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Part 1 of 6

We live in a world where emotions can lift people from their sorrows as easily as drown them within. They cause you to strive for something better or hold you back, wielding control both unmeasurable and unmistakable. But what if, for some, emotions held a tangible power, if they could use the emotions of the world for their own benefit? What is the chance that someone would abuse that gift?

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Prologue

The clear, summer night brought out the competitive spirit in both the full moon and surrounding stars, each challenging the other to chase away the night’s veil. Yet neither felt brave enough to penetrate the gloom of Hambley Woods. Those woods they unhesitatingly ceded to the dark, knowing how unwelcome would be their incursion. However, the flickering flame that pierced the wood’s canopy showed not all felt the same concern.

Approaching the light, one could see why, for it came from the lantern of a man. Only man, of all the beasts who walked the earth, sought such petty victories over nature. Maybe because few other beasts were as ill-suited to deal with it. Thus he harnessed fire for warmth or to cook his meat. Or on a night and in a place like this, he used it to chase away the dark, to expose terrors that lurked inside the shadows.

However, for this particular man, the lantern provided nothing more than light to see, for he knew the woods held nothing more dangerous than he. So had learned the predators that slunk, just beyond the lantern’s light, and so learned the pathetic, defeated survivors of the late war. Little more than scarecrows, skeletal from hunger and clothed in tattered rags of gray and brown, they shambled homeward, unsure if they would find house and family victimized by the madness supposedly ended. Ill and injured, Hambley Woods seemed a sheltered haven in which to rest or to scrounge for food. None suspected what waited for them.

The Man with the Lantern.

Like them, he too once fought in the war. For a time he served as an officer in the same army and possibly some of the scarecrows fell under his command. But where the war took their innocence, he willingly surrendered his own. Where the war broke many, it helped him understand he was already broken. It taught him what could make him whole. In the chaos and mayhem, death and destruction, he found himself adrift in a sea of emotion, floating upon waves of anger, hate, fear, and despair. Sometimes, though rarely, even love or compassion.

He discovered this miasma during a skirmish, for some meaningless hill, during his first hand-to-hand encounter with an enemy soldier, Though the enemy remained face less, as with most who followed, he always remembered the terror emanating from the man. Sudden knowledge that he caused the fear struck him like nothing ever imagined. Empowered, it took no effort to block the thrusting, bayoneted rifle and riposte with his sword. And if the initial fear struck like a bolt of lightning, the shock and terror he felt from his dying enemy proved a moment of unholy awakening. Never before did he feel as strong. So addictive to stalk that skirmish and future battlefields, creating and wallowing in the cacophony of emotion felt by men who fought and died.

Initially his commanders celebrated his prowess in leading men to victory. However, as the years passed and the horror of the war increased, they found themselves worried then sickened by his actions. After they turned him into a hero, they could not let the world know their mistake, particularly in their desperation to stave off the defeat all secretly expected. Instead of prison, they sent him home to rest. Home to the manor named for his grandfather, just like Hambley Woods.

After instilling so much fear, it surprised him to learn how those safe behind battle lines felt towards him. No fear, just pity, scorn, and very little love. At first he blamed that on rumours about his actions while in uniform and shrank from that version of himself. Yet in time he discovered a staleness, a mustiness about their feelings, as if kept too long without airing. Shocked to learn the level and the length of his family’s dislike, he often retreated to the woods, there he hunted, riding the lesser waves of a beast’s death.

Until one day, he smelled a fire. Finding it, he also found a deserter. What lurked reawakened and the man became the first victim he could not explain away as an act of war. Nor did he attempt to convince himself that he punished the man’s cowardice, he knew that he indulged an act of simple selfishness. Something enjoyed too much to provide any redeeming qualities, something he repeated numerous times before the war ended. With defeat and the number of his potential victims increasing, he almost exhausted himself in an orgy of murder. In time the woods gained a reputation as haunted, which led to fewer victims. Only the bravest or most desperate gave him opportunity to free himself from society’s norm.

With this stream of release all but dried up, he hunted further afield. But without the protection of a uniform and away from his own property, he fell into arrogance’s lure and discovered the danger of sloppy. Again he proved fortunate to escape to Hambley Manor with honour intact and his true self undiscovered. Once more left to dine on the sour fare offered by the inhabitants of his home.

It proved too much to bear. No longer could he accept himself as Eric Hambley. That Eric died on the hill at the beginning of the war.

Though Eric Hambley offered him a welcome disguise, he could not ignore the Man with the Lantern, the Hunter of Hambley Woods. His twisted needs finally brought this to the forefront. After displaying his true self to those who thought they knew him best, he set out on his final hunt. A chase that enraptured his mind. He could not believe how pure and sweet Amelia’s terror felt when compared to her false love.

