1
The Hellhounds
We are two.
We have always been and always will be.
There are two of us, but we are not the same. Not twins. Not brothers. There are no words for who and what we are together. We are not ancient. We areprimal. Forged in the first heat. Sparked by the first fire.
At the gates we guard and we sleep. We watch. We wait. It is more than our duty; it is our reason to exist. We were here long before this place was ever called Hell. We will be here long after the high demons and devils are gone. Only with the death of magic will we ever die.
For we are from magic and are magic itself.
And in the history of everything, it is the witches who wield magic strongest.
Before the groaning gates of the underworld, we listen to a witch's call. Smell a witch's scent. Hear a witch's heart beat. Taste a witch's tears. Brought from up above to down below. An open invitation. A last prayer. Desperate. Eager. A plea for help, a cry for mercy.
"Do we hear?"
"Yes, we hear.”
A witch who is more than a witch. Mixed blood. Born from witches and humans and the demonic-devilish brood alike. Very rare. Very special. Lost and alone.
As the first to hear the call, we must be the first to answer. Before the demons and devils sniff out one of their bastards. We shut the gates behind us to hinder the path. The year is late, and the season is right. The veil between worlds is ripe and sweet. Easy to rip into. Quick work when our hunger is so terrible.
Up we go.
Through fire and earth and water. Up, up, up. We dig and crawl and bite our way out. We are pack. We hunt together. Running through the dark and secret places, we do not stop until we find where he is. Our little fire-branded witch. Hidden in one of their secret groves. A community of witches protected by ward, sigil, and spell. An academy for their most precious babes.
All to keep humans out. All to keep spirits away.
But the veil is thin. And we have an invitation inside.
There he is. Our witch. Our master. Our mate. So sweet, so delicious. He will be ours. It is fated. Written in the stars and signed in blood.
We shall share him.
And we will keep him.
2
Seth
Last year, I didn't even know magic was real.
Now, I'm about to summon my familiar for the very first time.
"A safe circle requires a steady hand," Professor Hawthorne says with a click of his cane as he stalks around the classroom, inspecting our handiwork one by one. "Summoning is a science and an art. Its technical aspects are easy enough to study, yet the artistic side cannot be taught. For those of us raised with the craft, such artistry is easily mastered. For those brought up in more...unorthodox circumstances, well, it can prove quite difficult."
He's talking about me.
The rest of the class doesn't even try to stifle their snickering. Why would they? I'm the only orphan witch on campus. When a group of elegant men and graceful women dressed all in black showed up at my community college and revealed my mystical heritage, I was thrilled. When they explained I'd have to leave my human life behind and transfer to St. Salem Academy to continue my education and learn all about my inherited magic, I couldn't leave fast enough.
I thought I'd entered an academic heaven...but it's been pure hell.
Calculus and Organic Chemistry combined are nothing compared to Fundamentals of Conjuration. I've spent my wholelife as a proud nerd and perpetual teacher's pet, but this class has nearly broken me. And the social scene at St. Salem wants to eat me alive.
Professor Hawthorne stops to chide my summoning circle directly.
