Work had been rough that evening. Her long, ginger braids clung to her wide forehead as the beads of sweat adhered them together. Her hands still trembled as she recalled the police escorting the man shouting at the top of his lungs about the coming end of the world out of the automatic doors of the college library. Yeah, right. She was over that stuff. She scoffed at the very notion. The world would continue existing, far into the future. There were no angry Gods with lightning bolt javelins at the ready to smite the world. 

Not to mention the fact that the bus ran late, and it was nearly 10:00 PM by the time she got to her apartment. Just a stressful day, overall. Her fingers involuntarily slipped beneath the sleeves to scratch at the small bumps of scars crisscrossing her thin wrist.  A cold wind blew in from the bay as the rain began to softly croon against the tar shingles of her studio apartment located in the middle of the city. A shiver danced down her spine, despite the turtleneck sweater she wore. Did she catch something from the library? 

 She brought the book she carried closer to her chest, so that the heavy drops, rolling down the side of the roof, didn’t ruin the pages as she passed through the open air corridors of the 5th floor. 

Tinsled wreaths hung from every other door, and the soft glow of stringed lights just beyond the cheap shutters from nearly every window reminded her of what time of year it was. Back in her hometown, near the foot of Rainier, it would be snowing right now, and the streets would be covered in placid white. She knew she could never go back, however. 

How would she be able to face her parents; she tucked one of the strands of hair dangling in front of her face behind her ear.  She sighed as she reached into her pocket and pulled out her key. The brass numbers 5-1-3 hung precariously on the wall near the door. One of the screws that held up the 3 had long since rusted out of existence, so the three dangled upside down. She gave it a spin as she turned the key in the lock. It was a ritual at that point.

As she stepped into the doorway, she knocked the dirt off her shoes onto the welcome mat laid out in the hall, before sliding them off. Her cell phone blared and buzzed in her pocket. 

“Shit.” She muttered as she shoved her keys into her pocket, and pulled out her cell phone. 

She swiped up and placed it against her ear. 

“Good evening Ms. Atherton.” A baritone voice over the line called. 

“Hello Agent Williams,” She said as she flipped on the lights to her studio apartment. “What did you need?” 

She placed her keys in the basket on the small end table near the end of the hall and set the book down on the shelf of the small kitchenette her apartment came equipped with. 

“Well, tomorrow’s the beginning of Yule, just calling to make sure —” 

“No, I’m not doing anything with anyone that day. Just working.” She answered hurriedly with a sigh in her voice, “I told you. It was just a phase. I was a kid.” 

“Okay. We’ll send someone by to check up on that, alright? Still working at that library?”

Over the phone, she picks up on the click-clacking of mechanical keys. 

“Alright.” She sighs, “Though I’m feeling a bit sick at the moment. I might call out.” 

“We’ll send someone by your place, then.” He answered. 

The line went dead, and she resisted the urge to slam it down on the counter. You make one mistake when you’re young, and it haunts you for the rest of your life. She set her phone down next to her keys. She couldn’t even go out with friends without receiving a call from the agent. 

She slipped off her turtleneck and placed it in on the top of the nearly full hamper near the foot of her bed — she should probably visit the laundromat before the holidays. Her shirt underneath the sweater was a black, faux-silk emblazoned with wreathed, red pentagrams that dotted the front, the sides, and the back. It was something that connected her present self to her past self — a lasting interest in the occult, and witchcraft. Though these days that interest manifested more in clothing choices and reading choices, and less in rituals and bloodied blades. 

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Speaking of reading choices....her friend had gifted her this book for Yuletide, she slid it off the counter and flipped through the pages, while the other was a scholarly book about the Emerald Tablet found in Greece. 

“Latin? Italian?”