Chapter 1 - Curiosity

Morning. Ken’s least favourite time of the day, tied for that position of dishonour with afternoon and evening, with night following close behind.

Not that he lived a horrid life. The Williams, who despite their name actually belong to the widespread Cabot clan, offered as good a foster home as anybody. And if bullies made him their target, well he long ago proved unmoved by their barbs and quick to heal from their bombs. The problem, his life fit into the category labeled blah. Everything stayed the same, combine that with an expectation that nothing would ever change and he could barely work up the energy to swing his backpack over a shoulder before heading out the door for another thrill packed day.

Head down, he ambled towards the bus stop, stepping upon fallen autumn leaves, unmoved by their normally satisfying crunch. Instead his mind lingered on the possibility of a different life.

Nothing spectacular, realism weighed too heavily for him think about life as a movie star, rock star, or secret agent bedding a bevy of beauties, However, how about something other than a nerdish schoolboy? And did he always need to attend private schools with stupid uniforms. Sure the traditional foundations of these schools, all eleven, no twelve now, worked to hide family secrets, but attending them sucked.

Arriving at the most recent of these schools, Ken attempted to make himself even smaller. An approach that did nothing to make life better; however, it always made life easier at St. Whoever or Whatever Academy. On this day his strategy worked perfectly. Doubtlessly enhanced by the natural sloth of the teenage, male bully on Monday mornings, he received little more than scowls in his direction.

From the entrance he headed for the silence of the library, the habitat preferred by those students in search of similar safety until first bell. Ignored by them, friends complicated secrets, Ken walked towards the back, past the history section, where he slipped into the room labeled as Records.

Inside he found the broom where he left it on Friday and with which he kept the floor spotless. His escape from reality, not even Mr. Edwards, the librarian, regularly visited Records.

Even after the bell rang he continued to sweep, knowing no one would miss him. Only when finished did he look out, through the section of the fogging on the door’s window he scraped away during his first day here. Nobody in sight, he returned the broom to its spot and walked through the back wall. Leaving nothing but false memories for his scheduled classmates and teachers.

So freeing to pass into the pocket worlds. Even if just a nexus, full of nothing but doors, used by the family to travel between the real and numerous unreal worlds. By the time he passed through another of these, which opened into a sterile hallway, Ken stood straighter, no longer worried someone would notice him. Not that his appearance changed, he still looked like a scrawny fourteen year old, but here nobody considered him a schoolboy. In this world everybody knew him as the bearer of the family curse. Something that still made him a pariah, but while here nobody would try to kick his ass.

Amongst family curses, it ranked amongst the least, which might explain why his ancestors tried their utmost to paint its caster as a black-hearted villainess. And though many believed their tale, Ken, the most intimately impacted, felt less sure.

Why would a powerful witch, and only a powerful witch could cast a spell that crossed centuries, survived deaths and reappeared with births, declare war upon an entire family of magic users? What did Alyce Cooper hope to accomplish when she doomed Ken’s ancestor, Jonathon Cabot, to never age beyond his fourteenth year? To never grow into his birthright as a man of power and prestige. And why choose Jonathan, not even a first son?

Ken suspected personal reasons. Battle-scars from thirty years of attendance in upper crust schools across Europe and North America left him an expert judge of youths of privilege. Their propensity to loom as shadows over the weak of both sexes left him doubtful of Jonathan’s innocence.

Just one of many secrets he wished to know, but magic-users zealously guarded their secrets. Most importantly, they hid their existence from the mundane world, but just as often hid their knowledge of magical workings even from family, friend, coven, or clique. This meant a constant loss of and search for knowledge around the magical universe.

For the Cabot family, this world, straight from the mind of a 1970's environmental psychologist, provided a place for the family's scientist magicians to work. And, like any real world researcher, compete for limited resources.

Fortuitously, though Ken proved a failure at the political games, his partner, Dalton, excelled at them. His one true friend, they made a good team. Living on different continents, they mostly worked different schedules, which kept them from getting on each other's nerves. Even better, they enjoyed different types of work. Shy Ken did the brain work, hidden away in their lab. Boisterous Dalton did the legwork, dealing with people, and experiencing life on many worlds.

Today looked no different. The only sign of Dalton's earlier presence, a Post-It fallen onto the floor in front of their lab. No need to read it, Dalton wrote Find Me!!! on it months ago, since which most of the glue on its back disappeared, so often did he stick in on their door.

Despite the multiple exclamation marks, Ken ignored the command. First he needed to commune with his coffee maker. Unconcerned about the old myth it might stunt his growth, Ken needed a cup before starting work. Exciting as he found the project, the day to day work proved a chore, especially after a late night trying to kill, without using an exploit, Old King Allant in Demon’s Souls.

As often happened, their project sprang from personal hardship. In this case, his need to reboot his life every three years. Ken accepted the need, but he hated dealing with the Lintel Men, who saw him almost as a leper.

