Killian didn’t go on another trip for three months. The burn on his leg took a long time to heal even with Fiona’s ointments and care. Meanwhile I tried to get as much out of him as I possibly could, but he stayed tight-lipped about magic. “The less you know before you come to your magic, the better,” he said strictly.

As much as I had grown to love Killian, the man frustrated me immensely. When he announced that he was leaving for another trip, I learned how to pick locks. I needed to see his spell-book, and it was no doubt in his locked study. The moment I was sure he was gone and not coming back, I got to work.

I had borrowed hairpins from Amelia, who had no clue how to pick locks but pointed me towards the right books in the library. I lined them up in the door’s lock and started wiggling them and trying to figure out the lock’s mechanism like the chapter I’d read had told me to.

After a moment of struggling, something finally clicked. I was excited for a millisecond before I realised it was just the pick breaking. Something flashed and an invisible force threw me across the room. I hit my head on the wall hard enough to leave a bump.

“Okay, so that’s magic,” I slurred to no one in particular as I stood up shakily. My limbs felt electric and the hairs on my arms stood up. The door looked just like it had before: a normal door. The hairpins had turned into metallic dust that glittered in the air.

I considered my options. The door was a no-go, that much I knew now that it had assaulted me. The only window was too small to climb through. Besides, if there was a spell on the door Uncle Killian surely hadn’t missed the window.

Killian liked to say: Think outside of the box. I didn’t know how to think outside of this box, though. There was no way into this box. The only thing I could think of was smashing a hole through the wall, but 1. How would I do that? 2. How would I fix it before Killian got back? And 3. How could I be sure that there wasn’t a spell on the walls, too?

So, I called Amelia. It went like this:

“Hello?”

“Do you know anything about protective spells?”

“Oscar?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Do you?”

“You’d have to be a little more specific.”

“You know, spells that are all… protective and stuff.”

“Protecting what?”

“A room?”

“So it would be on a door?”

“Yeah, exactly.”

“Are you breaking into your uncle’s study?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Dennis says there’s a lot of important stuff there. What are you looking for?”

“I said I’m not breaking into his study!”

“You after the spell-book?”

“…Yeah.”

“I’m honestly not sure if he’d keep it there, he might have it with him.”

“I’m after anything at this point.”

“Well, yeah. I get that.”

“So help me!”

“Okay, I’ll see if I can find anything on our spell-book, Dennis is out…”

I waited for a few minutes that felt like hours. Then, I heard shuffling and a thud, and Amelia picked up the phone again.

“Right. Remember how every family’s spell-book is different?”

“Yeah. So?”

“So, it means that whatever spells your uncle uses are different from the ones Dennis and I use.”

“So your witch book won’t help us?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“It sounded like you said that.”

“The spells are different, but the most common ones have the same structure.”

“You think he’d use a common spell?”

“Sometimes it’s better to go with what you know rather than something that just sounds cool.”

“Right.”

“Did something happen when you tried to go in?”

“Yeah. There was, uh, like a force. That threw me.”

“How did you feel?”

“Tingly. Shocked. I don’t know, I was surprised.”

“But you were able to touch the door?”

“Yeah, it happened when I was picking the lock.”

“As you were picking the lock? Not after you’d picked it, or just as you started?”

“Yes, is it really that important?”

“Details are always important with this stuff, especially when you’re a beginner.”

“Have you figured it out yet? Or should I just blow up the wall?”

“Well, that would be easier.”

“Yeah, until Uncle Killian comes back home.”

“Right. Do you know where he holds the key?”

“What?”

“The key. To the study.”

“With himself, I assume. I don’t know if he has a key. Can’t he lock it with magic, like you said?”

“You said the spell triggered as you were picking the lock, meaning that it has something to do with the lock itself.”

“Great. So there’s no way in without the right key?”

“I don’t think so, at least not without breaking the spell and I don’t know how to do that. You wouldn’t even be able to do that. Are you sure he doesn’t keep the key in the house somewhere?”

