In the age in which we live, Fairytales rarely happen.
Pumpkins no longer turn into horse-drawn coaches and gingerbread houses were eaten long ago by children who then ceased to believe in fairies, witchcraft and magic.
But if the moon is full and three powerful witches come together with single intent a spell could be cast which could be the beginning of a Fairytale, never to be forgotten.
But this was not a child’s Fairytale it was an adult one.
The cauldron would bubble, the witches would chant and a magical transformation would take place. A man born from hellebore, skin of toad and eye of newt. A man who was once a cat...Chapter One
The witching hour...
An appropriate and powerful time to scry – and for this particular session, the location was just perfect in every way. Undoubtedly, those mortals with a penchant for magic and horror would find it most fulfilling. Imagine their fear and delight, if they were able to behold such a scene: gnarled trees, a token bat, a house built on an ancient burial ground and a room accessed via a bookcase door, which creaks obligingly when opened. And all manner of things which trigger primitive fears appearing as vague shapes or figures, ready to accompany those bold enough to venture forth, guiding them into the unknown.
And through the aforementioned, secret entrance, the room beyond beckons intriguingly in terms of magical content, yet purists would be in for a disappointment. True, there were pentacles and sigils drawn on ancient parchments; crystals of various colours, shapes and sizes; ancient amulets; grimoires and all manner of mystical and magical items strewn across an antique desk. But the haphazard piles, mingle with less magical items such as biscuits and various other foods, whilst a dark crystal ball tops one pile like a large, Gothic cherry, as if it were a final delicacy to tempt the Gods, angels or demons or whatever magical forces were enabling the visions to flow freely.
The hands upon the crystal ball were masculine, well-manicured and heavily adorned with silver rings. Now and then the index fingers stroked across the tip of the crystal. The familiarity of touch was borne of long acquaintance: the crystal was an old, old friend. A base of ruby-eyed, silver snakes, unfurled to varying degrees supported the onyx and lifted it five centimetres above whichever surface it was placed upon. On this occasion, the platform was a red, leather-bound grimoire, used almost as frequently as the crystal ball, yet it could just as easily have been placed on a cake tin, or a plate, which had the remains of a pack of Garibaldi biscuits on it. If auspicious omens were being sought, then the thought processes that enabled high magic to intermingle with gluttony might have been questionable. Yet they clearly were not. The fact that the grimoire had just had coffee spilt on it, cast aspersions on the scryer’s dedication to magic and yet any who knew him would know he was beyond all standard superstitions and magical rules. He created his own...
And then, as the witching hour gathered its own momentum, time raced ahead, fluttering in the recess of the crystal, sharp-winged like a bat. The scryer saw a curve of light, which then faded and the information was revealed clearly in brilliant white against the blackness of the onyx: Fanny Monckton, Elizabeth Tinder and Ann Smith.
Soon he would know them and they would know him. Again.
It had been a long time...www.amazon.com/Manspell-Shelle…