Actually Lintel People, since the group included women, not least their current leader. Occupying a position of prestige within the family, they served as the custodians of the large stone lintels, split in half, used as foci when opening doors between worlds, both the real one and the magical ones.

Pocket worlds, upon which the magical community depended for sanctuary, prestige and mobility around the real world, did not come cheap. It took significant amounts of energy to open a new world, connect it to others, and fill it with structures or an approximation of life. The result, a necessity priced like a luxury, which kept the energy poor, such as Ken and, to a lesser degree, Dalton, in their place.

For example, Ken always maintained two doors; one at whichever school he attended and another at whoever's house he fostered. And the energy he transferred to the Lintel Men for a relocation equalled nearly a half of what he gathered during the times between using their services.

However, incentive does not equal a solution. Like the coffee in Ken's pot, the problem needed to percolate away in their minds. It took seven years, two and a half cycles through different foster homes, before he and Dalton crafted a theory, proved it in clinical settings, and obtained approval to begin real (pocket) world tests.

No matter how much they tried, the two could not figure a way to divorce the spell from the lintel. Research probed to them these solid blocks of granite, often as large as those used at Stonehenge, were the only thing from the earth strong enough to channel the volume of energy needed to open a new world. A spell intimately linked the stone and the opened world, making it the key to create any other door. Just split the stone in two, place each half in two world, and through the magical law of similarity a portal could be established. Which brought them back to their problem with the lintels, the Lintel Men controlled all physical access to the stones.

They needed a proxy, yet research showed how often others tried to create simulations, some elaborate, some almost the real thing. All those attempts failed.

Almost as a lark, Ken suggested they treat it as a coding issue. If only they could turn each half of a lintel into a object, one they could referenced no matter wherever it rested and they stood. Of course it proved much more complicated, but the idea provided the groundwork for a kludge. If a true programming effort, they knew it would cause a code review tool to crash, but the pilot showed enough promise to obtain blessings from most of the Elder's, an account to draw upon the family’s magical energy and a lab in which to work.

Of course, the one Elder least interested in their project was the leader of the Lintel Men. She demanded th idea first work on something other than her precious stones.

Proof of how much the others Elders wanted the theory to work came when they pressured Julia into providing an alternative. With poor grace, she admitted her people used a simple, two piece telescope as their main training device. With its tubes separated between worlds, trainees learned to establish a link, which allowed them to look through the eyeglass in their world to see what the objective lens saw in its world.

Ken now looked on that roadblock as minor and the work around as a blessing. The two tubes proved easy to manipulate, both from a physical and magical standpoint. It minimized the amount of magic they borrowed from the family bank, which in turn kept them in control of the project.

Pessimist’s mug, full of hot wake-me-up, in hand, Ken felt ready to start using some of what they borrowed.

One problem with Mondays, it gave Dalton the weekend to place beacons. Admittedly a good test, as it allowed them to discover how long a beacon remained usable (after thirty-one hours, you may as well forget it) and resulted in a refinement to the search spell to focus on specific castings. It just required a lot of casting, which continued long after he emptied the coffee pot.

The bigger problem, Dalton’s maturity level. Always a chance, one of those beacons would show a monitor displaying one of the more disturbing images on the internet Therefore, when he heard the door open behind him, Ken said, "You asshole, you almost burned out my retinas.”

“Pardon?”

Ken did not need to turn in order to identify the voice, but unwanted politeness required it. Spinning his chair, he saw his father at the door. Surprise leapt to the forefront of his mind, both because he rarely saw his father and because of how old he appeared. Sure he looked little different than most men his age, but most men his age did not have access to magic.

In their realm, few found anything more important than to extend the facade of youth. Some lived for centuries, but to do so required great skill and access to tremendous amounts of magical energy. Everybody else used spells that accomplished the promises of all the expensive lotions, anti-aging creams, and snake oils throughout the ages. The decline of flesh and skin, muscle and bone, tendon and blood vessel could be slowed. Sicknesses made to run their course quicker. Blood to flow more efficiently. Continued maintenance kept most alive for double their natural life expectancy and appearing in their twenties or thirties for most of it.

Yet Ken’s father, Angus Cabot, looked his age. The reason, the same as why he and his son rarely saw each other. Angus' wife, Ken’s mother, knew nothing of their powers. His father could not chance her discovering his secret, for he would not chance her reaction.

Secrets.

The hallmark of magic users, yet it played havoc upon relationships, particularly with those who knew nothing of the craft. In general, such a marriage seemed doomed from the start. Even when entered into with good intentions, magic proved a mistress most found themselves unwilling to do without. Few persisted, as the lure of love and want often dimmed over time.