“Why would he?”

“He might lose it. What would happen if someone stole it, tracked the spell to your house and managed to get into the study?”

“Bad things?”

“Smart boy.”

“Okay, I’ll, uh… I’ll check the house. Thanks for the help.”

“No problem. Happy to be the partner in crime.”

“Talk to you tomorrow?”

“Absolutely. See ya!”

I sighed as I put the phone down. I doubted Killian kept the key in the house. If he didn’t trust me enough to tell me about whatever he did in that study, then he sure as hell wouldn’t trust me alone in the house with the key. But… There was someone he would trust with it.

I looked through the kitchen window. The lights at Fiona and Elvira’s were on downstairs, but upstairs was dark.

I left the lights on; I knew they watched the house when Killian was gone. I was dressed in all-black, a classic burglar. It was easy enough to climb in — I’d done it once before, when they had locked themselves out earlier that year and I was the only one who could fit through the upstairs bathroom window.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

I landed in the bathtub clumsily. It was slippery with the remnants of soap and water, and I almost fell as I skidded on it. I managed to grab a hold of a sturdy shelf before anything could happen.

I could faintly hear the sounds of an action movie on the TV downstairs. I hoped it was loud enough that they didn’t hear the creaking of the old floorboards as I made my way to the master bedroom.

Guilt tugged at my belly when I went through their drawers (I quickly closed the one that contained underwear and bras) and small walk-in closet. I found nothing. I was starting to feel a little panicky when I saw a simple wooden box on the highest shelf of the closet. I hurriedly grabbed a chair to reach it.

It wasn’t locked, at least not with a padlock or a spell. Two sentences in a foreign language were carved on top. It looked Gaelic, based on the little Fiona had showed me. I grimaced when I opened it, fearing the worst, but nothing happened besides the lid creaking ever so slightly.

The objects inside were neatly packaged. There were old letters and Polaroid pictures on top of everything else. I listened carefully to make sure the movie was still playing downstairs before I decided to take a moment to look through the pictures.

The top one was of Elvira and Fiona, but they were clearly younger here — not many years older than me. They were on a beach, but not one I recognised. Elvira’s hair and makeup were even wilder than in the present day; she looked like an 80s rock star. They were holding hands, Elvira’s dark skin intertwining with Fiona’s typically fair Irish. They looked very happy.

The second picture had been taken at a dinner table. I recognised Fiona, Hattie and Killian. Killian still had both arms intact here, much shorter hair and a fuller face. There were a few more people there I didn’t remember ever seeing. A bald man with a sour face sat at the end of the table, holding a glass in celebration.

The third picture was the newest; Killian looked almost identical to how he looked now. He was accompanied by a nervous-looking Dennis, who must have been no older than 18 at the time, and a young woman with long hair, a face full of freckles and a big smile. Standing awkwardly next to the woman was a young boy. He had a shaved head and handsome features, except for the nasty (quite fresh-looking) scar cutting across his eyebrow.

There were some things I didn’t dare to waste time looking at — like a vial of something that looked suspiciously like blood (But how would it stay fresh?), a leather pouch that clattered when I shook it, and a silver coin that wasn’t of any currency I knew.

And, to my amazement, there was the thing I’d been looking for all along; the unassuming key I’d seen Killian unlock his study door countless of times with. It was a similar worn silver as the foreign coin, and when I touched it the tips of my fingers tingled. I wasn’t sure if it was the magic or the excitement.

I grabbed the key and carefully put the box back to where it was. I made sure everything was in its correct place before I sneaked out of the bedroom and into the bathroom. No one came after me, there were no sirens blaring or a magical force throwing me around like a rag-doll. The mission was successful.

I was jittery when I came back home. The sun had already set, and the waning — or was it waxing? — moon cast faint light into the narrow hallway where Killian’s study was located. It was eerily quiet, like in a horror movie when there’s about to be a scare.

