Chapter 2

The only sound louder than the thunder was the heavy beating of his heart. Shadow's Creek was known for its fierce storms but to Beck, they usually acted more as a lullaby. Tonight, a feeling of dread filled his gut as he felt the magnitude of power that was raging with the winds.

Lightning illuminated the room he inhabited in his grandmother's cabin. Every dark spot on the walls were suddenly brought to life and a little less intimidating. He huffed; frustrated with himself to fear something as simple as a summer shower. He was too old for this.

With a deep breath, he placed his bare feet on the hardwood floor. The creaking that rose out of the old boards did not help to improve his state of mind. He pulled a t-shirt over his head then inched toward his bedroom door and peered down the hall. He could see the glow of the kitchen light and wondered if his grandmother could feel the same energy he felt pulsating through the night.

"Grams," he called, not wanting to startle her by silently entering the room.

His heart began to slam harder against his chest when he didn't receive a reply. He stopped just short of the entrance to try to stop the shaking in his hands before he approached her. If the storm had upset her then he needed to appear brave and comforting.

"Grams, are you...," he stopped when he saw her sitting there at their handcrafted farm table.

Her head was tilted back, her gray hair tumbling down behind her in its signature braid, and an ink pen was settled loosely in her hand. He shifted his glance to the tabletop where a spiral notebook and a glass of sweet tea were placed neatly in front of her.

He walked through the kitchen and removed the cordless phone from its cradle on the wall. Pushing open the screen door, he stepped onto the front porch and pressed the bright green numbers on the handset.

"This had better be good," A feminine voice growled into the receiver after the fourth ring, "It's two in the morning!"

"Willow," he spoke, surprised by how calm his voice came out, "Can you come to the house?"

"Beck," her voice softened, "What's wrong?"

"Grams is dead."

"Oh my gosh, no," she gasped, "I'm on my way."

He hung up and laid the phone on the arm of the rocking chair by the door then dropped down into its seat. He ran his hands over his short stubble of brown hair and tried to focus his mind. She hadn't seemed sick. She had acted like her usual feisty self just hours before. A lump formed in his throat and he forced himself to fight it back. He stared out into the pouring rain, trying to focus his mind on anything but his grandmother.

Lightning danced across the sky outlining the figure of a man standing in the woods at the edge of the property. He scrambled to his feet and rushed to the railing that encased the porch. Squinting, he watched, waiting for the lightning to return to prove to him that he was simply imagining things.

Thunder rumbled causing his heart to race once more. His skin tingled as if hundreds of invisible bugs were racing across his body. His breath quickened in anticipation. He waited. A flash filled the yard as the storm spewed it's anger through the sky. And this time, it was clear. A man stood at the trees, his lengthy hair matted to his neck and face and a staff with a white stone at the head stood clutched in his hand.

Beck rounded the banister and rushed down the porch stairs. He slowly maneuvered his way through the dark in the direction of the shadow that lingered in the trees. His bare feet sunk into the mud as he slowly made his way across the yard. The strobe of headlights pulling down the gravel drive caused him to shift his attention to Willow's car approaching the house. He watched in a blank stare as she parked and scrambled out the driver's door, running toward him.

He caught her as she threw herself into a hug; her mass of hair nearly suffocating him. He released her and glanced back in the direction of the man in the shadows. He tilted his head in curiosity when what he saw was nothing more than swaying branches in the howling wind.

"Beck"

He stepped forward, pulling away from his friend and creeping closer to the cluster of trees. His mind reeled as he tried to comprehend how someone could vanish without a sound. He knelt in the place where he'd seen the figure and touched the fresh imprints of booted feet in the mud. Relief washed over him with the pouring rain. He wasn't crazy. He hadn't been seeing things.

"Beck," Willow screamed into the storm.

He spun around and realized he'd nearly forgotten that she was standing with him there in the downpour. Shaking his head, he stood, making his way back to her. He wrapped an arm around her waist and ushered her to the porch. She shivered as she looked at him, pity in her eyes, then she wrapped herself around him trying to soothe and comfort his aching heart.

"What were you doing," she asked, her face buried into his chest.

"I thought I saw something," Beck shrugged it off, "Grams is inside. In the kitchen."

"Have you called for someone to come get her yet?"

"I was waiting on you. I didn't want to do it alone."

