Dark clouds gather

“Will it be soon?”

“Soon enough. Be prepared, my brother, always be prepared.”

“How long must I wait?”

“You know that, in this domain, I have no knowledge of time. You must always be ready for the dark clouds that gather.”

In that moment, a warning “meow” brought him back to his place, sitting crossed legged on the tattered rug before the open fire. He felt a shudder, despite the warmth from the hearth, and exchanged a meaningful glance with his familiar.

Suddenly, the door burst open and, framed in the doorway, was a woman of unimaginable beauty, dressed in a simple gown that was inclined to flow in the gentle breeze. Rather than standing there, she appeared to float a little above the ground, as if on an invisible cushion of air. He gasped at the sight of her.

“Isadora! Is it you?”

“It is. Are you not going to invite me in?”

“No!”

*****

Timothy Spaemann stood at the edge of the function room, glancing around at the groups of people conversing over their drinks and canapés. It was the usual crowd, mostly dressed ‘casual.’ Some wore 1980s gothic, some were dressed in what he had recently heard described as ‘steam-punk,’ others with more of a sense of the outrageous, but mostly casual. Hardly a ‘wizard’ robe in sight. These days, nobody wanted to look like an extra from a Harry Potter movie. Spaemann was the least noticeable of all, in light gray slacks and tailored blazer.

It was the annual gathering of the Daughters of Damona. The official Covenstead of the Southern witches, but all were welcome. It was, after all, the time of the Feast of Divine Love and Compassion. The venue was The Links Hotel in Guildford, county town of Surrey, that leafy shire in the South-East of England. The evening had just begun, and everyone was circulating, reacquainting, and generally catching up on the gossip.

A dark-haired young woman had attached herself to Spaemann and was trying to make conversation. He wasn’t helping much.

“What’s the best spell you have ever cast, then?” she asked, speaking with a pronounced West Country accent.

“Well, spells are not really my thing,” said Spaemann. “And I am not sure how I might rate them, even if they were.”

“My name’s Morwenna, by the way.”

“Timothy ... charmed,” he said with a thin smile. Morwenna fidgeted like a small child waiting for a treat or a telling off. He broke the silence by turning the question back on her.

“And how about you?”

Continue reading part one of Dark Clouds Gather

*****

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