But it never did for Angus. He loved Sandra as much as the day they met, would give her anything, including decades off his life. Never would he allow magic to cause her a moment of worry, so he always portrayed who she saw him as, for that is what he needed. Only once did his secret life almost encroach upon this well oiled companionship, when their son's magical talents quickened. In itself normal, the talents usually manifested in a person's teen years. However, a month before his birth, the family's prior curse bearer died in a car accident and turned him into the heir, triggered when he quickened. The magic Angus could manage, he managed to hide his own, but he knew he could not hide their son’s unchanging appearance. Therefore, he decided Ken needed to die.

Not a true death. Just a tactic employed by magic users throughout the ages, when they sought escape, most often from a relationship. He faked Ken's death. Something growing more complicated in the age of information, but still easy in the late 70s. Angus offered his son no choice. So while Ken grew to understand and even accept the reasons, his bitterness remained.

Thus Angus' age stood out, for he rarely saw the man. And only one reason existed for his presence.

"What do the Elders want?"

"They have a proposal for you." Angus replied, not attempting to counterfeit the reasons for his appearance behind parental goodwill.

"What?"

"They prefer to offer it to you themselves. Some believe if I were to do so, my presentation would be prejudiced by my belief that you should not accept."

A response that told Ken more than the Elders probably wanted him to know. Yet in staying true to his wife, Angus established himself as a trustworthy sort, one who would make a tough decision and stick with it. They should know he would make his opinions felt, no matter their constraints. Doubtless the offer would put his son in danger and though his father loved his wife more, even Ken would not deny his father also loved his son.

Yet curiosity drove Ken to work in a lab. Curiosity always drove him to seek answers to the unknown. Therefore, he needed to hear the proposal.

Chapter 2 - Desire

Since Angus proved unwilling to answer any questions about the matter and Ken's pride would not allow him to ask any personal questions, the two did not speak as they left the lab. Back in the nexus, they walked past numerous doors, each which led to a family, ally world, or traps, some keyed so only certain people could pass. The door they sought, randomly placed and indistinguishable from any of the others opened into a waiting room. There, with a hand on the handle of the next door, Angus broke the silence.

"Remember, they are only allowed to ask a favour, they cannot make a demand."

With these words, he opened the door and allowed his son to enter. Ken did nothing to acknowledge the warning, though it settled in his mind as he stepped into a boardroom worthy of any Fortune 500 company. In fact, the Cabot's would belong to that group if anyone knew they existed, which made the elders, sitting around a mahogany table, as much corporate board as council.

His eyes went first to the chair at the far end of the long table. In it sat Lydia Cabot, head of the family for the last twenty years. And though Angus' aunt, she appeared young enough to play that role to Ken. In general, everybody felt pleased with her leadership, though some thought her over fond of manipulation.

To Lydia's right sat one reason behind the acceptance of her leadership. Old Walter, who held the role before her, whose insular viewpoint saw the non-magical as a distraction. Fortunately, when he recognized the pace of scientific advancements in the mundane world, admittedly after most of the family, he realized he could no longer act as their leader. Yet before stepping down, he finagled a position amongst the Elders, to ensure the family did not completely divorce itself from the past.

The chair on Lydia's left held Julia, the leader of the Lintel Men. An age-mate to Angus. Though whatever friendship the two once shared died with the death of the third victim of the family curse, at a time when both looked forward to the birth of their first child. With Angus' son born a day before her daughter, inheriting the family stigma, she did little to hide her glee. A happiness mutated into a disdain towards Ken and which she transferred to her daughter Rebekka. The two of them, along with their lackeys, saw Ken as the least amongst the family and made no effort to hide that belief. Many afternoons he spent daydreaming about dropping a piano upon the pair of them. Alas, only his life belonged in a cartoon.

One member of the Council of Elders, Elizabeth, did not sit in her chair. The oldest elder, she only appeared for the most important discussions and votes. Her absence supported his father’s contention that Ken could say no to any proposal without fear of sanction. At least, so went the theory. However, the manner in which Angus distanced himself from the others, going so far as to ignore his seat and lean against a wall, caused him to suspect coercion would occur.

Cautiously he offered greetings and took a seat when invited. Sitting in the large chairs made him appear even more child-like, but Ken tried to ignore that as he said, "Angus mentioned you had a proposal for me."

Lydia looked from son to father, trying to determine how much they shared before entering the conference room. When neither face provided an answer, she said, "Your father is correct. An ally approached us to help trap a murderer."

"Magic user?" Ken asked, already knowing the answer.

"Of course, they would not ask for help otherwise."

"How can I help?"

"Although they have pursued this murderer for years, they still don’t know determined his identity. But they believe they know the identify of his next victim and plan to replace her with a double."