Willow pulled her cell phone from the back pocket of her jeans and punched in the number to local authorities. She moved to the far end of the porch as she listened to the line ring. Beck watched her, knowing she wanted to be out of earshot so the call wouldn't cause him any more grief. He felt his lips rise into a half smile and his heart warm. She was there for him anytime he needed her and he would fight heaven and hell to protect her. He knew in that moment he could never ask for a better friend.
Her voice came out in a rushed whisper once the line had been answered and he felt the sinking feeling in his chest return. He slid through the screen door and stepped back into the kitchen. He started a pot of coffee then turned to face his grandmother's still body. He'd always expected when she finally departed from this world she would look peaceful as if she were sleeping. He didn't realize how far from the truth that was.

Her face had a sense of urgency on it. Her eyebrows were furrowed with a look of concentration and her mouth was twisted. Nothing about her looked at peace. He stepped forward and ran his fingers over her forehead, pushing the loose strands of hair away from her face. Her empty eyes stared back at him. He leaned down and planted a gentle kiss on her cheek; the warmth was already leaving her body. He broke.

Beck fell to his knees by her chair and dropped his head into her lap. He wrapped his arms around her and his hunched shoulders began to tremble as the tears poured. He felt Willow drape her tiny body over him and heard the muffled sobs she released into the back of his neck. His mind kept screaming for him to pull himself together but his heart wouldn't allow that luxury. So he wept on that cold, linoleum floor relinquishing his pain until there was nothing left.

The sound of something clattering to the floor caused him to jerk up. Willow picked up the ink pen that had caused the noise and handed it to him. She leaned forward and wiped the moisture from his cheeks. He gave her a half-hearted smile then used the edge of the table to pull himself to his feet before helping her up.

Willow went to the counter to pour coffee for the two of them. Beck looked down at the words scribbled on the notebook that laid before the old woman and his thoughts began to whirl. He ripped the top page from its spiral hold and slammed through the screen door into the dying storm almost knocking over the EMTs coming up the porch stairs.

"Beck," Willow called, chasing him out the door.

"I'll be back," he mumbled as he stuffed his mud covered feet into his shoes.

"No," she cried with tear lined eyes and pointed to the men carrying a stretcher into the house, "You have to deal with this first."

"Willow, please, understand that this," Beck held up the sheet of paper he'd taken from his grandmother's notebook, "has to be dealt with before I can figure out how to handle the rest of this."

She shook her head frantically as he ignored her plea and made his way to his vehicle. He slammed the heavy, metal door and turned the key already in the ignition. The engine sputtered and he turned the key again, pumping the gas with his foot. It roared to life and he threw it in reverse slinging up mud as he backed out of the drive and sped off down the road.

He drove in silence and anger as his mind reeled. Gripping the steering wheel, smoke began to billow beneath his palms. He pushed the gas further spinning onto a side road then slamming his brakes in the middle of Main Street. He clambered out the driver's door, not noticing where his temper had melted the leather wheel cover, and marched to the sidewalk.

He began beating his palm against the glass entrance of a shop sandwiched between a nail salon and a bakery. The bell on the other side jingled as it was jarred with every brutal strike. Beck leaned against the glass, cupping his hands around his eyes. He could see the light in the stairwell leading to the apartment above the store. He stumbled back and looked up at the window carved into the brick.

"I know you're up there, you sorry b*****d," he yelled, "Answer the door."

The window flew up, "Will you shut up?"

"Get down here, Kavanagh."

"Just shut up a minute." A shirtless man with ruffled blond hair leaned out, "Unless you want me to come down there naked!"

Beck threw his middle finger in the air as the man ducked back through the window and paced back and forth while he waited. He heard the clicking of the bolt lock being released. He stepped forward then pushed his way in when the man cracked the door open.

The shop was lined with shelves containing old, leather bound books, shrunken heads, and jarred objects floating in green tinted liquid. The center portion was a souvenir-loving tourist's heaven. There were make you own Voodoo doll kits and t-shirts. Above the counter hung a large sign welcoming you to "Rafello's Voodoo and Readings".

Beck knew most of what laid behind the four walls of this building was a load of crap. Rarely would someone walk away with a legitimate reading from the real Rafello Kavanagh. Instead, they'd find themselves receiving an impressive performance from a man in an elaborate costume. It wasn't that Rafello couldn't speak to the dead or read pieces of the past and future, he just chose not to tap into his talents unless absolutely necessary.

