Morgan
The necromancer huffed once more. She had been here for nearly a week, and this potential client refused any advice she had to offer. This woman only wanted to be coddled. She wanted to hear, ‘You are completely right,’ and feed her hysteria.
Morgan had enough.
She stood from the table abruptly, in the middle of another rant from the woman.
“Where are you going?” she shrilled, “I must contact my husband!”
“Your husband is gone. He does not want to be disturbed. I will not-”
“Oh, he’s just being stubborn as usual,” she waved off.
Morgan cleared her throat and repeated the words from her husband, “Fuck off gold digger.”
Morgan turned on her heel and left swiftly.
She rubbed her temples, feeling another headache slowly ebb away. She craved the comfort of her bed after a few sleepless nights. Why she stayed to convince the lost course of a client was beyond her…
She accurately walked the familiar path through the Fae world back home. It was quiet and peaceful. She hummed as she brushed against tall wheat grass.
Morgan considered her son and his girlfriend's next steps. She could tell they were getting restless; it was understandable they needed a break from their intense work, but they were making excellent progress in her mind.
“Morgan!”
The shout pulled her out of her thoughts as she turned to the voice.
Her two fae informants greeted her, but their faces were not the usual smirk and smile. Their solemn faces placed a stone in the pit of her stomach.
“What happened?” She asked as they approached.
“We’re not sure…”
Morgan's eyebrows furrowed at the sentence, and she gestured to them to follow her back home. They continued to tell the tale.
“We followed William and Rose to Inverness, then we were called away…” John started.
“You know we couldn’t refuse the Queen,” Fred added.
“Indeed. It took us longer than we planned, but when we returned to find the two lovers-”
“Gone! Poof!”
“Gone?” Morgan asked.
“They were gone from Inverness. We checked the house and found Leo alone. He looked like a mess, but after a few hours of watching, he left, using the portal.”
“How do they know of the Fae portals?” Morgan interjected.
“No idea,” the pair spoke in unison.
Fred continued, “But he was following a bird…”
“It wasn’t Henry,” John admitted, “but it was glamoured to look like a raven.”
“Shit…”
She thought back to when she last saw Henry. She gave him the task of dropping off the letter and returning home after picking up a few shells…
“No, Henry!” She shouted, rushing through the gateway and fleeing to her front door.
Desperately, she looked for her familiar. She noted the empty home that felt… intruded. Someone has been playing tricks, using magic.
“Henry! Babs!” she called, but only her voice echoed back.
The two fae watched from the open doorway as she rushed upstairs.
They stayed quiet; they, too, could feel something wasn’t right. They could taste the old hints of fae magic.
They glanced at each other, both coming to the same realisation.
It wasn’t a vampire that’s been killing Fae.
Looking back into the house, Fred noticed a large black feather in the middle of the corridor.
“Forgive me,” he whispered, stepping over the front door threshold.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
Grasping the feather, he gave a little magic, making it glow green, bright and harsh.
“Show us,” he whispered.
As he let go, it did not drop to the flow; instead, it swished around the house, showing the footsteps and patterns of the people who had passed through the vacant house. It gave off greenish smoke, giving into an apparition.
It showed Leo lounging on the sofa and impressions on the scrying mirror.
Morgan descended the stairs with tears in her eyes.
“Welcome in,” she whispered.
John entered the house and offered a sympathetic pat on her shoulder.
“Let’s see what this reveals,” John stated softly, watching Fred flit around this way and that.
It showed Lexi leaving with bags in hand, back to when they arrived home. Their solemn faces, although it was in reverse, it was clear they were talking to a third.
“Who are they talking to, Fred?” John asked.
“I don’t know… whoever this is, they’re good at covering their tracks,” he stated, feeding it more energy to continue its memories.
It simply danced around the front door but didn’t reveal anything. After a few moments, Lexi’s cat, Sooty, was ‘levitating’ down the stairs.
“The hell-?”
“Most likely carried,” Fred informed.
Morgan nodded and watched on; the feather flashed blue for a moment.
“That’s a sleeping spell,” Fred informed, watching the cat start to hiss at his assailant.
“We are close.”
The feather danced in front of the mirror; a flash of peach was given this time.
“A Morph.”
“Wait!” John interrupted, “The mirror.”
Fred grabbed the feather, stopping it in its tracks and hovered over the mirror. John stepped closer, twisting his head this way and that.
“That’s not a reflection,” he stated.
Morgan's eyebrows furrowed, and she came closer, watching the reflections in the mirror. She felt no magic, no essence.
“Revelora,” she stated, thinking a veil hid the person.
A presence she had never felt before revealed itself. It was overbearing, taking Morgan's breath away. She had never encountered something this powerful, at least not human. She kneeled as it overpowered her, shaking with fear.
“Morgan!” John kneeled beside her, “What’s wrong.”