Ken required no additional explanations before he saw the problems with the expected plan. As casually as Lydia mentioned the double, they both knew it took a crazy amount of magical power to perform the transformation. He should know, he set aside every spare bit of magic he could and still only dreamed at the possibility of becoming an adult. Yet an entire magical organization, particularly if the allies proved those who he suspected, could manage it. A bigger issue would result from physical limitations, which required a person smaller than the target body. Something that would shrink the pool of those able to serve as bait.

"I doubt they need the meager amount of energy I can provide."

"No, that they can cover. But they want to build as many fail safes into their plan as possible. One of which involves the murderer succeeding in stealing their double out from underneath them and takes her to whatever world where he hides."

"Even if Dalton or I teach a double to cast the beacon spell, what good would it do? We don’t have a way to connect to that spot.”

"My team has been working with Dalton using your project's findings." Julia said, always ready to put Ken in his place. "However, we are still in early stages."

While Ken frowned, feeling betrayed Dalton never told him about this, Lydia said, "But Julia, you continue to report your team’s successes. And we were quite impressed with your demonstration."

"How about our numerous failed attempts? We succeed less than one in seven attempts and can only create a temporary portal, not a door. A portal we can only hold open for moments and the beacon needs to be found within an hour of casting or it loses the necessary potency for us to establish a lock. I believe it a flimsy hope upon which to gamble someone's life."

Walter interrupted to say, "However, sometimes when the reward is great enough, the gamble becomes worth it."

At this statement, the elders stared a question at their guest and it all fell into place. He said, "Surely you don't expect me to become bait? No way!"

"As Julia says, the spell is not at a stage where we can promise it to our allies." Walter said. “It may be more than embarrassing, it could damage our relationship, if the spell failed one of theirs. Better for us to take the risk.”

Lydia said, "You know the spell and your size makes you a transformation candidate. Plus, as Walter said, the reward is great."

"To be bait? It won’t be us taking the risk, it will be me."

Julia said, "Exactly, it is too dangerous."

Before he could wonder why Julia cared about putting him in danger, Lydia said, "The Samodivas have contracted the Boiis to spring the trap."

Definitely a pair of heavy hitters, which explained why Lydia wanted the Cabots involved. The question, did he want to get involved? No, but he still needed to ask, "What is this tempting reward?"

"They will transform you into someone else afterwards."

Tempting indeed. Only his very dream. In fact, it almost seemed too much. Even if it required him to become a her, something that should probably upset him more than it did, if only he did not already despise his body. How much worse would it be as a female? Specially if only as a detour around the roadblock on his path to manhood.

Instead he worried about the danger. And the fail safes the Divas built into their plan showed the risk of failure. Never-mind his father's and Julia's concerns.

Surprisingly, Ken found himself focused upon that last thing. Julia's concern? So unlike her, it made him suspect an ulterior motive. Almost as if...he struggled to hide an inappropriate smile. Had Dearest Becky decided to add the next child to their family chain? Did they fear his death would pass the curse into their line. That possibility almost provided enough incentive for him to agree, but he desired one more thing.

"I want to know the truth behind the family curse."

With agreement in place, all Elders except Angus left the room; Julia in a snit, Lydia off to contact the Divas, and Walter to obtain the necessary records. Meanwhile, Angus finally took his seat, saying nothing and keeping his opinion off his face. Not given a chance to tell his father he forsook the right to make decisions for him, Ken instead asked, "Is Rebekka pregnant?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Julia seemed more concerned than normal about my health. I'm speculating."

"Spiting the two of them would be a very bad reason for volunteering."

"Say, rather than spite, I look forward to them having a few sleepless nights. Because, despite how much my life bums me out, I'm not ready for it to end. But a chance to change it, that I must take."

Angus nodded his understanding, the two settling into silence while waiting for Walter's return. When he did so, he held a leather bound tome, which he dropped, with a thump, on the table. He said, "Here are the writings of Albert Cabot, who kept the family's records during most of the 1500's. You'll find it in the entries for 1571."

The tome proved less fragile than Ken suspected and when he opened he found typed words. Something which caused him to frown in suspicion.

"Even though its a reproduction, it holds the truth. And you'd thank me if you saw the original, Albert's writing left much to be desired."

While Ken leafed through the book, looking for 1571, he found himself stopping on a regular basis. The long reign of Queen Elizabeth I saw much turmoil, but also hearkened the rise of a merchant class that grew into a force almost as powerful as the gentry. A class amongst which the Cabots belonged, though inconspicuously, owning wealth that would surprise most. Centered at the villagers of Wolshire, they employed all who lived in and around it. From and through the village traveled their goods. This required a thriving contingent of blacksmiths, wagoners, craftsmen, and the coopers who made the casks, tubs, and barrels for moving those products.

One of these coopers had a daughter named Alyce. A lovely girl of thirteen, she set many a heart afire, including Jonathan Cabot's, a younger son of a younger son. Flattery and gift-giving from one above her own class enchanted the naive girl. In time she declared her love, which Jonathan regularly exploited in the woods outside of Wolshire.

