Page 50 of I Will Always Find You
Even though the formidable Baba Yaga had been defeated, the Romani witch realized she had been caught off guard by the unexpected attack. She was ill-prepared to face the power of whatever that living darkness was, be it god-born or daemonic magic. He would never allow this to happen to him; he would never be arrogant, unprepared or underestimate his opponent again.
The Romani witch knew precisely what his greatest enemy was: a blood-drinker! He would be prepared to fight such an immortal. Now that he had this book
Before leaving Baba Yaga’s hut, the Romani witch had delved deep into his reservoir of magical knowledge to find a spell powerful enough to enchant his satchel. This was essential to keep the potent aura of the book hidden from Damek and his mother, as well as from anyone else who might sense its sinister resonance.
The grimoire had several arcane symbols carved into its binding, a covering made from tanned human flesh. The Romani witch had no understanding of what they meant, but he vowed to learn these ancient languages no matter how long it took, whether that was an entire lifetime or more.
On the cover were two ancient Greek words that hecouldtranslate, ones that chilled him to his very marrow, yes, but not enough to abandon his plan. In his tongue, the words translated to mean precisely what he was looking for.
Darkest Magick.
SPAIN 19th Century
SALAMANCA TO MADRID
THEBlack School was shrouded in mystery, hidden within a vast cavern deep beneath the surface of Salamanca, the historic capital of the province that shared its name. Nestled in the community of Castile and León in Spain, Salamanca was a rich tapestry of culture and history. Perched in the western reaches of the Iberian Peninsula, the city traced its roots back to its days as a Roman settlement, where the remnants of ancient civilization still whispered tales of blood and glory.
Over the centuries, Salamanca evolved into a Moorish city, its architecture reflecting the intricate artistry of that era, before blossoming into a prestigious university town in the thirteenth century. This transformation heralded the city as a vibrant center of knowledge, drawing scholars and thinkers from far and wide and infusing the air with an enduring spirit of intellectual pursuit.
This included those seeking secret, forbidden knowledge, particularly of the Dark Arts.
Inside the windowless, underground, labyrinthine chambers of the Black School, lit only by torches, the atmosphere was ever-thick with reverence and mystery. The scholars, cloaked in shadows, primarily engaged in hushed communion, their voices but a gentle murmur against the ancient, cold and craggy stone walls.
There were no instructors; everything was learned from enchanted texts and scrolls, their words and images illuminated like flames, all easily read in the dark.
Each day, a shaggy, inhuman hand would reach through the wall to deliver the pupils’ meals, and once they finished, the hand would take back the empty horns and platters.
A powerful enchantment concealed the entrance to the Black School; only the supremely gifted—and the damned—could discover it. The pupils were confined to the shadows, never allowed to step outside or bask in the warmth of daylight throughout their stay.
As mentioned in the folklore of many cultures, there was always a tale of the sorcerer who traded his very soul to the dark forces that lie beyond the known world for sinister power. However, not all who sought arcane knowledge within the halls of the Black School forged pacts with djinn, daemons or eldritch gods. Still, students often struggled to distinguish between a soul in bondage, one bound to serve a higher dark power, and an autonomous scholar.
No one knew who founded the school or how old it was. Some believed it was the work of the Christian Devil; others thought it was ancient gods. Rumours abound that the Black School served the great god Bacchus or the satyr god Pan, with their respective cults sharing the dark, magical secrets of Olympus and the Unseelie Court.
Some spoke of the goddess of witchcraft herself, Hecate, presiding as the headmistress of the arcane school.
The Romani witch knew such whispers about the goddess were all pure fabrications. He understood, as any faithful witch should, that Hecate transcended the confines of such structured embassies of sorcery. She embodied the wild, untamed essence of magic, far removed from the ministerial chains that bound a place like the Black School.
Hecate thrived in the shadows, yes, a goddess who presided over all magic, dark and light, offering guidance to those she favoured, but preferably where the moonlight danced upon ancient rituals. She was more at home among covens and one-on-one visitations than universities.
The Romani witch firmly believed that the goddess of witchcraft would never teach the Dark Arts lightly, nor would she support the foul and corrupt magic practiced by witches like Baba Yaga.
Such sorcery was bestowed by the elder gods: ancient qlippothic beings, twisted in shape and form. These deities existed long before the Titans and Olympians emerged. Eventually, the younger gods, greater in number, waged war against them, ultimately forcing the eldritch ones back into the dark and foul realm from whence they came.
However, their stain upon the world persisted, and Baba Yaga’s grimoire was one such enduring taint.
In every life since acquiring the grimoire, the Romani witch had been visited in his dreams by Hecate, who repeatedly asserted in each nocturnal vision that dark magic was not the path he was meant to follow. The witch-goddess feared it would negatively impact the Romani witch’s cycle of magical rebirth. With some anger and frustration in her voice, Hecate emphasized the potential for unpredictable outcomes and stated that she would not intervene on his behalf this time.
In these dreams, Hecate urged him to abandon his desire for dark power and to throw the Cannibal Hag’s grimoire intoVesuvius. And each time the Romani witch respectfully refused, she warned him that while all magic came at a cost, dark magic carried the steepest price and one day, he would be called upon to pay it.
In his arrogance, a trait he had long intended to abandon, the Romani witch ignored each and every warning.
That was a dreadful mistake, one that he had come to deeply regret.
At forty, in his current life at the dawn of the nineteenth century, he was finally facing the consequences of his refusal to listen; he was alone, still without the reincarnated Aeneas by his side.
“I’ve spent hundreds of years, lived many lives—some short, others long—studying this ancient tome from cover to cover,” the Romani witch whispered in perfect Spanish to the hooded figure seated across from him. “Always in secret, away from prying eyes.”And always kept hidden from the man I love.
“You have been both blessed and cursed,” the Black Monk stated plainly. “And if it pleases you, we may speak your native tongue. I know several languages.”
