She took the first sip. It tasted like peppermint and something older, something that reminded her of starlight.
Second sip. The melody Elder hummed grew louder, though his lips barely moved.
Third sip.
The world exploded into light.
Images crashed through her mind—Sam wounded but glowing with inner power—the silver witch standing before a circle of artifacts—pairs of magical objects resonating in perfect harmony—Ivy and Rafe holding hands as plants twisted protectively around them—and behind it all, a shadowy figure conducting the events like a symphony.
"The Eye of Cassandra," she gasped, seeing the orb they'd lost pulsing at the center of a ritual circle. "It's not just a seeing tool—it's a truth spell component!"
She collapsed back into her chair, the vision still burning behind her eyes.
"The Collector doesn't want the artifacts for their value," she whispered. "He's creating a ritual network to harvest magical energy from paired sources."
Elder Thornberry nodded sagely, the bottle of schnapps mysteriously vanished. "And what creates the most powerful paired energy of all?"
"Love," Delilah whispered. "He's harvesting love."
The vision deepened, colors shifting from vibrant possibility to stark reality. Delilah found herself standing in the Assjacket town square, but not as she knew it. The quaint storefronts had crumbled, magical ivy withered along broken walls. The clock tower leaned at an impossible angle, its face cracked but still ticking backward.
"This can't be happening," she whispered, but no sound came from her lips in this terrible future.
Townspeople shuffled through debris-littered streets. Their movements were mechanical, eyes vacant and glassy. Each person trailed wisps of purple energy that flowed upward into a swirling vortex above the town. Mrs. Shufflewick, still clutching library books, bumped repeatedly into a lamppost without changing course. Fabio, his once-flamboyant gestures reduced to twitching fingers, mechanically kneaded dough that never took shape.
Delilah tried to touch a passing figure—Zelda—but her hand passed through her friend's shoulder. Zelda's cats followed her, moving with the same vacant precision, their usual chaos replaced with eerie uniformity.
The sound of breaking glass drew her attention. Sam, still recognizably himself, hurled a chair through the window of the pharmacy. He emerged with armfuls of supplies, eyes wild but aware, determination etched in every line of his face.
"Sam!" she called, but he couldn't hear her.
Vision-Sam ran toward the community center, constantly checking over his shoulder. He slipped inside, barricading the door behind him.
Delilah found herself inside without crossing the space between. A makeshift medical center had been established. Mac lay on a cot, bandaged and pale. Others she recognized huddled in corners, the last of Assjacket's conscious citizens.
"I found more suppressants," Vision-Sam announced, distributing bottles. "They slow the progression, but we're running out of options."
"The evacuation team hasn't returned," Mac said weakly. "The barrier extends beyond the county line now."
A commotion outside drew Sam to the window. "They're coming. Everyone take your dose now."
Mayor Grimble shuffled at the front of the approaching horde, his mayoral hat—somehow still intact—bobbing with each jerky step. The hat's tiny flags waved frantically, as if trying to signal for help while its owner moaned tunelessly.
"By municipal decree," the Mayor's hat announced in his voice while the Mayor himself only groaned, "all citizens will shuffle aimlessly and moan at appropriate volumes during designated hours. Violators will be assimilated with extreme prejudice!"
"They're breaking through!" someone screamed.
Sam turned to the survivors. "Go out the back. I'll hold them off."
"No," Delilah whispered, understanding what came next.
She watched, helpless, as Sam fought the horde. He was magnificent, powerful—but there were too many. A purple mist enveloped him as the Mayor's outstretched fingers brushed his arm.
Sam's struggles slowed. His eyes, those intense eyes that had looked at her with such complex emotion, began to cloud over.
Behind the advancing crowd stood the silver-haired witch, smiling coldly. But behind her—Delilah gasped—stood something worse. A presence, shifting and indistinct, wearing faces like masks. It discarded each face when it finished, letting them fall like empty husks. It reached for another mask, and Delilah recognized the face it selected.
Her own.
