Inheritance

Prolouge

Prologue  

October 31, 1888 

Vash stood on the edge of the cliff. His boots hung just over the rim, and little trickles of red clay ran down between them. A cold dry wind whipped up his long black cloak and dried the tears running along the scar which marked his face. He clenched his fists, clenched them tighter and tighter, as he looked down at the charred town below. It nestled in an oak lined valley by a small tinkling creek which ran black with ash.  

Blood dripped from his closed fists. Drip. Drip. Drip. 

Snow filled the cold air. The silent flakes wrapped around him like a white blanket. All day long, he kept his silent vigil, and as the sun set and turned the snow to a field of diamonds, he leapt from the cliff. The black cloak opened, and the rising air lifted him up. He turned in tighter and tighter circles dropping closer to the earth on fabric wings. As soon as his feet touched the blackened earth of the main street, he felt magic pulsing all around him. 

The magic coalesced into a line running out of town. In a daze of sadness, in the shadows of the growing night, he followed the line past burnt out false fronted buildings, past bodies which once housed souls he knew. On the outside of the town, on a small rise, grew a lone tree. Many weddings and celebrations once danced under its shady limbs. It housed the heart and soul of the small community. Vash followed the line of power right to it. 

A small girl, with white hair, leaned, eyes closed, against the sturdy trunk. A circle of white powder surrounded her. Vash bent down, dipped his finger in it and held it up to his nose. He sniffed it and then touched it to the tip of his tongue. 

"Salt?" 

"It keeps them away," the little girl said without opening her eyes. 

"Who?" 

"Them," she pointed behind him. 

Vash glanced over his shoulder. His skin crawled, and he jumped within the circle. An army of undead, damned beings, poured from the burned town. The salt did not keep them at bay, but the white haired little girl did. 

------ 

What happened when a witch died? The King has not granted them immortality like the night loving vampires, the glorious angels, the damned demons or the moth-born wiznits. Only witches and fairies died, either naturally or unnaturally.  

When a witch died, their powers pass on to another human. Usually it followed bloodlines, either children, siblings or a sibling's children. Sometimes, it skipped the entire family line and went to someone new, someone with no genetic tie to the magic. This healed past horrors, gave magic to those more worthy, or unworthy, and followed something deeper than blood; it followed lines of the soul. The magical inheritance came dramatically, painful or soft as the falling snow. 

The witch of SoulReading, Manson, embodied a true psychopathic conscience. He felt nothing for the preciousness of life, he hated his mother, and he killed for fun. He watched the rending of the human soul for entertainment. Along with his psychopathic mind, he bore a magical anomaly - divided powers. The King, in his wisdom, gave part of Manson's powers to a young woman named Sophie who loved a vampire. The King, in his wisdom, knew when Manson discovered Sophie shared his powers, he would hunt her down, kill her and everyone she loved. 

Manson did just that.  

Only Stan, a journalist, and Sophie's son, Crow, survived Manson's hunt for his divided powers. Crow bore an anomaly as well - the only Dhampir in existence: half human, half vampire. After over fifty years of hiding, Crow joined the service of Olive, the most powerful witch ever known. With her help, Crow and Stan destroyed Manson once and for all, avenging the murder of his parents and friends. But that is a different tale, and one already told.