"Beckett Freakin' Kane, what brings you here at such an odd hour?"

"Why don't you tell me, Rafe?"

Stuffing his hand into the pocket of his flannel pants, Beck tossed the slip of paper at him and leaned against the counter. He glared as Rafe stared down at what was written there. He pictured the words as he watched his mouth move over the marks hastily scribbled on the page.

Rafello, My friend.
No more time. Azrul is in full power. Help Beck!
-Agatha.

Rafe lifted his head, grief welling up in his eyes, "She's gone, isn't she?"

"Yeah, " Beck sighed, running his hands over his head, "who is Azrul?"

"What happened to her?"

"I don't know. Who is Azrul?"

"Do you think it was a heart attack?" Rafe pulled a hand rolled and light from behind the counter.

"I do not know, Rafe," Beck growled through gritted teeth as he moved forward, "Maybe if you'd tell me who Azrul is, we could figure this out."

The two men stood nose to nose, staring into each other. One with golden eyes filled with anger and grief while the other stared back through ice blue with pity and understanding. Beck's chest rose and fell in deep, jagged breaths and his fists laid clinched by his side.

"Frederick and Zillah Kavanagh found Shadow's Keep after trying to escape prosecution during the Salem Witch Trials," Rafe broke eye contact and clicked the lighter until the tip of his cigarette was lit. Smoke and a minty scent filled the air. He moved to a bookshelf, picking up a large volume, "It was supposed to be a safe haven; a new beginning."

"I know the town's history," Beck shook his head as he tried to fight back the anger that had come over him.

"No, you know what they teach us in school. You don't know why we're really here," he dropped the book on the counter and they watched the pages lift and begin to move as if a strong wind had blown through the room.

The old brittle pages stopped. Rafe tapped what appeared to be a drawing of a man that laid in the center. Beck leaned forward trying to decipher the image on the page. What had once been a simple sketch of a man was now drawn over multiple times with the features of other faces. As he stood there inspecting the picture, new lines began to form across the eyes then the nose and mouth.

"What the hell?" Beck muttered, bending closer to get a better look. A twinge on pain shot through his heart as he recognized his grandmother's eyes.

"It's bewitched. The warlock underneath is Azrul. Lore goes back over a thousand years but our town's story began around 320 years ago in Salem," Rafe touched the new markings on the book with affection, "When Azrul discovered witches were seeking shelter in a new land, he sought them out and began to use his powers to manipulate the towns people into believing they were practicing magic to steal souls for Satan.

He would curse young women and have them accuse the most powerful of the covens of performing witchcraft against them. These girls would have seizures and intense pain that couldn't be explained with any medical reason. When doctor's came up short for answers, priests began to claim it to be works of the devil. Salem officials would put our people on trial and sentence them to death by hanging all under the suggestion of Azrul. He would sneak into their cells moments before they were brought to the hanging tree and extract their magic, creating a kind of immortality for himself. Once he had their powers and they passed on from this world, their face would appear here in this book."

"So this man, Azrul, he killed my grandmother?"

Rafe blew out a puff of smoke from the corner of his mouth and inclined his head. They both stared silently at the page as they let the thought sink in. Agatha hadn't passed from old age, her eyes peering back at them from the ancient book was proof of that. She'd been murdered by a powerful and decades old sorcerer; one she'd known was being restored to his full potential and power. 

"That's when the Kavanagh's came to Shadow's Keep. Azrul followed, knowing they took the strongest witches with them." Rafe continued, shattering the silence, "The Kavanagh's had assisted in the escape of a slave named, Dionisa, who was creating a spell to entrap him. They faced him on the bluffs just outside of town and performed the ritual, trapping him in the side of the cliff."

"Like Han Solo in the carbonite?" Beck raised an eyebrow.

"Geez, sometimes I forget what a dork you are," Rafe shook his head, "More powerful than that. Impossibly broken. His only chance for escape of his stone prison would be through the betrayal of a Kavanagh."

"So which one of your no good relatives let him go?"

"Davetta Kavanagh Kane."

"My mother?"

"Yes, your mother, cousin," He smirked

"Cousins?" Beck paced in front of the counter, "Man, this has been a bad day."

"I'll try not to be too insulted."

"So, what do we do?"

"First, we lay Agatha to rest," Rafe touched the picture in the book before stamping out his hand rolled in a nearby ashtray, "then we find a way to take the b*****d down."