“I-I don’t know.” She couldn’t explain it, but its message… its threat was clear.
‘Do not mess with me.’
She took long breaths to get rid of the dizziness.
“I’m fine. Keep going,” she said, sitting on the sofa.
Fred let go of the feather once more. It zoomed past the mirror and embedded itself in the wood of the door to her little cove.
Fred looked to Morgan, asking for permission.
“Go ahead,” she waved.
Fred opened the door cautiously, and peeking around, he found it empty.
“Nothing-” croak
“Henry?!” Morgan sprinted from her spot.
Fred raised his hand, stopping her. He didn’t see anything inside; was it a trick?
Shuffling further into the room, he turned on the light and called, “Henry?”
A struggle could be heard, shuffling, thumping and Gronk. Fred quickly followed it to the writing desk, and lo and behold, a black sack sat under the desk, a knot firmly closing the bird inside.
Fred gently took the bag and freed the bird, saying, “Morgan, you’ll want to see this.”
Now entering the room, Morgan gasped and rushed over to her bird.
Henry was exhausted, hungry and dehydrated. Clumps of feathers were missing from stress.
“Who did this?” Morgan asked,
“Mad-” he collapsed before he could finish.
With fresh new tears, she thanked the two Fae before flooding to her kitchen to nurse the bird to health.
“Go and find Lexi,” she whispered, “I have a bad feeling.”
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Lexi
Stepping through the doorway, the forest was left behind. Instead of stepping on loose dirt, the ground turned cold and slightly slippery. Every step Hecate took echoed, bouncing from the now enclosed space, and the door behind us slowly closed, encasing us in darkness.
With a click of her fingers, the space was illuminated by torches alight with flames.
The vast forest was replaced by claustrophobic cave walls, with sporadic bits of moss, and the occasional water droplet could be heard splashing to the ground.
Hecate lifted a metallic touch from its resting place on the side of the cave.
“Come,” Hecate ushered, gently pulling me forward, “We need to find the fates.”
I nodded with new vigour following her, “Where will we find them?”
“Currently, in the underworld.”
Approaching the other end of the cave, the light revealed stairs.
“It’s a long way down…” she said, taking the lead.
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The Goddess was not exaggerating; the stairs never ended, with turns left and right. They were steep in most places, like Victorian staircases. It made my head spin.
Taking the final step, the mouth of the cave sheds some light at the end of the tunnel. The solid, flat stone gave way to uneven pebbles that shifted as we walked.
Exiting the stairwell, the space opened to a larger compartment. Sharp, jagged rock faces reached impossibly high; it was far too steep to attempt to climb, not to mention the network of stalactites covering the ceiling of the cave. As the ground sloped harshly, it met harsh waters rushing past beyond the island, deeper into the cove, which seemed more like a riverbank.
The loose pebbles crunched as souls wandered, pacing the stretch of land, few were talking to themselves, their eyes trained on the ground as they paced. They were not acknowledging each other. Their appearance was greying, looking opaque, and their eyes were nearly completely white.
“Come, do not talk to them,” Hecate whispered.
“What are they looking for?” I asked harshly.
“Coin for Charon.”
The ferryman's name jogged my memory, “This is river Styx.”
“Correct.”
The wandering souls are formally known as shades. They were either not buried or left without money to pay for the crossing.
I checked my pocket, feeling the coins gave me relief; I held onto them as we walked to a wooden pier standing above the water.
Strangely, there was no one waiting to board the missing ferry; it seemed deserted.
“Stand at the edge,” Hecate gestured in front of her, “It had been a while since a spirit crossed.”
As I stood at the edge of the pier, I glanced at her over my shoulder with confusion, why?
“Beliefs change. Not many follow our pantheon. Witches go to the Summerland; they go through whatever path they choose, mostly Celtic or Nordic in nature. Wolves go to the Moon Goddess, Selene. Vampires never die…”
As she spoke, the river rippled and waved, becoming more energetic. Inspecting the inky black water, a dark shape began to rise.
The bow of a boat broke through the surface tension first. Its wood blackened and slick with algae. It slowly slipped away, falling back into the murky water. An eerie mist clung all around it, as if the water was acidic eating away at the boat.
Then, Charon emerged.
The ferryman of the dead stood tall at the helm. He was wrapped in tattered robes, soaked from the deep waters. His hood covered most of his face, but a long grey beard protruded from the covering.
As he fully emerged, steam came from his soaked clothes and the boat glided silently on the river’s surface.
In one hand, he held a long slightly crooked pole. His movements were deliberate and slow, expertly rowing the boat across the surface creating swirls in the murky water.
Charon’s boat came to rest at the pier, his head lifted, showing his gaze covered by black cloth. It was clear the pole was worn smooth, from spent eons guiding the souls across the Styx.
His lifted a wrapped hand to me, I could see the scars of blisters and splinters in his hard labour.
With an open his palm, he silently asked for payment.