“Dear Heavenly Father Who is in Heaven, I confess to thee: there is magic in my veins. Lucifer, himself, hath tainted the divine body You crafted in Your image and has corrupted my very soul with his Dark power.” The wood beneath me caused my knees to ache, but the prayer was worth the pain. With my hands together, flexed towards the heavens, I prayed long and hard for God to have mercy on my immortal soul: confessing my sins against the Father, repenting for them,  and begging God for forgiveness.”

Maybe I’m a fool to think any amount of prayer could save me from the hottest depths of Hell. I am a witch, after all, guilty of practicing one of the darkest sins imaginable: witchcraft. But with a legacy like mine, there is no turning back. There is no such thing as “normal” for a Reimonenq. Normal is relative. Even now, the smell of Frankincense incenses is swirling around my room. The pink, rose-scented candle burned next to it, with the candlewick burning as bright as the sun, itself.

“Please,” I prayed, with my narrowed, slanted eyes sealed tighter than the lid on a mason jar. “Forgive me, Father. Purge my heart of the Darkness and cleanse the vessel of my soul so that I may rejoice in paradise with those who came before me. Grant me the ability to break this generational curse cast on my bloodline. I plead for Divine Intervention. Let my mind remain intact as I save myself from those who do not know the truth of my nature.” If witches exist, it’d be stupid to believe God--or, a higher power, in general--didn’t. For years, Gramma Celine taught me my Scripture, and the bible stories every other Christian knew. But, pleading for forgiveness for something which came so natural to me seemed unjust. Yet, out of habit, I found myself at the foot of my bed, with my elbows embedded deep in the soft, cold cotton mattress, with my eyes closed and with my head bowed. 

“God, please. Do not forsake me. Do not leave me in the shadows for I know Your light. I know what Thy Son hath sacrificed for mortal-kind, and I like to think it was for my kind, as well.” Tears began to form in my eyes, but in the darkness behind my eyelids, it felt impossible to hold them back. 

Nearly ice-cold upon my cinnamon skin, I took a deep breath before concluding my prayer. “I ask that You protect me from those who wish to do my family and I harm, and I thank You for the fact that You have never failed to do so in the past. Thank You, God, for the life You’ve given me and the gifts I like to think You have bestowed upon my family and me. For as long as I live, I promise to always try to use my magic for the good of the world--to protect the true Innocents of the world. In Jesus’s name, I pray. Amen.” 

I stood up and turned to the corner where my mirror hung on the wall. My existence is forbidden. At least, it is in the eyes of my father as well as the Big Man Upstairs.

I’ve known of my differences since I was young. When I looked in the mirror, I didn't see what other people saw… The familiarities that made Mortals… well, Mortal. Because I’m not one. 

The cotton black shirt hugged my body so warmly, I found comfort in my loneliness. Snug around the chest and loose around the torso. The diamond studs in my ears dazzled, caught in a ray of splattering candlelight. I reached for my hair-tie atop of my mahogany nightstand and pulled the mass of black, gray-stranded curls toward the back of my head. Holding my hair with one hand, I grabbed the black hair-tie with my two front teeth and stretched it out with my fingers before roughly pulling my hair through into a ponytail. My arms fell, and I just stood there for a second. I couldn’t help but admire the scar across my left cheek. I couldn’t even remember how I’d gotten it, who gave it to me, or what could’ve been powerful enough to tear through the skin of a witch. It should have been impossible. But, the longer I stared at the indention in my skin, the more I realized that nothing is impossible.  

Out of all of my family’s differences, mine stuck out like a sore thumb. The manor was that of shadowed servants in ivory-white, bone masks, and twisted, powerful magic, with a touch of toxic masculinity. But that’s the way of the Reimonenq family… If you didn’t have power, you were weak. And if you practiced witchcraft, then you were nothing more than a servant for a Reimonenq to obtain more power. 

