,” I suggested.

“I guess that’s our best shot. And the seer who can’t see…” Charon said.

“Who won’t see,” Amelia corrected.

“Yeah, that. What’s that all about?”

“No idea,” I admitted. “How common are seers, exactly?”

Amelia tapped her chin thoughtfully and said: “It’s hard to tell. There are a lot of fakes, obviously, ones that just scam for money. And then a lot of seers try to hide their gift because they don’t want to be monitored by the Council.”

I was glad we all seemed to silently agree to skim over the whole ending the world as we know it part. Honestly, I didn’t see myself as a bringer of the end type. Out of all the things said in the prophecy, I hoped that one was the most metaphorical.

“There’s… one more thing, actually,” I said.

“What?” Amelia asked.

“Before dinner, Elias took me somewhere.”

—

Instead of Elias’ car, we went to a cemetery a walking distance away from the house on 68th. I was worried he had dug a grave ready for me and was planning on burying me alive, but the daylight comforted me a little.

We walked past simple gravestones, small obelisks and old statues that seemed to cry in the drizzling rain. There weren’t many mourners present, possibly because of the dark clouds looming above. I had to jog to keep up with Elias, whose steps were so wide he could’ve easily defeated an Olympic athlete.

“Where are we going?” I asked, out of breath.

Elias didn’t answer.

After about ten minutes of walking in silence, we came to a marble sculpture. From one angle it looked a bit like a crescent moon, and from others it looked like odd modern art. I thought the texture was a bit weird until I got closer and realised there were thousands of names carved into the stone.

There was a plaque at the foot of the sculpture. “Do not bury the past,” I read out loud.

“They had to come up with something subtle,” Elias said. There was a noticeable strain in his voice.

“Who are they?” I asked.

“Victims of magic. Humans, creatures… They can’t fit everyone in there, but it’s something.”

I carefully brought my hand to the stone. It was cold and wet against my skin. I brushed across a name — Hazel Dudley, 1918-1941 — and felt a cold feeling settle in my chest.

Elias continued: “Ms. Cormier’s late husband, Elmer Burke, funded this project. He had never been a big fan of witches’ bureaucracy.”

“The twelve laws,” I said. I’d only heard mentions of them.

“That, the Valencia council, the history that keeps getting swept under a rug — he was very vocal in his protests,” Elias said.

“What happened to him?” I asked.

“According to the official story, he disappeared of his own volition because he was so deep in debt.” Elias chuckled dryly. “Anyone who knew Elmer would tell you that they’ve never met a man so invested in his finances.”

I followed Elias to the other side of the memorial, where he brought one massive finger under a name. Elmer Burke, 1901-1950. It suddenly dawned on me how old Ms. Cormier must’ve actually been. I wondered how she was still alive — she didn’t look a day over fifty.

“Why are you showing me this?” I said. I couldn’t tell if I was shaking because I was cold or because of the memorial.

“Ms. Cormier showed you the prophecy, didn’t she?” Elias said.

“She wrote it down for me, but I haven’t read it yet,” I said.

“In that case, when you do read it… I want you to remember these names. Remember that magic doesn’t come without its victims, ever.”

His eyes fell on another pair of names.

Victor Velásquez, 1954-1989

Bella Monroe-Velásquez, 1952-1994

—

“Shit. I’m— Shit. I’m really sorry, Oscar,” Amelia said.

“I just don’t get it,” I said frustratedly. “The bastard wouldn’t elaborate, again. It’s like whenever I get an answer to one question, someone dumps a whole truckload of new ones on my back.”

“We have time for those ones later, okay?” Charon said. He stood up to hold a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Right now we should get some rest, and then head out to the Tribune Tower before the lawyers wake up.”

I wanted to argue, tell them that I wanted to go right away, but the beds looked inviting as hell. The last time I had slept in a comfortable bed that wasn’t a thin futon or a lumpy motel mattress was back home.

“Maybe a few hours won’t hurt,” I said.

I finally dreamt of the crow again. It circled a skyscraper — the one that I now knew was Tribune Tower — and landed on a windowsill. It was the same room as before, Ewart Kane’s office. Ewart himself was looking very pleased. His feet, clad in expensive leather shoes, were propped on the desk, and he held his landline phone against his ear and shoulder as he inspected a letter.

“I thought you weren’t going to get it done in time, my dear,” Ewart said. I couldn’t hear what was said on the other end of the line. “Yes, well, that one can wait. I’m sure we’ll get to it eventually. The important thing is that we have Monroe and his book.”

Something was scrambling on the floor — Ewart’s scorpion pet. It was chasing a smaller animal, some sort of a rodent. It didn’t look like it was hunting. It looked like it was just having fun.

Ewart continued to speak: “Has he said anything about the ritual? Of course… The son of a bitch was always stubborn… I’m sure I’ll be able to persuade him… Yes, I did hear. Cross shouldn’t be a problem. What could he do this time of the month?” Ewart chuckled at his own joke. “No, I’m aware… We’ll take precautions. No one but you and him are to enter or leave the building. I’ll make sure of it.”

The scorpion caught the rodent at last and stabbed it with its stinger. The rodent let out a miserable, high-pitched whine before it shrivelled and turned black. Its corpse resembled a mummy, but disgusting and slimy instead of the kind inside a sarcophagus and wrapped in white cloth. The scorpion seemed to think it was very appetising, though, and began to feast.

“I will see you tomorrow, then,” Ewart said. He didn’t look bothered by his pet’s antics. “Bright and early, yes? Wonderful. Have a good night.”

Ewart set the phone down and looked at the scorpion proudly. His rug was being absolutely ruined as the rodent’s blood and guts spilled on it. I wished the scorpion wasn’t such a messy eater; I was getting sick looking at it.

“Tomorrow, if all goes well, you’ll have a proper dinner party. Are you excited, Mercy?” Ewart said.

Mercy the scorpion chirped happily, and droplets of blood spilled out of its mouth. I guessed it was looking forward to the feast.