Prologue The Bottle Conjuror Book Two: Lucinda

Prologue

Fog lay thick in the forest, its tentacles floating around trees whose ghostly figures were barely discernible yet ominously palpable. Melchior knew there were forest entities one should have enough sense to fear, ancient creatures who would not be cowed by even his immense stature and muscular brawn. As he stepped from deep shadows into pools of silvered moonlight and into shadow again, he kept his one good eye trained on the mist, the skeletal branches arching overhead, the gnarled thickets on all sides. Danger could come from anywhere.

Had he not been summoned he would be asleep in his tiny room in London, overlooking the abandoned cemetery. He lived alone, a Hunter, feared by all Romani, but fearing nothing or no one in return except for this one thing. A summons from Kali could not be ignored.

The damp mist clung to his clothes, pearled in his beard, settling on him like a shroud. There was no path through the forest and though he had never been there before his feet seemed to have a mind of their own, carrying him purposely deeper into the woods. He trusted that mystical guidance as the handiwork of Kali.

Razor-edged brambles scored his hands as he pushed them out of the way. Bony branches plucked at his clothes, slowing his progress. Somewhere far off, perhaps not too far off, a wolf howled. The cry stopped him only for a moment before he pushed on through the mist.

After what seemed like an eternity of walking, Melchior saw that the fog had taken on a pale, yellow hue. He was drawing closer. He felt his heart quicken. The night chill began to dissipate, replaced by some unearthly warmth as the color deepened. The trees and bushes thinned, and he found himself on the edge of a clearing. In the center roared a large fire. Flames leapt into the sky, throwing up cinders that floated skyward like black ghosts. The fire was so bright that it took Melchior a few moments to discern the figure silhouetted against the flames.

Kali.

He could not distinguish any details as she held her back to him, staring into the fire. She was merely a black figure. But he knew her stance was more like a serpent risen and ready to strike. He stopped at the edge of the clearing, fearful.

He stood silently, sweat breaking upon his face in the heat. He did not speak. It was not his place.

“You’ve come,” she said, without turning to him. Her voice was low and sibilant, yet it resounded in his ears like a pistol shot.

“Yes, my queen.”

She sighed and the breeze in the forest sighed with her, briefly fanning the flames into a swirling whirlwind.

“Do you know why you’ve been summoned, Melchior?” He was slow to answer, and she repeated more sternly, “Do you?”

Glowing embers floated down around him. “The Book of Shadows, my queen?”

“At least you know that much,” Kali said.

She moved, perhaps turning to him but he could not be certain with the bright flames stabbing his one good eye. He took a step back.

“The book, aye,” she said, “but there is more. The Bloodstone. Without that, the book is worthless. And unless we have the stone, we Shaitaan are in great danger.”

“Danger?”

She chuckled and the sound chilled his bones. “More to the point, we are dead.”