This led to an all too common result, Alyce’s pregnancy. Unfortunately for her, her discovery of this came at the same moment Jonathan remembered his betrothal to another. Before she knew it, he disappeared to the Cabot facilities in London, leaving her alone, embarrassed, betrayed, and so very angry. A combination that caused her to replace nightly prayers with curses towards the boy who sought pleasure without responsibility, who hid behind parental skirts, who only pretended manhood. Finally, when her child showed, Alyce's despair grew too much and she cast herself from a bridge into the fast moving river below. And with that sacrifice, her curses became real.

Finished reading Alyce's sad end, Ken found himself unable to blame her for what he endured. Blame rested upon the Cabots, particularly Jonathan of whom the remaining records mentioned rarely and only in context of the curse.

“Stupid wasn’t it? She offered the family bloodline more than the twit who seduced her ever could.” Walter said.

“They didn’t know?”

“No, nor did she, nor her family. Here we see the rarest of us all, one in billions, and our family pride destroyed her.”

The rarest of the rare, the most powerful and truest of Earth’s magic users, who harnessed their own emotions for arcane purposes. For emotions fueled magic. But like the fuels known to the mundane, not all burned with the same energy or could be harnessed in the same manner. The majority of magic users relied on the emotions of others, which in turn split into two types; emotion targeted directly at the practitioner and emotions directed towards the world at large. The power of the first equated to gasoline, while the latter would seem akin to burning wood. But, as Alyce proved with her multi-generational curse, the nuclear power of the magic world rested with the personal feelings few could harness. In fact, no Cabot ever owned this ability. No wonder they hid the truth, leadership always desired the appearance of infallibility.

Lydia gave Ken little time to ponder his new knowledge or implied agreement before she returned to ask, "Satisfied?"

About to answer with a negative, if only to tweak her nose, Ken stopped himself when he saw something in her mannerisms brooked no joking. Instead he nodded his head.

"Very well, follow me."

"What? Where?"

"Our allies would meet you. They wish to ensure themselves of your suitability."

"Already? But I thought I would have more time."

"For what, Kenneth? To find an escape from your promise?"

Despite a growing desire to do just that, Ken also wanted to meet the Samodiva. The Divas, as most called them, originated in the Balkans. And while many wondered if they sought to evoke the woodland fairies of Slavic folklore or if their history formed the basis upon which those myths existed, none doubted the appropriateness of their name.

Unlike the Cabot's, the Divas passed their magic only to daughters and, from what Ken heard, each appeared more gorgeous than the last. Which explained why they ranked amongst the most powerful, for they evoked an endless supply of lust. This ready source of energy made them worthy, though frightening allies. In large part, because untempered power created an arrogance in some Diva cliques that led them to take insult from words and acts with no affront intended. This caused the Cabots to develop a relationship with a stable branch of the Divas. And if that branch still took advantage of them once in awhile, they at least provided a channel of communication in case someone ran afoul of a more mercurial member. Always best to hope friendship would offer a chance at discussion before destruction.

That fear did not explain his hesitation. As one who offered a favour, he held no fear of giving insult. Yet insult to his own vanity, what little the curse allowed, seemed assured if he presented himself to a Diva while dressed in his school uniform. Unwilling to admit this truth, he rose from his seat to join Lydia.

When his father also stood, Lydia said, "There is no need for you to come, Angus."

"I will go anyways, Lydia." Angus said, certainty in his voice.

Lydia's turn to accept something she would rather not. With a nod, she led them through numerous nexuses, from the family's into multiple neutral zones. A path that left Ken unsure of the way back.

Most of these shared worlds took the form of a restaurant or nightclub, so the cutesy little pastry shop seemed tame compared to the norm. Empty, except for a pretty brunette wearing a dirndl. Yet no matter how lifelike she appeared, Ken knew a magical construct when he saw one. Almost living, but hollowed of all humanity, both good or bad. A manikin who existed only and entirely within the pastry shop. While harmless, her kind usually made Ken uncomfortable, but on this day his thoughts looked inwards as she led them to a table.

Once seated, she poured each a cup of a tea, offered them a plate of dainties, and said, "Please enjoy."

Angus asked, “Who are we meeting?”

"Ilina Borisova." Lydia said.

“Don’t think I know her.”

While they waited, the feelings of self-loathing and mischief that led Ken to this table dimmed. In their place arose those of self-preservation and wisdom. However, before they could gain a place of ascension, their hostess arrived and all thoughts of retreat disappeared.

Chapter 3 - Disgust

For a woman like Ilina Borisova, men would commit acts of stupidity .

