Page 59 of I Will Always Find You
The scene of carnage and horror, with flames in the near distance, felt all too familiar to the Romani witch. It was all happening again, just like it had in Britannia, in the once peaceful village in Devonshire, where he and Aeneas—Rufus—were so happy and content, living in love and tranquility.History was repeating itself; the powerful monster was about to kill his beloved before his very eyes.
“No, not again! I won’t let it happen—NOT AGAIN!”
And in his profound fury, his visceral hatred for the immortal looming before him, the Romani witch’s eyes darkened to a deep, inky black, reflecting the enmity that surged through his veins as he summoned the ancient, dark powers he had sworn never to manipulate again.
But what choice did he have? The Romani witchcraft—the elemental magic and spellcraft—had not been enough last time. This was the reason he had taken the ancient grimoire in the first place! To grant him a power great enough to battle an immortal. He refused to experience another defeat, like the one he had suffered before against the blood-drinker and, much later, at the monstrous hands of Baba Yaga.
This was not a time for subtlety, ritual, prayer, or patience. The Romani witch needed to harness the kind of magic that could transform seawater into corrosive acid, boil a man’s blood from the inside out, or animate the dead to form an army at his command; each spell and conjuration performed with alacrity and speed.
Having studied Baba Yaga’s grimoire for three hundred years, the Romani witch had memorized every spell, hex, invocation and incantation on every page. As much of the magic was in dead languages that were entirely too difficult to pronounce, he had spent countless decades translating them into his own mother tongue; he also found that some spells, when spoken backwards, actually functioned faster and with more potency.
He suddenly recalled the single line written in Sumerian on the beginning page of the ancient grimoire, in blood. They were the first words he translated. They gave him the strength and courage he now needed.
Should reality get in your way, change it through the force of your will.
That was precisely what the Romani witch planned to do.
“Na ssendniknu sruoved!”
Speaking the spell in reverse twisted his voice into something unnatural and menacing.
From the hidden corners and crumbling walls of the street, even the darkest crevices among the sea of lifeless bodies, hundreds of ebon ravens surged forth, a swirling mass of feathers, sharp beaks, and talons. They descended upon the immortal, their cacophony piercing the eerie silence of the street.
Unaware of the Romani witch’s presence and too preoccupied toying with Alejandro, the blue-black-haired immortal was caught off guard by the avian onslaught conjured through a backwards-spoken spell. An unkindness of ravens, summoned from the shadows, swarmed him—vicious and relentless—as they tore at his immortal flesh from his head to his exposed ankles in Grecian-style sandals.
All to devour him.
The immortal immediately released Alejandro from his grasp, allowing him the use of both his hands to fight off the surprise attack.
The Spaniard dropped to the ground hard, crashing into the bone and bloodied flesh and gristle of the mutilated corpses below, which blanketed the cobblestone street. On landing, he smacked the back of his head on the curved handle of a dead French Soldier’s sabre briquet.
His head bleeding and throbbing, Alejandro began crawling through the expanse of human death to escape the chaos around him. He knew that without his magic, if he remained, he was as good as dead.
Enraged and weary of battling the unrelenting shadow birds—creatures that would have once obeyed him when all darkness bent to his will—the immortal shed his physical form. Becoming spirit, invisible and untouchable, he drifted through the deadly unkindness with ease.
Projecting his thoughts into the aether, the immortal growled, “You will have to do better than that, fool, whoever you are! You cannot kill a god.”
Once he knew Alejandro was far enough away, the Romani witch stepped out of the shadows and into the moonlight to cast fire magic. He ignited the ravens, transforming them into a fiery whirlwind. He understood that the immortal was seemingly immune to flame, but this was not an attack; his intention was to eliminate the bodies and debris, creating space for the ongoing combat.
“Do you recognize me, demon? I told you we would meet again!”
With a dramatic sweep of his hands, the Romani witch compelled the fiery maelstrom to sweep the street clean; it turned everything within a certain distance from the Romani witch to ash. Then, after a moment, when the street was clear, he clapped his hands and shouted, “Exstingue!” [“Extinguish!”] The fire turned to smoke.
But he was far from finished. Not even close.
Shaping his fingers into a pyramid, the Romani witch roared, “Ekoms nedrah dna niartser eht lairetammi!”
Instantly, the thick plumes of smoke billowed and coalesced, solidifying into a dark grey mass that hung ominously in the air like a sinister tapestry.
A piercing mannish scream erupted from seemingly nowhere; it echoed with agony, joining the distant chorus of gunfire.
This was no common entrapment spell; it was a dark incantation designed to ensnare spirits within the materialrealm. As their ethereal forms moved effortlessly through the conjured haze of soot and ash, oppressive to flesh and blood humans, spirits and their intangible ilk unwittingly became entwined within this treacherous, semi-solid substance. This unearthly state rendered them perilously susceptible to the grasp of dark magic.
Should the smoke be solidified through the spell, any spirit within would become trapped, transforming into a semi-solid state and becoming partially visible.
Once enmeshed in this agonizingly twisted, half-formed reality, the tormented souls endured unspeakable suffering. This was also more than a binding spell; it was a malevolent enchantment crafted to inflict exquisite torment and despair upon all spirits, all immaterial creatures.
And that torture was just what the half-spirit, half-flesh immortal was now painfully enduring.
