Chapter 1
John
Art
September 2009,
I had just arrived in Salem Massachusetts. The Colt murders had shaken the city and with the resident hunters down I had come in as a favor for Tom Peters well he sorted out Damin’s living situation to deal with a hexing problem.
A warlock taking down another person using magic, contradictive much?
Tom had given me the address of the last incident and details but other than that I was on my own. Or at least I thought I was.
The incidents were a series of unexplained deaths. The person would plant the hex bag on the victim and wait for them to take effect. The victim’s teeth could fall out, maggots could appear in their food, they could stop breathing. All hexes ended in death.
I checked out the address, a hotel where a bid on artwork was going on. Bidders are competitive and willing to hex people to win, or at least this one was.
I checked in and blended in as one of the vacationing tourists, my accent helped with that. I snuck into the art show to get a feel for the people. Witches and warlocks left trails of magic on their victims that other warlocks and witches could sense. Kept us from messing with each other’s magic, unless we wanted to. I could feel the vibe and pinpoint a few victims but nothing concrete, to lead me to a source.
That was when I spotted him, he looked out of place because his focus wasn’t on the art. It was on one of the victims. Could he be who I was looking for? How would I get him out of here with raising suspicions?
I had to get his attention first. How though?
I neared him and passed in front him hoping to catch his attention, I did, I guess I didn’t blend in with the tourists as much as I thought but I could use that to my advantage here. I exited the art room and he followed. I pretended not to notice. I headed for an exit to a back door. This warlock was bold, following me in plain sight but I guess his victims didn’t know what hexing was much less expect it.
Once outside I pressed myself against the wall and waited. The door eased open and I grabbed him and slammed him into the wall.
“Why are you hexing people?” I question.
“I could ask the same of you,” he counters.
“I don’t do that, I’m a hunter. I don’t place the hexes, I get rid of them,” I hiss.
“You’re a hunter?” he asks.
“Do you know the Colts?” I ask.
“Ava and Lane? Yeah, why? They’re dead,” he replies.
I let him go. Lots of people knew of Ava and Lane but a warlock wouldn’t know they were dead or care.
“Tom sent me here to deal with the hexing problem, why are you here?” I continue.
“I picked up on the hexing myself,” he answered.
“Name?” I ask.
“Arthur Weston,” he replies uncomfortably. Maybe nervously.
“John Constantine,” I reply.
“Do you have any suspects?” he asks.
“No, just future victims,” I reply.
“How do you know who’s next?” he questions.
I had to keep my profile as a warlock low, even if Tom could attest to me being sent here it would be another matter if Arthur believed me or not and whether he tried to take care of me before or after contacting Tom was done.
“I meant in general, the art show isn’t over,” I reply.
I could trace the source of magic later by myself but I would have to get Tom to get me one of the old hexes.
“Right,” Arthur replies.
