“A second gunshot! What were you thinking?!”

“I was thinking I wanted to get into that desk.”

“What about the police? Two shots tonight now. There will be a full investigation.”

“I’ve decided not to be afraid of the police,” Emma said calmly. She put the hunting rifle back in its case beside the chair.

“You decided? You can’t decide something like that!” Charlie was frantic.

“Grandmother wasn’t afraid of them. She used the rifle when she needed to, right?”

“That’s different. Everybody knew Mrs. Orwell.”

“Everyone was afraid of her, you mean. Well then they will learn to be afraid of me too.” She was back at the desk now, gingerly, almost reverently, pulling out the broken shelves and drawers.

“How old are you?” Charlie asked incredulously.

“Old enough to be feared,” she said, matter-of-factly. She reached inside the desk and pulled out a long, thin, red leather case. It was too skinny to hold glasses. Emma opened it, and saw a little bone knife with a black leather handle. At the tip of the knife, the blade split into a little writing quill. Emma used the light from her phone to scan the rest of the desk’s interior.

“There’s no ink. That’s odd, right? How did she get ink in her blood?”

Emma looked at the knife again. She pulled out a stack of papers, written in red… well it wasn’t ink. It smelled a little, the letters ran red dribbles at the corners.

“Excuse me?” Charlie asked. He didn’t look like he wanted to sleep anymore. He had the frazzled look of someone who might never sleep again.

“They don’t know if the ink was the cause of her death, exactly. But there was ink found mixed in with her blood when grandmother died. A contract gone bad, I suppose.” Emma studied the papers. The first pile was written in the same incomprehensible alphabet of the books on the shelves. Her eyes then turned to a second pile. These unfortunately had been a little too close to the lock which now lay in shattered pieces around the room. The corner of the pages was shredded and illegible. She scowled fiercely at this.

Charlie stood beside her now. He peered over her shoulder at the first pile of indecipherable text.

“It’s written in blood? Whose blood?”

“Whoever is being a bother, I suppose,” Emma said. She stared fixedly at him until he took a step back. "It's in the same daemonic language though."

“What’s it say on the other papers?” he asked from a polite distance.

Emma turned to look. A slow grin spread across her face.

“An extra copy.”

“Well that’s no good. So you made all that noise and broke in for nothing?”

“An extra copy in English. She’s got one in the daemon language, and one in English. It’s like the Rosetta stone!”

“The what?”

“We can translate now! Not just the contracts…”

Emma turned slowly around the library. Her face in wonder. She bounced from foot to foot, then leaping into the air for joy. She didn’t care whether that was something witches do. It’s what they did now.

“It’s a cipher!” she squealed. “We can use this to translate any of the books here! Books of spells, I bet. Or stories about the daemon world. And hexes, and curses, and potions! You are so lucky, Charlie, that you decided to help before I learned how put a curse on someone.”

There were two signatures at the bottom of each page, both English and the daemonic contracts. More than six of them though, it would take some work to figure which belonged to the chicken daemons who escaped.

Emma ran her finger along grandmother’s neat, tight, cursive script. How much more she could have said if only she'd had time. And a red smear with a peculiar unique swirl. She stared resentfully again at the charred missing corner of the pages before beginning to read.

Charlie paced uneasily around the perimeter of the round tower. “I wish there were windows in here. It seems like there are from the outside, so they must be behind the shelves. For all we know, the police are outside right now.”

“Mhmm,” Emma said, not looking up.

“Or the daemons. What if they weren’t just frightened by the gun? What if they’re around us in the dark now, planning their revenge?”

“What evil fruit grows in darkness?” Emma asks.

“Huh?”

Emma clears her throat and reads from the contract.

“What evil fruit grows in darkness,

rotting before it’s plucked to eat?

This seal moves, today we mark this

plot to feed the daemon beast.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t read that. In case it casts a spell or something,” Charlie warned.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

Emma found the words soothing, and rhythmically chanted on.

“Come the doors are open wide,

I'll break the seal our worlds divide.

I will not run, I will not hide,

I welcome you, your time is mine.”

Charlie moved toward her, but thought better of interrupting her. He turned and started heaving at one of the bookshelves to try and budge it away from the wall.

“As long as there is life in me,

you will serve my every need.

When I am gone, you will be free,

returning home at last to sleep.

‘Till next your contract binds you here,

your quests will come to your disaster.

You will not rest, you’ll live in fear,

you will call pain your only master.”

Charlie made a little whimpering sound. Even Emma flinched a little as she finished reading the contract. She half expected a firey portal to appear in the air before her, with some lurking daemon reaching out. She cleared her throat again, hoarse and tired with the aging night. It must be almost midnight by now.

“There’s the two signatures at the bottom,” Emma said. “So you see, I was right about this part after all. They really do need a new contract with someone to stay in the world. I expect they’ll be coming home to make one with me any time now.”

They both listened to the quiet night, with no whispers of their prayers.

“And if they don’t come back,” Emma continued slowly. “Then they will not rest. Then they will be tormented. So really they have no choice.”

“Except for being tormented. Daemons might even like that sort of thing.”

“Well, yeah. Of course. Like they were in the chicken coop when they escaped. So really you can't blame.”

“Sure I can. And the longer they’re gone, the more tormented we might expect them to be,” Charlie considered.

