When the Angels Fell

Chapter 14: Revelations

The house was deathly silent as Abigail stepped over the threshold, her breathing echoing in her ears like distant thunder. All of the lights were off apart from the one in the hallway, and even that flickered uncertainly. Silence reigned for several stifling moments before Abigail found her voice.

‘Where’s Lynne?’

‘Gone,’ was the only reply her father gave. Even in the dim light, Abigail could make out the pain that crossed his face as he said it.

‘You loved her didn’t you?’

‘Yes…despite all her flaws…I did’

Her father turned away, sending out the unspoken signal that the conversation had reached its conclusion. Abigail trailed behind him as he crossed the hallway to the one room she had never thought to enter; her father’s study. Even from a young age, Abigail had been told to never open that door at any point unless her dad explicitly allowed. A rebellious attempt several years ago had ended in failure, her presence unveiled when the creaking floorboards had betrayed her.

‘Go on in,’ her dad said, gesturing with his hand.

Abigail pushed open the door and almost fell face-first onto the wooden floor as a dislodged pile of books came crashing down in front of her. The huge cloud of dust that billowed up left her craving clean air for several long seconds.

‘Sorry,’ she gasped, stepping back into the hallway and bumping into her father. The silent way in which he had moved to stand behind her caused a cold chill to run down her spine.

Get a grip

 It’s only your dad

Her father remained silent, moving past her and gathering up the books in his arms. The care with which he returned them to the shelf put Abigail in mind of the way a parent would handle a fragile child.

‘Sit down,’ he ordered, pointing to the heavy oak desk that took up most of the room.

Abigail sat in the chair closest to the door and took the momentary silence to look around the long-forbidden room. Shelves covered every wall, the books that would not fit stacked elsewhere in precarious piles. A softly glowing chandelier provided light, the pale blue crystals standing in stark contrast to the dark wooden beams of the ceiling. Even the desk itself was strewn with paper, some stacked neatly, others scattered as though thrown about in great haste. A brown letter bearing the stamp of her school caught her attention.

Oh shit

I must be miles behind

‘So how has our mutual friend been treating you?’ her dad asked suddenly, sitting opposite and leaning forward in his typical fashion.

‘You mean Daniel?’

‘Yes’

‘How do you know about that?’

‘Ah,’ her dad sighed. ‘Now we come to the difficult part’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You never knew your mother did you?’

Abigail shook her head, to which her dad opened a concealed drawer and produced a battered picture frame. He slid it across to her after wiping a thick layer of dust from its surface. Abigail took it and saw her mother for the first time.

Standing in a grassy, sunlit field next to a man that was undoubtedly a younger version of her father, Abigail’s mother was lithe and pale; looking as though she rarely saw the sun. She was beautiful with it all the same, her soft features accented by a smile that clearly reached her emerald eyes. Her brown hair seemed to flicker in the sunlight as though ablaze, falling past her shoulders in a glistening wave. Even though it was only a picture, it was clear that her mother possessed a sense of ‘otherness.’

‘She wasn’t…human,’ Abigail said, looking up into her dad’s eyes. ‘Was she?’

‘No,’ her dad admitted, taking the picture back and returning it to the drawer.

‘Then what was she?’

‘A Dame Blanche’

‘A…what sorry?’

‘A White Witch,’ her dad translated, standing up and retrieving a heavy-looking book from a shelf. He opened it to a marked passage and passed it carefully to Abigail.

Taking care not to drop the book, she read it aloud:

White witch is the term used to distinguish practitioners of benevolent magick from those that preach the dark arts. Of those accused during the period of mass witch-hunts in Europe, many saw themselves only as healers or seers and refrained from applying the term ‘witch’ to their craft. A rare few also practiced the art of mediating between the mundane and spiritual, describing out-of-body experiences and contact with spiritual entities. Out of all of the myriad forms of witchcraft, practitioners of these arts were the most heavily prosecuted; frequently accused of consorting with daemons.

‘So…where does my mother fit into all this?’ Abigail asked, closing the book and passing it back to her father.

‘She was exceptionally talented,’ he replied, sliding the book to one side. ‘Where most witches practice one art…your mother was master of all’

‘What does that make me then?’

‘You are also a White Witch’

‘But I don’t feel like one’

‘Your blood is diluted…you are a hybrid’

‘But that night in the theatre-’ Abigail began.

‘The creatures that attacked you are called daemori,’ Abigail’s dad interrupted. ‘Malevolent spirits that can be coaxed into taking physical form for a short while’

‘When I summoned the fire…it hurt…is it supposed to hurt that much?’

‘It was your first time and that spell should have killed you’

‘Then why did I summon it?’

‘Daemori cause a magical reaction in any users they come into contact with’

‘So it was purely self-defence?’

‘Exactly,’ her dad affirmed. ‘May I see the ring?’

‘Ring?’ Abigail asked, completely wrong-footed by the sudden change in topic.

‘The one on your finger’

‘Oh…right, sorry,’ Abigail said, sliding the ring from her finger and passing it across.

‘I had never thought to see a ring like this again,’ her dad breathed, rolling it around in the palm of his hand. ‘It is a null ring’

‘A what ring?’

‘A null ring,’ her dad repeated, passing it back to her. ‘It effectively cuts off all magic for the wearer’

‘Then why did Daniel give it to me?’

‘The power you unleashed was consuming you. You would have died if he didn’t’

‘I suppose I should keep it on then,’ Abigail smiled grimly

‘Yes,’ her dad said, his face a stern mask. ‘Now off to bed with you, you have school in the morning’

‘But dad…’

Don’t argue Abigail’

‘Fine’

Despite the sense of security that came from being in her old room, sleep eluded Abigail for many long hours; her thoughts busy with witches and fire and daemons and magic rings. Finally, mentally and physically exhausted, she passed out and fell into a series of dark and twisted dreams.