Non athletic, Ken never-the-less enjoyed sports as a spectator. Rarely did he miss an entire day of SportsCenter, few sports' sites did he not avidly read, just as he once read their magazine precursors. Therefore, when Lydia first spoke Ilina’s name, his mind jumped to tennis. Now, with her arrival, he saw his initial thoughts held some truth. A tall, long-legged blond, but softer, less athletic than a Sharapova or Hantuchova. Instead, if Ilina's appeared in a sports magazine it would be that famous February issue of Sports Illustrated

Hard not to stare at her in a navy business suit, the tight, short skirted type appropriate for how the fashion and television industries visualized a young executive on the rise. Without saying anything, her presence demanded their attention, immediately taking charge of the situation when she set a portfolio upon the table and sat in the remaining seat.

In a voice devoid of the expected Eastern European accent, Ilina said, "First, Kenneth, let me thank you for volunteering to hear our proposal. And yes, it is only to hear my words to which we will hold you. For I won’t accept a volunteer who does not know the full story."

Captivated, unwilling to look away from the tense beauty, Ken did not see his father settle back in his chair, no longer as watchful. Instead, he nodded and said, "I would like to hear it."

"In 1978, a non-magic inheriting niece of one of our members went missing from college. We put our collective will, which is no small thing, into finding the girl. However, we did not succeed, nor could we discover the identity of her kidnapper. One year later, to the day, her body was found, dressed as when taken, on the main yard of the university she attended. The brazenness shocked law enforcement, but the state of the body offered more surprise. Except for a single stab wound, judged perfectly to slay and not maim, she appeared healthy. No signs pointed to imprisonment or abuse. To the mundane police it meant nothing, but to us it seemed obvious."

"She'd been reaped." Ken said in a whisper. A suspicion in the back of his mind now made real.

An easy conclusion to reach for anyone who understood how emotions fed magic. At the centre of that understanding sat two scientific principles as old as magic, that of magnetism and distillation. For just as magnetism relies upon the attraction between two unlike poles, so too is there a natural attraction from one person’s feeling towards their target. All the target requires in order to find those emotions is a simple spell akin to scanning for a radio signal. But in their natural state feelings are vaporous things with a short half-life; thus the second spell, which virtually distilled them into a fuel usually stored in foci or elixirs.

For Ken, he used the magnetic strips of credit cards for his foci. The one in his wallet and another at his lab inside a copper kettle from an old moonshine still. An unnecessary part of his virtual distillery, but a cherished gift from his great-great-grandfather, a rare display of humour from a man whose face more comfortably wore a scowl than a smile.

Yet if he looked at either card's magnetic strip, they would appear faded and scratched. A sign of how little emotion he engendered. In part because of his curse, people did not like to think about it or him. But the lack also resulted from a survival mechanism, honed through years existing within private schools, where he attempted to make himself invisible. Yet he needed magic. At a minimum he needed enough to manufacture each new identity, something grown more difficult during his life.

Stinking computers.

More than that, he paid a magical tax to the family, which they used to maintain their magical worlds, most more extravagant than the sterile hallways and labs of the world in which he, Dalton, and others worked. Plus his experiments, the less he borrowed the more control he maintained.

So he understood the desire to reap; in ways he did it himself. Easy enough for an apparent teen to get hired at the local arena, Ken worked a mean concession till, during games and concerts. There he harvested the third type of emotion, a simpler process with no need to find a specific signal, he just took everything felt inside the enclosed building. And though this resulted in a lower proof, the volume he captured took care of his tax payments.

An embarrassing act, but not something spoken about only in whispers.

Nothing like one of the truest sins as defined by the Cabots, the Samodivas, their allies, and even many of their enemies. To use people, to manipulate the emotions they felt towards you. Admittedly some hypocrisy existing in how this sin translated to law. The subject of love led to many a theoretical discussion over a glass of something more naturally distilled, where some described it as a tool of easy manipulation that could lead to hurt. But only the most cynical would equate it to fear, the normal crop for reapers.

"So thought our lead investigator. Even before the body appeared, she suspected a magic user was behind the kidnapping, for who else could hide something from our focused eyes. Now with the body discovered, she jumped to the conclusion that whoever committed the crime could not be that powerful if he reaped."

Angus said, "I have learned that owning riches does not stop people from wanting more."

"A lesson our investigator soon learned. She discovered nothing. In time, our leadership suspected it may have been a result of an assumed wrong we committed. But that too led nowhere. In time the case, as they say, went cold."

"He's back?" Ken asked.

"It took us years to learn he never went away. In 1991, a member who worked for the FBI received a request to help a local police department with a case whose MO mimicked that of our own missing victim. An automated search discovered similar cases, once every four years, going back to 1970. Through another spell, which allows us to perform a similar search of dusty files, we found more cases, one every four years, starting in 1946."

"Twelve of them?"

"And four more since, we hope to stop it from becoming five."