The cover read: “LEMEGETON CLAVICULA SALOMONIS,” and on the cover was the image of an intricate pentagram. She had seen it before, somewhere in the past; she flipped through the pages. Unintelligible scribbles to her. Over the next few weeks, she’ll comb through the dictionaries that sat on her desk next to her ancient laptop. If she tried to search for the words written in the text, she was sure she’d get a knock on her door in short order. The Anti-Cult division of the FBI was keeping an eye on her, after all. 

It was a purely intellectual thing for her at this point. Something to stimulate the portion of her brain that couldn’t let go of superstition. She slid her glasses off her nose, and set them against the composite wood desk, and sat in the spinning seat. A stack of half-filled notebooks sat in the top drawer; she picked one from the middle and fished out a pencil from the same drawer. 

For the next hour and a half she sank herself into her work, and by the time midnight neared, she had managed to translate a single page. Why Latin? Why couldn’t Sara at least make it an English copy? Roseandra sighed and pushed herself off the chair. She breathed in deeply and exhaled her frustration through her nostrils. There was something in the air. Something...sickly sweet, as if someone had lit a candle right by her. She glanced around the apartment, there was nothing, however. That’s odd. An olfactory hallucination? Weren’t those rare? 

The moment the minute hand finished its hourly cycle and landed, once more, on the twelve a great weariness washed over her; as if she hadn’t had a wink of sleep in weeks. She stumbled over to her bed and, before she could even begin the process of changing into her pajamas, she collapsed on the bed and was swept off to sleep. 

That sickly sweet aroma followed her into her dreams. She was led by a wisp of curling white smoke into a dark room. Her footsteps echoed off the ground. The only light she could see was from a burning brazier at the far end of the room — its light caught against the marble Corinthian pillars on either side of the path she walked; casting the rest of the sanctum in deep shadow. 

“Mortal woman,” A voice rolled off the marble, “Welcome to my Temple.” 

Hecate. Roseandra knew the name associated with the voice immediately as if she had always known it. As she neared the pair of braziers she noticed that they were sat on either side of a large granite throne. Seated on top, was a woman as large as the throne itself. A flowing robe, as red as a rose, wrapped around her pale legs and draped over the side of the throne. A pair of braided sandals that seemed as large as Roseandra, wrapped around her feet. Hundreds of women, dressed in a similar manner — their heads and faces shrouded by heavy hoods, stood all around the throne, their heads bowed reverently. 

Roseandra kneeled before the throne and pressed her forehead against the ground. She knew this was what she was meant to do. 

“Roseandra Atherton, Child of Earth,” The goddess spoke — her booming voice echoing off even the shadows, “I have called you here to make you my Daughter. To take you under my arms. To Initiate you.” 

Roseandra swallowed hard. 

“Our world is in danger,” Hecate continued, “The war god of Efra; one a neighbor of ours, has decided to send his forces to claim this world as well.” 

“But why me, Mother Hecate?” 

“I see in you great potential.” The Goddess answered, “We will reward you, of course, if you choose to accept.” 

“Of course, I will.” Roseandra spoke, “But what do you want me to do?” 

“Fight.” The voice answered, “You will fight against these invaders. When you awaken you will find upon your shelf a Grimoire — a shard from my Tablet, a blade that I have blessed to drink the blood of your enemies in order to strengthen yourself, and a scrying mirror, so you will be able to keep in contact with the temple.” 

“Yes, Mother Hecate.” Roseandra responded. 

“To reward you with your service, I will give you three spells; one to blind your enemies, one to heal your allies, and the other to weaken them, and, to seal this contract I will grant one wish.” 

“A wish?” 

“Yes, what is something your heart desires?” 

The odious Latin grimoire was still heavy on her mind. 

“How about the ability to comprehend any language?” 

“It will be so.” 

A stream of crimson flowed from the Goddess’s hands and flowed into Roseandra. It pushed its way past her mouth, and into her eyes; but all she felt was a coldness as if she had just drunk from an incredible spring. 

“What was that?” 

“Ambrosia. Now, wake, Initiate. You will have until Midnight strikes once again to prepare yourself. Awaken, Witch, and fight in My name.”