There were a number of things to consider as the day wore on, and Prosperity and the little witch ventured home. Alastor stayed silent, considering how close he and the boy had come to being returned to Redhood. Playing the scene out in his mind again and again.

This close. He had come this close to being taken back to Redhood.

It was fear that had made Alastor yell for the boy to flee. Pure, disgusting fear for his own life, which was tied to the boy’s. He hated it, every bit of it. The feeling that he was still far too weak. The smell of the boy. The knowing that if they were to return to Redhood now, before Alastor regained his full powers and cut himself free, anything the Redding family did to the child would affect him.

And, knowing the family as he did, Alastor didn’t doubt the grandmother would kill them both to prevent Alastor from finishing the curse he had begun centuries before. They would do anything to protect their fortune, even destroy one of their own household. Honor Redding had proven as much.

But, still…the boy refused a contract. Alastor felt as though Prosperity Redding had been on the cusp of saying yes several times, but something—something—always held him back. The fiend was confounded. Shown just the edge of what he might achieve with the aid of Alastor’s influence, the boy backed away from greatness every time. He was either a coward, afraid of such attention, or…

No. All Reddings were alike. Even Honor had begun with the purest intentions, only to discover that success tasted best with a dash of power. Once you craved it, you required more and more to satisfy your ravenous heart.

Alastor reclined against the crumbling tombstone, digging the boy’s hand into the squirming bag of spiders Nightlock spent the day collecting for him. He popped one in his mouth, letting it crawl up the tongue. That was better. His sense of himself expanded, filling the boy, as if threatening to burst his skin at the seams to escape.

“Can you…pick up your pass, wretch?” The modern phrase sounded wrong to his ears. He had absorbed much by way of this century’s language simply from listening to the boy and with the hob’s diligent, if not humiliating, instruction.

“Pick up the pace,” Nightlock said, with a small bow. “I shall do my best, my lord and master.”

“I think we’re beyond such formality now,” Alastor said with a fond smile. “You may call me Your Highness, Dark Prince of the Third Realm.”

The fiend beamed with pleasure. He was still busying himself arranging the shards of the broken mirror over a nearby grave.

“Are you sure that’s a witch’s final resting place?” Alastor asked, reaching over to pluck a stray leaf caught between the stacked stones of the nearby wall. “A true witch’s grave? This will not work otherwise. The moon will be far too weak without the added power.”

Nightlock merely bobbed his head. “Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes. A true witch—only a true witch. This hob has seen other fiends moonbathe upon this earth.”

The moon was the source of the witches’ power. The legends of it stemmed back thousands of years, to the pesky ancient Greeks who worshiped the moon goddess Artemis. The lady hunter.

Alastor knew, however, that the moon’s power was a gift from the Ancients, who sought to maintain the balance in the realms. To keep each species in its rightful place. The Ancients had created the witches just as they had created the fiends and the humans. Alastor had them to thank for this. Those women were like a sore on his behind that refused to heal.

A witch merely needed to spend an hour in the moonlight to absorb its full magic and use it throughout the day as she saw fit. The only danger to them came on those nights of a new moon, when the milky-white face was hidden entirely from view.

But this was not one such night. No, indeed, the silky white face was half-hidden in the darkness. And for the fiends who knew such tricks, it was a gift to them. Because on this night, any fiend could absorb the witches’ magic and make it their own—so long as they had the proper tools.

The final resting place of a witch. That is, a grave. Upon this grave, the shards of a newly broken mirror—aged a hundred years or older, preferably—were scattered in a circle. At midnight, the witching hour, all Alastor needed to do was lie down in the center of the circle, on a mound of damp earth. The power would fill him like the cold air in the boy’s lungs.

“Your Highness,” Nightlock began, taking the bag of spiders and sealing it. “Perhaps…there is another way? Is it not dangerous for us to use a mirror for such purposes? Will you not call forth beasts from Downstairs who hunt for power like your own?”

“Do you believe I could not protect you from my brother or any who serve him?” Alastor asked, trying to stomp out his irritation.

“It’s only…the boy’s flesh is so soft, so thin—and his bones are like straw!” Nightlock clutched at his pointed ears, sniveling and sniffling. “Not suitable for Your Highness, no.”

Alastor dismissed his concerns. He had chosen the Old Burying Point Cemetery for this rite, near the row of shops and the courthouse. The two fiends had waited impatiently as the last of the curious humans were led out by law enforcement officers. Now they had the secluded section of the grounds to themselves.

So no, Alastor was not worried as he forced the boy’s body down at the center of the ring of mirror shards. As he felt the moon’s first kiss of cool magic, he told himself that the wild call in the distance was merely a wolf, and not a howler risen from the realm below. Some lonely beast.

But he was surprised—quite surprised, in fact—when the boy woke himself up.