I fitted the key into the lock and slowly, carefully, twisted it. The lock clicked. I waited. Nothing happened. I let out a breath I didn’t realise I had been holding, and twisted the doorknob.

I stepped in. I wasn’t sure where to look. If you’ve seen a detective show, you know the boards they have on the walls with the pictures and the notes and the articles and the red strings that connect them. One of those, a huge one, was nailed above a cluttered desk.

I didn’t bother closing the door. I just grabbed whatever important-looking papers I saw first and sat cross-legged on the floor.

There were dozens of newspaper clippings from the past year about wolf sightings. Someone had scribbled their own notes on over half of them. ‘Hart?’ said one, and ‘Jeffords?’ the other. One had a hasty scribble: ‘Cross, keep out of California.’ That article was from the day before Uncle Killian’s accident. It made my belly lurch.

There were letters, but they seemed to be written in some sort of code because they made no sense to me. There were blurry pictures of wild-looking men and women, the same names appearing on each one. They looked like ordinary people to me, just rough. I could’ve run into any of them in Mission District on a sunny afternoon.

Once I was done with the papers I’d grabbed, I switched them out for new ones. They were of similar nature, not making much sense out of context, so I put those down and dug deeper.

Inside a drawer were two leather-bound books. One of them looked like an expensive journal. The other one radiated old power — the spell-book. I sat down with the books and started reading.

The spell-book’s writings dated back to the 1600s. I grazed my fingers over the spells my ancestors had written and wondered who they had been. Someone whose initials were L.M had elegant hand-writing like a royal. B.M had the same undecipherable scrawl as I did. Some of A.G’s writings were blotchy and shaky, like they had cried while writing. On half of D.G’s pages were what looked splatters of blood.

I didn’t understand most of the writings because I had no idea how magic worked, but I liked reading them. It felt like family I’d never known was giving me guidance for a journey to come.

The book was thick and the paper was thin like a bible’s, so not even halfway through I put it aside to continue later. I picked up Killian’s journal. A part of me, a nagging voice at the back of my head, told me that I shouldn’t read it. But a more dominant part insisted that I had the right to know what was going on.

I decided to compromise. I promised myself I would only look at the pages that concerned me or the war. I started with the day my mom died.

January 17th, 1994

I got a call from Los Angeles an hour ago. Bella is dead. I said I’d take Oscar to my care — Heavens know what would happen to him if he went anywhere else.

What happened was a tragedy, but could it be something more? I know Bella had taken precautions. She could have saved herself. Why didn’t she? Is this another witch’s meddling, or something bigger?

I’m going to find out, but for now the boy comes first.

My head was spinning, but I kept going.

February 20th, 1994

The lad turned 13 today. I’m afraid he’ll start showing signs of magic soon — I did, at that age. Fiona and Elvira have promised to take care of him in the worst case scenario, and I trust them to.

Cross’ pack has been spotted in Las Vegas along with two humans, a giant and… something else. No one knows what, and I’m not sure I want to find out. But they’re something dark, and they’re getting close.

Something else? My thoughts were racing, images of ghouls, ogres and goblins flashed by. What else was out there?

July 17th, 1994

The boy has made friends with Dennis Highmore’s sister, which might prove to be an issue. She has sworn her oath, but there’s no telling what might happen. I sincerely hope the boy won’t have to step a foot further into this world in a long time.

There is no word from Chicago yet. Elvira is getting restless.

What was in Chicago? Why was Elvira worried? I ignored my compromise and I browsed through the pages for another mention it, and landed on on an entry from 1980.

October 31st, 1980

Chicago is the same as usual. I asked Sibyl to come to the West Coast with us, but she refused. She says she’s waiting for something — heavens know what, the woman has never made sense.