It’d be a matter of time before I was called downstairs and thrown to the wolves. Or, bats depending on how you looked at it. I’d grown used to it, though—the constant torment of learning of a heritage that didn’t belong to me and training in a way that restrained my… gifts. The black linen curtains bellowed with a swift breeze from the cracked bay window. Another set of lilac-purple candles burned around the entire room, illuminating every corner of my room except the one closest to the doorway. Lavender and frankincense incense burned with curling smoke enveloping the entire room, for protection and strength. There were candles lit in each one of the four cardinal directions, containing me in a diamond on the polish, dark hardwood floor.

I stared at my reflection for a second, admiring the qualities that differed from the rest of my siblings: the irises of my eyes were gold like liquid topaz, instead of crimson, my ears—small and round—instead of long and slightly pointed. Moonlight wrapped my right hand in a magnificent light that almost cooled underneath its brightness and seemed to engulf my cinnamon-like brown skin in a golden aura. I cherished the feeling of gratitude.

Suddenly, I could hear the silent but deadly thuds of heavy footsteps echoing up the attic stairs. I would’ve wondered who it was if I didn’t already know. As much I wished for it to be Pierce, Valentine, or even Emmett, I knew the demon itching for my soul.

The door opened without a sound—no squeaking hinges or creaking floorboards. Just the threatening thumping of Chelsea boots growing louder and louder. My heart did the same, thundering in my eardrums like the African drums in the foyer downstairs.

Laurent Reimonenq stared at me. His eyes were black with a thin iris a darker shade of red than my brothers; almost burgundy. Tall and gratified like royalty, Laurent sauntered through the threshold of my room. His sharp animalistic claws tapped the sacred wood of his skull cane in his left hand. His coffee-bean brown skin—a little darker than mine—seemed pale and almost colorless, as if lined with a thin gray film.

“What I done told you, boy?” he snarled. Laurent scanned the room, eyeing every candle on the floor, then narrowing them at the sight of the two burning incenses. And from that, I sensed it; Laurent Reimonenq’s internalized fear of witchcraft—one of the only forms of magic that had the power to turn his entire world upside-down… It happened once, to the love of his life. “Witchcraft ain’t got no place in this house. I’ve told you once; I ain’t sayin’ it again. Put them out.”

I turned around, peering into the darkness of his eyes. Pools of blood confined by the Dark forces that kept his authority over me and everyone else in this house. 

“Why? I ain’t hurtin’ nobody.”

“’Cause I said so!--” his irises flared with rage-- “And, don’t question me, again, boy.” I contemplated disobeying Laurent’s wishes and the joy it’d bring me. He snuffed out the light of every wish I’d made, and I had just enough power to do the same. It would be so easy to turn his life into a living hell. Would my brothers follow my actions, or would they turn against me and side with this racist, bigot they called a father? The possibilities were finite and risking it wasn’t worth it. The dream was short-lived, anyway, as all of my other ones. For if I was to disobey, it’d only be a matter of time before the flames went out themselves, then I’d have no protection. He’d take me underground and beat me worse than the slaves that once lived on this plantation so many centuries ago.

So, I opened my mind up and allowed the Dark forces that settled at the depths of my core to rise and flow like a stream of pebbled water. My heart chilled as a familiar sensation of energy snaked its way through my veins. Cold, terrifyingly powerful, and addicting. Reaching my arms and hands, my fingers buzzed with a familiar power.

“Suctus Incendia.” I snapped my fingers, relinquishing my will into reality. The atmosphere filled with static, like a freight train passing by a cemetery in the dead of night. The air flashed cold between us, and a cold wind swept through the walls of my room. Smoked wisped from the candle wicks, and he and I stood there. The hazy smell of burned candles filled the room.

“I don’t tolerate defiance, Memphis, and I’d hate to do something I’d regret,” he threatened. I narrowed my eyes, and he gave a grim smirk in return. Laurent turned and walked out of the door but just before he exited, he stopped. “Fields. Witching Hour. Don’t be late.” He slammed the door behind him, nearing tearing off its hinges.

