magic

Little wisps of fog charged at the windshield of Angela’s Corolla as it wandered in the night, deep in a maze of paved-over indian trails, wagon paths, and modern blunders bored through a forest as dense as it was ancient. A thick leafy canopy reached around the road like a grasping hand. The Corolla’s dim, foggy headlights served as a surrogate for whatever little moonlight could reach the tarmac below. She was looking for a gravel road.

A witch's tea party is a much more complicated affair than your average get together. I don't mean that in an arrogant, "Oh you mundane folk just can't understand the ways of magic" sort of way. I am speaking quite literally: older witches use these gatherings as a way to judge an evaluate their peers on multiple levels. Choice of tea and food, sipping versus slurping, how one crosses their legs; all these things supposedly display hidden truths that the senior practitioners of witchcraft will analyse and discuss with great enthusiasm as soon as the younger ones go home.

Mel had no idea what was going to happen to her when she bought the old spell book at the used book store down her street.

It would have brought Prince Thorne great delight to have apprehended Shannah Darkmoon, but the risk was too great. The Pegasus Guard had successfully rescued Lady Belinda from her flight, but her predicament wasn’t nearly as perilous. Shannah was enormous, her body so filled with the energy of the Voluptaas sand that she was glowing. Both the Prince and Baron Hughes were convinced that she would burst; they didn’t want the Guardsmen anywhere near her when she did.