As we were heading to the meeting, Bella told me that she is pregnant. I’m not sure how to feel. I am happy that she has found a family, but we both know what Sibyl told her. If she decides to keep the child, she will have to abandon her magic. I don’t know if she can — she is too attached to it — but it is her decision to make.

Ewart introduced Bella and I to a Fiona O’Beirne, an Irish lass just short of sixteen. She has immensely strong magic for someone her age, much like Bella did. She has a hard time controlling it. Bella agreed to take her in until the baby is born, and I will continue her training after that.

According to Ewart, there has been

As I turned the page, a faded picture fell out. I picked it up and looked without thinking much.

There was the same sour-faced bald man from one of Fiona and Elvira’s pictures, once again at the head of a table. A nervous ginger girl I assumed was Fiona talked to a woman I recognised as my own mother. Uncle Killian was next to a frail-looking old woman — probably dead by now— who held his arm in a firm grip. She stared at me (the camera, I had to remind myself) like a hawk; it made my hairs stand up.

It suddenly hit me that Fiona had known my mother. Subconsciously, I’d known; Fiona had mentioned her before. But my mother had never mentioned Fiona. I had never met Fiona before I moved to San Fransisco. I hadn’t known there was anything important in Chicago. I hadn’t known I had made my mother give up something incredibly important to her just by existing.

I started crying.

That’s how Elvira found me; on the floor, cross-legged and staring at the journal with glassy eyes. She didn’t scorn me or tell me to get out. She sat down next to me and pulled me into a tight hug.

“You should probably practice your sneaking,” she muttered into my hair, but not in a mean way. I snorted.

Once my tears had dried, Elvira helped me to my feet and guided me to the kitchen.

“I’m afraid I can never make the tea the right temperature like Fi does,” she mused as she raided Killian’s cupboards.

“It’s okay,” I said. My voice sounded like a stranger’s.

“I assume you have questions,” she said.

“I guess,” I said.

“You know I can’t answer everything, right?” she said.

“I know,” I answered.

She set a big mug of tea in front of me, and I took it to my lips. It burned my tongue, but it was weirdly a welcome change from the never-changing perfect brew Fiona made.

“Ask away,” Elvira said. I was a little startled; it had never been that easy with anyone.

“Uh, my mom and Fiona?” I asked clumsily.

“I don’t know much about that,” Elvira admitted. “I hadn’t met Fi at that point yet. I know your mom taught her everything she knew, all in the few months Fi spent in LA. Bella was… she was a remarkable witch, from what I’ve heard. You should be proud of her.”

“I am,” I said. I felt weird. It was like the day of the earthquake all over again, only this time I wasn’t sure what I’d lost. “Who’s Sibyl? Why couldn’t my mom keep me and her magic?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to find the answers to those questions yourself, crow. Anything else?”

“What’s in Chicago?” I asked.

“Chicago is the home to your family’s current coven. Fiona and Hattie are a part of it, too,” Elvira answered slowly.

“Ewart is the leader?” I deducted. He must’ve been the bald man.

“Yes. But I’m afraid he’ll have your head if I tell you anything else about his coven.”

“What else is there? Other than witches and werewolves?” I’d asked Amelia before, but I was hoping Elvira would tell me more now that she was answering questions.

“I’m honestly not sure. I know of banshees, necromancers, prophets, shapeshifters, giants… There are countless of magical creatures out there.”

“Sibyl is a prophet, right?”

“I can’t say.”

“So that’s a yes.”

“Can’t say.”

“What are you?”

“Me? I’m a human.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No, I’m not. You’re a smart boy.”

She smiled proudly, and I wondered if she’d ever tell me. I realised I didn’t know that much about her at all.

“What are you?” I repeated.

“You’ll find out.”

Killian was disappointed when he came home, of course. Elvira was there though, and she backed me up. She said that I was right to be curious, and it could have been avoided if Killian had just told me something. I wholeheartedly agreed. He made a promise, then. He promised that once I came to my magic he’d tell me everything.