Then, I was left in the dark with nothing except my magic, tingling underneath the surface of my skin, and the dark, which I found terrifyingly soothing... My name is Memphis Reimonenq; I’m different from others. Others in the world of magic, and the others in the world of magic. I am different from others, everywhere.

Witching Hour meant midnight; a time when the full moon reached its apex, and a witch’s power is at its strongest. But why would a demon who hates witches and anything to do with magic want to meet at a time when I could best him and his proteges?

Something didn’t feel right. But during our training session, I was never allowed to use my powers. No spells, no talismans, no potions. Yet my brothers were able to use their Dark gifts. It all seems hypocritical, but I couldn’t think of what tricks Laurent had up his sleeves.

I sat Indian style, staring at grimoires. Every spell that a witch casts is unique unto itself, so every witch would document their work in grimoires. Spell-books. Since my mother’s death, I’d never been able to find her grimoire, so I made it my goal to get my hands on any book containing any information about magic I could find. So far, I have three.

The brittle, yellowed pages of the leather-bound tome could’ve crumbled to dust under my touch. Maybe I wasn’t allowed to practice witchcraft in my own home, but that doesn’t mean I couldn’t study.

I flipped through the pages of the grimoire of Abigail Williams, the witch who started it all and messed it up for the new generations. I found an entry from September 8th, 1692, and began to read: 

“The Puritans believe that I am loyal to the Devil, Lucifer, Himself. But they are wrong. I know not the works of demons and have battled many over my thirty-six years of life. The minister has fashioned another radical league of Mortals, rallied the strangest of men to hunt down those who possess the gift of magic, as well as those cursed with longevity. He calls them “The Brotherhood of the Innocents”, but they are anything but. Ichabod Duquesne believes I am powerful enough to rescue his magic by pulling his spirit back from the Nether World. But in doing so, the balance of Nature would be thrown off, thus enraging the spirits. The Witch Lord--Exu--remains Bound on the Other Side, secretly whispering poisons in the minds of his followers, the Servants of the Six. With the Innocents on the rise, the Servants search for a way to Bind the Lords back to the Mortal Coil, so they might once walk among us.”

The Witch Lords were the most powerful of us all; three brothers, three sisters, and all evil. Sure, Abigail Williams paved the way to The Trials but during the Crusades, but the Witch Queen--the most powerful of the Six--nearly wiped out the Human race. Her dark magic spread plague and caused tens of thousands of deaths across the continent of Europe utilizing rats, bats, and files. And the only way to break a curse of such magnitude is to kill the witch that cast it. The first generation of Innocents massacred entire villages believed to be home to witches until the Witch Queen showed herself. I don’t know all the gory details, but I know that she could not be killed by ordinary means. But even Immortals can die if you look in the right places.

I turned to another grimoire; this one is pale white, the size of an encyclopedia, with an insignia of a figure-eight on its spine. These pages weren’t as old as Abigail Williams’s, but there was discoloration along the edges. I read the first page: 

“It is February 1892, and I cannot take any more of this. I have been running for months, now, and the Hunters always seem to know my every move. They are always one step ahead of me. But, how? Every sanctuary I have sought refuge in, they have burned to the ground. Families have died. CHILDREN have died, and I cannot help but feel responsible. That Mortal--Faye Chamberlain… She was so sweet, so young. Only eleven years old. But that did not stop the Brotherhood from hanging her in the Gallows and stringing her up like a flag, leaving her body for the entire town to see. She was an Innocent. The image of her small, lifeless body limp with death, hanging from a streetlight on Bourbon Street is seared into my head. They are the true definition of murderers. Guilty of aiding someone like me. A witch. Alas, her death will not be in vain. I will hunt down her killers, I will show them the error in harming the young, and I will make them suffer. Even if it is the last thing I do. And it might be.

