heard one of the chanters say in a disappointed male voice. I heard the unmistakable clink of a Zippo flipping open, and a few seconds later the candle flared to life again.
I poured a little more power into my wind this time, and once again whispered, “Ventus.” The breeze was stronger this time, snuffing two candles instead of just the one. Zippo bent down and relit them both.
I had to give them credit for tenacity, but I really wasn’t in the mood to fight serious evil, so I decided to make one more attempt at canceling their summons before I just beat them all senseless. I called in even more power, and still keeping my voice as near to silent as I could, whispered very firmly, “VENTUS.” All five candles winked out, and the two nearest where I stood actually toppled over and began to roll around on the floor of the gazebo, dribbling hot wax all over the boundary of their circle.
“Come on!” Zippo Guy exclaimed, kneeling on the floor and trying to right the candles. “Ow!” he yelled as his hands became coated in melted wax.
“Just leave it, Jerry,” one of the other robed figures said. “The Great One is sending us a sign that he shouldn’t be disturbed right now. We’ll try again tomorrow night at midnight.” This junior magician was another man, this one with the strident accent of the Bronx thick in his mouth.
They all knelt down then, some gathering up supplies, and others carrying over a bucket with water and rags in it to start scrubbing the signs of their ritual away. I had to give them a little credit for being considerate. So often demon-summoning wizards just leave their goat entrails everywhere for someone else to clean up. It was nice to see a group of evil magicians with a little courtesy. Or with enough sense not to want everyone in Jersey City to know some seriously evil shit had been going on in their park.
I ducked behind a tree as the first of them filed past, whispering an incantation to bend light around me and make me functionally invisible. As I watched, the shortest of the summoners turned to look back over the area once more, presumably to make sure they hadn’t left any evidence of their passing. As they did, I could tell by the way the fabric hung that she was a woman, and I took advantage of the pseudo-invisibility spell to try to get a look at her. The black cloth was pulled down to uncover her nose, but most of her face was still obscured.
That didn’t keep me from barely stifling a gasp when I got a good look at her eyes. I knew those eyes. I’d seen those eyes in my dreams every night for six years. Somehow, in New Jersey, six years after I watched her die, I was looking into the eyes of Anna Treves, the woman I’d watched get killed by Nazis in France in 1943. Anna Treves, my first true love.
* * *
—
I followed her. Of course I followed her. She veered off the path where the rest of her would-be cabal walked, and knelt down beside a large maple, pulling a small cloth bag out from under a shrub growing up next to the tree. I watched as she threw her hood back, unwound the cloth from around her face, and pulled the robe up over her head. Underneath was a modest dress of dark blue with white piping, and a matching headband held back auburn curls. When she stood and turned to go, her cult robes tucked safely into the bag at her side, I got a good look at her face for the first time.
It wasn’t Anna. Of course it wasn’t Anna. Anna was dead, ripped from me by a murdering Nazi bastard with a grin on his face. But there was something of Anna to her features, a similar shape to the nose, a line of the jaw that recalled my lost love’s face. This wasn’t Anna, but it was someone close to her. She was some relation, and if she was dabbling in dark magic, I owed it to Anna’s memory to keep this girl safe.