Looking towards his father, seeing softening in previously hardened eyes, Ken asked, "But if you don't know who it is? What good is bait?"

Ilina did not offer an immediate answer, instead she slid an 8" X 10", taken from her portfolio, across the table. On it Ken saw a picture of an attractive brunette, probably in her late teens, reminiscent of someone, an actress. Then he remembered, before the Internet offered so many outlets to someone stuck in a fourteen year old body, his infatuation with music videos. The picture reminded him of Liv Tyler from the Aerosmith videos with the girl from Clueless, their performance burned into his mind for all time. From a time when Tyler exuded a raw sensuality, before her transformation into icy perfection. Not a clone, but the girl's picture bore a close resemblance.

After a few seconds to look, Ilina said, "It is true that the murderer has left few clues as to his identity. However, each of his victims lived her own story before running afoul of him and our information specialists used those stories to create a profile of his targets."

"Her?" Ken asked, pointing at the picture.

"Physically, all of his victims were brunettes with blue eyes, between 165 and 175 cm tall. None overly voluptuous, but neither were they overly slender. Similar enough, but when we delved into their lives we discovered a pattern. At the time of their capture, each was nineteen and away from home, usually at a university. All were considered good girls growing up; popular, decent grades, and active in their schools and communities. However, around the time each left high school they experienced a trauma of some sort within their life, which led them into minor rebellion.

"The picture shows Heather Theis. Nineteen years old, almost 173 cm tall, she played second base for her high school team and has competitively danced since the age of four. Currently in the second year of university, she is struggling with the divorce of her parents. As a result, she has become a bit of a party girl, drinking more than she should and jumping from boyfriend to boyfriend. We believe she is our murderer's next target."

"How can you be sure? There must be hundreds of girls that match the profile."

"Less than many would assume, but you are right, we cannot be sure. That is why we have other teams watching some other girls. But we think Heather is the most likely target and it is around her where we will place our largest effort. We are making an educated guess, since the profile is more in depth than I explained. Eight years ago, it narrowed are potential list down to three girls, one of whom was taken. Four years ago, they picked the exact target, unfortunately he slipped through our watchers both to commit the kidnapping and to dump the body."

"I can’t believe you didn't catch him?"

If not for his tone, his surprise at someone evading the Diva's power, Ilina may have felt upset by Ken's temerity in asking that question. Or maybe, as he gleaned from her response, a lack of personal involvement in the failure allowed her the freedom to ignore the judgment of others.

"I have read through the plan prepared by the team at the time, spent hours thinking about it, yet I cannot see anything I would have done differently. They inserted one of our own as a decoy and brought in the Boiis to help set up the perimeter. But they could not stay within arms reach at all times, not if they wished to spring the trap. Somehow he must have been able to open a temporary door into her room, despite our forensic people finding no trace of one before or after the kidnapping.

"My predecessor took the loss of her agent hard and so it fell upon me to take over the operation. And until a week ago, I worried I may be doomed to repeat the same failure. But one of ours found her curiosity peaked as to why your cousin wandered about a common area, casting what seemed meaningless spells. Do not think poorly of him, she is adept at getting her own way and so he had no chance to conceal your project. The information made its way into my hands and I approached Lydia with an inquiry about your progress."

Placing another mental tick against Dalton's name, Ken said, "Our project is still in preliminary stages and until an hour ago I did not know about the companion project."

"Yet you came, thinking you volunteered." Ilina said, seeing the fear of that action mirrored in his eyes. "However, we will not hold it against you if you now say no. Nor will our organization look less kindly upon the Cabots. All I ask, is that you teach the spell to any volunteer, if we find one."

"How long do you have?"

"Until the 31st, he always acts on Halloween."

"Less than five weeks away?"

"Which is why the potential in your spell has offered us a new lease on hope."

Easy to find blame for Ken's next act. The understanding that, while Ilina may not look less kindly upon the Cabots, others within the Divas would, particularly if their plan failed. The carrot of the reward. Or chivalry, despite Ken's awareness that the lady across the table surely possessed a level of competence to dwarf his own. But none of those provided the reason he did not flee. Instead anger kept him in his seat. Disgust at the heinous murder of sixteen girls. Outrage at one of his own kind willingly committed acts he never considered, even during his deepest despair at the unfairness of his own life.

"Okay, I'll do it."

Four words, quietly spoken. The words brought about no celebratory smiles to either of the women's faces nor sorrowful expression to his father's. None let his appearance fool them, they allowed him to make this adult decision for himself.

Which did not completely hide their reactions. His ever present scan easily detected the combined pride, satisfaction, and happiness the three directed towards him.

I expect to post another of the six sections every 4 or so days. The story is complete, just need to my usual level of dull lustre before posting and since it is around 50K words, I find it easier to polish and post smaller chunks.