-       James Summerlin”

I slammed the grimoire shut, shifting the dust caught between its pages into the atmosphere. I hated it, the thought of feeling so helpless. I won’t forget her name--Faye Chamberlain, age eleven. Hung. Another victim. Another pure, virtuous soul whose life was ripped from her due to utter ignorance. Thinking about it made my hands quake, like the tremors of the earth. My blood grew warmer and warmed, until the veins under my skin restricted and bulged to the surface. Dark power flooded my system; though all the windows in my room were sealed shut, a lit breeze picked up.

They killed that girl--a Mortal girl, for that matter. One of their own. Faye Chamberlain was no witch. Magic didn’t run through her veins like it runs through mine or ran through Abigail’s or James’. Her only crime was ensuring the safety of a witch. My head began to ache, holding back the tears for her. The gentle breeze evolved into a gust-force wind, spinning. A funnel of papers reeled around the room, catching the dust bunnies that had been wedged in the corners, and knocking over the cups and candles and incenses I left on my mahogany nightstand. I wanted vengeance of my own. So many people have died at the hands of the Brotherhood of Innocents, and their unjust nature has gone without consequences for so long. Too long. My heart ached; magic pooled in my palms.

Set it all to fire, the whispers said. Let it out and watch it burn. Then, make your oppressors burn. For a moment, I considered it. Much like the Innocents, my father oppressed me day after day, night after night. That’s what the spirits meant. It was their voices I was hearing after all. Not one specific voice, either; instead a chorus of disembodied voices all urging me to do it one thing: kill. Suddenly, the blood in my fingertips started to boil until sweat seemed to collect across my entire palm.

Do it, boy! The whispers hissed. Golden sparks flashed inches above my fingertips. A funnel of dark smoke appeared before a spinning ball of orange-ish red fire burned in both my hands. I could do it. I could watch it all burn and not think twice about it. My father would meet the fate he so deserved for his cruel treatment all these years. My brothers would make it out, though. I cared more for them than Laurent, but what of myself, then? Would they hunt me down in hopes of revenge like I so desire for the Brotherhood of Innocents, or would the Reimonenq Incubi find life elsewhere?

Forget them, too. They hate you, just as much as that Demon does! They hunt you down to the ends of the earth and do the same to you as those wretched Innocents did to the Mortal so many centuries ago. They don’t care about you, Memphis. We are your family. We know what’s best for you. Let it all burn and let it all fade.

I turned towards my mirror. The whites of my eyes resembled pools of darkness. My irises glowed gold as if they were on fire. My pupils stretched before my very eyes, now, more feline-like; a cat’s with black slits in the middle. Light shone from my eyes, and in that light, everything around me changed. 

I saw through the tornado of papers in my room and glanced into my reflection. I hadn’t noticed the menacing grin elongated across my face. My canine teeth sharpened into fangs, revealing the part of myself that I hated more than anything., My face twisted into darkness and shadows. The features that had been so feminine, yet masculine, so enticing and irresistible, were now sharp and dark, morphing before my very eyes. My skin seemed to tighten around my bones, accentuating every vein until I could almost see the blood pumping through them. I looked like a monster.

I gasped and stumbled over my own two feet, breaking my connection to the darkness that burned ice-cold at the center of my chest. The mirror shook so hard, it cracked, spider-webbing from one end to the other. The tornado faded into nothingness, and all the papers caught in the whirlwind fell to the hardwood floors beneath my feet. I couldn’t hold the tears back anymore. My eyes were back to normal, but they stung.

I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I can’t take down an entire organization of Witch Hunters! Especially not with magic that taints my mind with such callous, cold-blooded thoughts. How could I, when I would dare think of ending my father? Yeah, he didn’t get the “Greatest Dad of the Year” award, but patricide? I can’t use magic anymore. But that was just another lie. 

But you need it, a voice echoed at the back of my mind. You need your magic. You don’t need your mind. Sobbing into my elbow, I wondered if that was the truth…