Immortal Treasures

As Clara digs into the box of eighteenth-century treasures from the old Stepney Castle, she notices the spine of a rather basic tome lights up. She peers across the room at her two daughters, busying themselves with an array of artifacts. “Helen, Patricia, I think you two should look at this.”

Exchanging glances with her sister, Helen sets down the small golden carousel she’s been examining and moves in next to her mother. “What are we looking at?”

“Whoa! Am I seeing that correctly?” Patricia steps forward, her eyes shifting between her mother and Helen. “Did that book just glow?”

“Mmhmm. The aura of magic here” —she passes her hand above the box— “is something I haven’t felt in ages. Definitely old magic.”

“What would a vampire family be doing with a magical book?” Helen asks, her brows drawn tightly together.

Patricia’s face contorts in disgust. “The filthy demons probably sucked the witch dry and stole her grimoire.”

“Oh, stop.” Unamused at her daughter’s response to such a priceless item, Clara reaches in to retrieve the leather-bound treasure. She wipes the dust from the cover, her voice dropping to a mere whisper as she reads the name aloud. “Laurent.”

Opening the old tome, she slides her fingers through its leaves. “From the quality of paper, I’d say this is from around the seventeenth century.” Carefully turning several thick parchment pages, she finally grasps the remaining bulk of the book and flicks through with a sigh.

“What is it?” Helen stares down at the turning pages as her face contorts. “What’s wrong?”

“Yeah, I hate when you leave us hanging.” Patricia jams her hand on her hip. “Did you find something vulgar?” She slaps her fingertips off her forehead. “Pfft. What am I saying? Of course, you did. There would have to be something appalling, like blood spells, to interest a vampire. Right?”

Clara’s shoulders sag as she closes the cover. “No, I didn’t notice any blood spells. Here.” She hands the journal over. “Have a look for yourself. Tell me what you find.”

Confusion clouds her face as she flips the pages. Finally slamming it shut, she twists her lips and holds the book out toward her mother. “This is friggin’ empty!”

“Mmhmm.” Clara runs her thumb across her bottom lip, staring at the journal in her outstretched hand. “I noted that too.”

“But we all seen the glow,” Helen protests. “And one can’t deny the magic searing through the cover.”

Clara flips her hand toward the old tome. “Have a look for yourself. Maybe you can see something in there.”

Scanning the pages, Helen finally stops, her nose nearly touching the paper as she squints. “Hm, just when I think I’ve spotted a word, the darn thing disappears. Like here—” She shoves the book under Clara’s nose and jams her finger to the page. “See here? Does that say forest?”

Patricia bends to get a better look, her fingertip landing on the page next to her sister’s. “I can’t identify anything that resembles forest, but I certainly recognize crazy.” She smiles at her mother. “What do you think, Mom?” Lifting her finger, she points at Helen. “Can you see crazy?”

“I’ll show you crazy, you little tart!” Helen grabs Patricia’s hand, giving her a shove.

“Oh, no. You didn’t!” Patricia’s face reddens, a fireball swirling to life in her hand. “I’ll show you a tart, you old bladder bag!” She releases the ball of flames toward her sister.

Helen spreads her fingers, giving her hand a flick. “Bomba de auga,” she shrieks, sending a water bubble to douse the fireball and leaving Patricia sopping wet.

Clara steps between her two daughters. “For the love of the Goddess! Knock it off! I can’t believe after half a century, I’m still refereeing you two.” She sighs. “Now, pull yourselves together. We need to discuss this Timekeeper Journal.”

They freeze, peering at their mother with wide eyes, their question ringing in unison. “A Timekeeper Journal?”

Taking her seat, Clara turns the book over in her hands. “Yes, I believe so. I’ve never known anyone personally to have held one before, though I have heard stories.” She runs her finger over the name on the cover, watching the letters glisten as she traces each one. “See that? That tells me it’s found the correct bloodline. Though neither myself nor either of you can read it.”

“I don’t understand,” Patricia utters, staring down at the book as though it were a foreign object.

“Well,” Clara continues, “these journals are created by the keeper of time and sealed to two specific bloodlines. First, the named” —she gestures to the name on the cover— “and second, the interpreter.”

