Sizzling Cauldrons
Chapter 1: Sizzling Cauldrons
Justice is rare in the world, though it should be abundant. It seemed a finite concept that could only be unearthed by exposure. This is why I was desperate to join The Black Cats, a coven dedicated to uncovering the truth.
The members of the coven were expected to investigate and write for The Open Grimoire, a newspaper for the magical community that shared secrets about commonly used spells, offered tips on how to perform ethical casts, and, best of all, investigated the community's leaders and exposed abuses and corruption.
I had developed a sense of justice at an early age; I had only been five years old when my mother had died under mysterious circumstances while on a mission for her coven, The Grand Supremes, a powerful coven that lorded over the rest of the witching community. The Grand Supremes were often cloaked in secrecy, and though they claimed to have investigated my mother’s death, no details were ever released. To my knowledge, nobody had ever been held responsible.
Most warlocks in the community did what they were best at when faced with responsibility; they disappeared. Thankfully, this wasn’t the case with my father, Bruno Locksley, who raised me on his own after my mother passed.
My father was the Grand Master of his coven, The Keepers, a group charged with discovering and preserving historical artifacts of interest to the magical community.
I grew up in a house that resembled a museum rather than a home because my father constantly brought his work home. At that moment, he was carefully brushing dirt from an unearthed vase. At the same time, he was attempting to convince me not to join The Black Cats. “I respect what The Black Cats are trying to achieve,” he put forth, “But they are not the most popular of covens, and I don’t want you to be treated like a pariah, Layla.”
“Only those with something to hide hate The Black Cats,” I countered.
“Which is the majority of the magical community,” my father exclaimed, looking up to meet my gaze, which, if he hadn’t been so serious, would have been comical since he was wearing magnifying glasses, which made his eyes appear three times their size.
I gingerly removed the glasses to gaze into his clear gray eyes, which I had inherited. “I’ve wanted to be a Black Cat since I was a child, Dad. You know this, and you promised always to support me.”
My father was a handsome man with a crop of dark curly hair that I had inherited from him. Over the years, gray streaks had appeared, but he had always maintained his youthful and jovial appearance. I was concerned because he seemed to age ten years in the last few moments as we argued about my initiation into The Black Cats.
“I’m going to be fine,” I assured him as I leaned over and pecked him on the cheek, “The Black Cats have been exposing people in The Open Grimoire for more than two hundred years now, and none of them had perished.”
My father sat down his brush so his hand would be free to cup my face, “I just wish you would choose a safer profession; I heard The Potion Proprietors are looking for recruits.”
“I don’t want to spend my life making love potions, Dad,” I asserted, “I wish you would support me.”
My father’s eyes softened, “Of course, I support you, Layla, but what kind of father would I be if I didn’t worry about you?”
I smiled and offered him another kiss, “You have always been the best,” I assured him. When I leaned over, I caught sight of the clock behind him, “I better be on my way; I don’t want to be late to my own initiation ceremony.”
“Good luck today,” my father bid me as I hurried from the room.
I returned to my bedroom, which had an outside exit fitted with a cat door for easy access. Only female witches possessed the ability to shift into cats, females being the primary focus of most witch hunts. We had evolved to travel undetected, so witches were not permitted to attend a congregation on two legs.
Of course, the humans responsible for the witch hunts had caught on, and a prejudice against cats had developed in some kingdoms where the kings had ordered the slaughter of all cats. The witch community protested by releasing plagues upon those regions. Though the killing of felines had ceased, some people remained prejudiced against cats, so I was careful not to be stealthy when in cat form.
I shifted into a sleek black cat, slipped through the tiny patrician, and began traveling to the large farmhouse outside town where The Black Cats operated.
The casual observer would only see a farm, but insiders were aware that the farmhouse's living room was filled with witches answering calls from The Black Cats tipline. The big red barn outside held a massive printing press, which was still operational but began to gather dust because most of The Open Grimoire’s articles appeared online, and not many witches had a paper subscription.
As a precaution, I traveled to the location using the backroads and arrived at the rear of the house.
As I approached the back entrance, the fur on my tail began to fluff, and I could feel strands on the back of my neck begin to rise.
My eyes scanned the area, afraid that I was being stalked. Though there was some movement in the grass, no predator was detected. Afraid one would emerge if I lingered outside much longer, I escaped through the tiny patrician installed at the foot of the door.
It was true that witches congregated naked, but we didn’t expose ourselves to one another under a full moon. As I entered the mudroom and returned to my upright state, I discovered a row of robes hanging on hooks. I hurried to shrug one on, lifting the hood to veil my features as I entered the house.
I wasn’t surprised that the lights had been turned off for the initiation since it was tradition to perform the ceremony in the warm glow of candlelight, but no wicks had yet been lit.
It had been predetermined that the event would be held in the front room, so I blindly guided myself through the kitchen and adjoining rooms. As I approached the front room, I could hear the iron cauldron, a staple in these ceremonies, sizzling. I was confused because the cauldron usually had a fire light underneath, and I should have been able to hear bubbling.
I paused at the threshold as an unsettling feeling swept over me. Though it was traditional to speak only when greeted, I tentatively called out, “Hello?”
My nostrils flared as my nose detected an unusual odor, which was growing more unpleasant as the seconds ticked past. I swallowed the lump as I entered the room and allowed my fingers to feel along the wall for a light switch. I located a lever and flipped it.
The walls were covered in blood, and though it was difficult to see through the smoke that erupted from the cooling cauldron, I could make out corpses, in human form as well as feline; from the position of their bodies, it was apparent that the members of The Black Cats had attempted to flee from their attacker.
I covered my mouth to muffle the scream I felt rising in my throat. Though I was frightened, I forced myself to enter the room so I could inspect the bodies and offer aid to any survivors.
I swallowed back the bile that rose in my throat as I squatted to examine a limp black cat; when I couldn’t detect a pulse or a heartbeat, I moved to the next figure, a witch who had only partially shifted when she had been slain.
I was in the process of moving on to the next when suddenly, the front door exploded.
I leaped to my feet and spun around in surprise, causing my bare foot to slip into a puddle of blood.
Before I could catch myself, I fell backward and landed on my bottom. I planted my hands on the floor to lift myself to my feet, but the surface below me was too slippery.
I watched helplessly as a troop of warlocks entered the gaping hole where the front door had previously been. I noted that these were not typical warlocks; they wore all black and carried wands, which were powerful tools and illegal in the magical world because of their ability to concentrate power. The only witches and warlocks permitted to possess wands were The Enforcers, an elite group knighted by the Grand Supremes and authorized to use force against those who posed a danger to the magical community.
I was thrilled to see them, hoping that they had been alerted to hunt down the culprit and bring whoever had murdered The Black Cats to justice. I cried out to garner their attention, hoping they would aid me to my feet, but instead of helping me, they surrounded me with their wands pointed.
I gazed in horror at their masked faces (The Enforcers always wore masks to disguise their identities, which was essential in their line of work). I carefully displayed my hands to signal that I was harmless, “My name is Layla Locksley,” I informed them in a shaky voice, “I came here today because I was supposed to be initiated into The Black Cats.” I shifted my gaze to the ceremonial cauldron as evidence.
Suddenly, a cloaked member of The Enforcers stepped forward. Due to his height and stature, it was evident that he was male and, due to the embellishments on his mask, in charge. I sighed in relief, believing that he would order his crew to sheath their wands and help me to my feet, but instead, he pointed his wand at me, “Layla Locksley, you are being taken into custody, ordered by The Grand Supremes.”