“Reasonable enough.”

“And the more tormented they are, the more mad and wild they will be. The more damage they’ll cause.”

Emma didn’t like the sound of that, but could find no loose board to derail the train of thought. Even worse, her unspoken fear that the daemons would somehow fall into contract with someone else. Then her daemons would be gone for good, her egg would never hatch, and she would never be a witch at all. Just a sad little girl dressing up in her dead grandmother’s clothes.

“I’m going to need some help,” Emma said reluctantly.

Charlie pulled at his hair with both hands. He puffed out his cheeks, and took a deep breath. “I might be able to ask the pastor at my church…”

“No. Help from you, stupid. The more people who know, the more difficult this will be to contain. It’s going to take me time to try to make sense of any of these books to learn something which can bring the daemons back. While I’m reading, I need you to be out there searching for them.”

“I’m tired. It’s like when you lose a cat. You can only look so much. Then you have to leave it up to the cat to decide.”

“Except a cat won’t burn down the town or get into trouble,” Emma said.

“You never know, with a cat.”

“I’m tired too. Tomorrow then. I can count on you to come back?”

“Yeah. I’ll come back. On my own. You won’t have to put a spell on me.”

“And thank you for not telling anyone. When I become a proper witch, I will give you something precious. Do you think that’s why your parents got back together?”

“Huh?”

“When my grandmother helped them. Do you think one of your parents helped her get her lost daemons back? And she helped them find love in return?”

“I never thought about that. Maybe one of my parents already knows about the daemons too. Maybe I can drop a hint and find out. In case your witch signal in the sky doesn’t work, we should probably take each other’s numbers too.”

Emma smiled. It wasn’t a sly smile, or a knowing smile, or even a sinister smile, which she had practiced in the mirror. It was warm, and honest, and daring the world to say it shouldn’t be. She was more relieved than she’d realized. It was all too much to handle alone.

“Thank you, Charlie. But I will likely have to put a spell on you anyway, just to practice.”

Emma stayed in the library after Charlie left for the night. She pulled out a few books with interesting pictures of daemons on the cover. She got some paper to start translating a few words right away before she slept. Then she realized there was no ink, and she didn’t want to cut herself with the knife. It could wait until tomorrow. The library would be her home now. She would sleep in the rumpled bedding, which she decided smelled like grandmother after all. Emma found grandmother’s closet, and took a few dresses out to lay on the cracked desk. She wasn’t much shorter than grandmother, but the old woman always seemed much taller because of her rigid posture. Emma straightened her own shoulders, her first attempt to loom.

There was a knock on the door downstairs. She was ready.

Emma left behind the girl upstairs. She took with her only the witch downstairs. She didn’t even flinch when the gruff voice announced: “Police. Please open the door.”

She did so, pouting her lower lip and rubbing her eyes.

“I was sleeping!”

There were two officers. One had a mustache, the other was a strong woman, who also had a little mustache. The woman’s arm were crossed. The man’s hand floated by his belt.

“I’m sorry, miss. Who else lives at this residence?” the man asked.

“My grandmother, but she died. I’m just watching the house for my mom.”

“All on your own? What is your name?”

“Yes sir. I’m Emma Larson.”

The officers both looked at each other. The man took a step closer, his hand still hovering by his gun. “Was your Grandmother Mrs. Orwell?”

“Yes sir.”

“I’m sorry to hear about that,” the woman said. “Your grandmother was dearly loved around here."

The other officer rolled his eyes. The woman continued: "Do you need anything? Has something you saw or heard tonight made you feel unsafe here on your own?”

Emma shook her head. “I didn't hear a thing. I’ve stayed at grandmother’s house lots of times. I’m perfectly responsible.”

“I’m sure you are, dear.”

“You didn't hear anything? No loud noises?" the male officer asked suspiciously.

Emma shook her head. Wide eyed and innocent, she said: “I didn’t hear anything. Is there a monster out there?”

“There was a report of a —” the man began.

The woman took him by the arm and led him away. “There’s nothing to worry about, Emma,” she said. “Get back to sleep, and keep your doors locked.”

“Yes ma’am.” Emma closed the door.

She locked it immediately. Then put her ear to the crack to listen.

“She wasn’t sleeping,” the man protested outside in a hoarse whisper. “She was wearing jeans and a hoodie.”

“So what? You put clothes on when you answer the door.”

“We should at least tell her there was a gunshot, and to call us if —”

“She’s old enough to know how phones work, Dave. That old witch’s granddaughter will know how to handle herself.”

The voices were getting farther away now. Emma kept listening until she heard their car start, and then drive away. Emma leaned her back against the door, and slid to the floor. Her heart was beating so fast, she thought it might explode. She had always been calculating in her speech, but she’d never been a liar like she has been recently. First to mother, hiding the daemons, then to Charlie, pretending she knew more than she did. Now to the police. It was really getting serious. Good people don’t lie.

But good people don’t become witches either, do they? Or at least, not the kind of good like the well behaved domesticated people who follow all the rules. But she was a different kind of good. She was good like her grandmother, the kind of good which gives you what you really need, not what you ask for. It was the kind of good that got Charlie’s parents back together. It was the kind of good the world needed, and what she would give them when she was a proper witch of her own.