Helen draws her bottom lip between her teeth and tilts her head, narrowing her gaze on her mother. “And by the keeper of time, you mean—”

Clara gives a slight nod. “The Goddess, Hecate. The triple goddess, keeper of the keys, some will even argue she is the keeper of time in the magical realm. Call her as you wish, but as you know, none is stronger when it comes to magic. She controls our elements and could appear to us in the form of the maiden, mother or quite possibly the crone, and we would never know. We’ve seen subtle hints of her work before. So, as much as this may seem like a rare find, it shouldn’t be a big shock to us. In fact, I’ve heard mutterings of great Ancina being a direct descendant. But, like everything else, that is just another story passed down through the family.”

“Pfft. No way,” Patricia spits. “Are you trying to say that,” she points down at the book in Clara’s hand, “was created by the Goddess?”

“I believe that’s entirely possible, or at least someone just as powerful.” Holding the journal out, Clara peers up at her daughter. “If you don’t believe me. Try to burn it.”

Helen throws her hand over her mouth with a gasp. “You can’t be serious!”

Clara shrugs. “Why wouldn’t I be? If it is a Timekeeper Journal, as I suspect, then it can’t be tampered with or destroyed.”

“And if it’s not a Timekeeper Journal?” Helen asks.

“Well, we all agree those pages appear blank. So if I’m wrong, then there’s nothing to lose. On the other hand, if I’m correct, the journal will be undamaged, and we’ll know for certain.” Clara drops the book at Patricia’s feet. “Go ahead. Give it your hottest flame.”

Thunder cracks as Patricia raises her hands, and bright blue arcs dance along her fingers. She takes one last look at her mother. “I hope you’re sure about this.” Clara tips her head, flipping her hand out toward the book. “All right. Remember, this was your idea.” She drops her hands, sending brilliant blue bolts toward the journal, but they’re simply absorbed.

Helen‘s mouth drops open. “How on earth is that possible?”

“I must have missed it.” The air thickens as Patricia takes a breath and raises her hands. “Let me give it another go.”

Clara turns her hand out. “If you must.”

Again, Patricia strikes the old book with her hottest charge. The cover slightly lifts as though it were taking a breath, but it remains undamaged. Shaking her arms out, she stares at her mother. “I’ve never encountered anything able to withstand that kind of heat. That should be dust by now.”

“Mmhmm.” Clara reaches down to pick up the book. “You can’t destroy something willed and protected by the Goddess.”

Drawing her brows together, Helen stares at the perfectly unscathed journal in Clara’s hand. “So what do we do with it? None of us can read it.”

Clara takes a deep breath. “Well,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “I can think of one other person that hasn’t tried.”

“No way.” Patricia folds her arms across her chest while shifting her weight to one leg. “You can’t be thinking of Olivia!” Clara shrugs. “That’s ridiculous! She despises magic. You won’t catch her within ten feet of that dang thing.”

“Then I suppose we won’t tell her. Will we.”

“You can’t do that to her,” Patricia scoffs.

“We can, and we will. Every witch, including Olivia, is obligated to complete the tasks —whatever that may be— set out within a Timekeeper Journal. So we have no choice but to make that happen,” Clara says, stuffing the journal back into the box she initially pulled it from. “Besides, with Summer Solstice coming, I have been adding a little Mugwort to her tea each morning, hoping to open her sixth sense. It’s time she starts acknowledging who she is. Maybe it will help her open up to this as well.”

Helen snickers. “I’ve been adding a little mugwort to her bedtime tea.”

Pacing in front of them, Patricia throws her hands in the air. “I can’t believe you two! How can you do that to her? She’s only recently stopped having those damn nightmares again.”

“Oh, she’ll be fine. We’ll just tuck this box aside and let them find each other. From what I know, these journals not only seek out their interpreter, but it draws them in—calls to them. She likely won’t be able to resist it.”

“I want it noted that I’m against this.” Watching Helen retape the lid, Patricia points down at the box. “Feeding Olivia to that vampire diary is insane.”

Helen bursts into laughter. “You make it sound as though the pages have teeth.”

“Fair enough. Your protest has been noted. Now, shove the box back with the rest of them,” Clara directs. “She has already promised to come in tomorrow to help us unpack. So, whether you’re against it or not, you best not breathe a word to her.” She glances down at her wrist. “It’s late. I think we should call it a night.”