Witch Hunter Robin Fan Fiction ❯ The Burning Time ❯ Arcanum ( Chapter 16 )

 

The Burning Time

Chapter 16: Arcanum

 

You better run all day,
And run all night.
Keep your dirty feelings deep inside.
And if you're taking your girlfriend out tonight,
You better park the car well out of sight.
'Cause if they catch you in the backseat
Trying to pick her locks,
They're gonna send you back to Mother in a cardboard box.
You'd better run.
—“run like hell”, pink floyd

 

She closed the door firmly behind her as she entered her suite. The room had remained as dark as it had been when she'd left, prior to the Coven's meeting; only a small dim table lamp illuminating, the corners still in shadows. Her eyes were automatically drawn there, to that same dark, hidden place from which he'd emerged after having watched her earlier that same night.

Robin paused momentarily at the inside of the door, silently contemplating the locks, before slipping the deadbolt into a secure position at the doorframe. He had told her to do so, anyway.

She considered her room, turning around to view it in the dimness; her trench coat still on the floor, her bed still unmade, the covers rumpled as they were just a couple of hours before...

…flash of his body over hers…

Resting on the dresser, beside her loft-raised bed, sat the familiar pair of half-moon spectacles…bought for her by her warden, for the sole purpose of improving the aim of her Craft. They sat unused, gathering dust.

The altar had lit with exact precision and speed, inside the Circle...

Robin approached the dresser, ascending the stairs to her loft in her slow, dream-like manner; her pilgrim's dress whispering across the floor. She stopped in front of the chest of drawers, gazing at the spectacles for a moment before taking them in hand.

She ran her fingers over the slightly dusty frames, across the lenses. She recalled her doctor's appointment, so many months ago, arranged and scheduled by none other than her warden himself. Driving back to Raven's Flat in his Audi, Amon had grudgingly complained that they had wasted three hours for a meaningless examination.

There had been nothing wrong with my eyes.

Holding them to her face at eye-level, Robin looked through the half-moon lenses. There was no difference in the clarity of the room around her, through the glasses—nothing seemed sharper, or brighter, or more focused. She had been subconsciously aware of it all along, but had always assumed that the spectacles somehow enhanced her vision as she'd used her Craft—Amon had suggested it himself, as a means to explain how they had seemed to improve the accuracy of her flame.

She lowered them, allowing her eyes to drift to the other end of the room. On a small wooden desk, a lone candle stood on a polished brass tray, under glass; an antique hurricane lamp. As she set her eyes upon it, a spark appeared in the emerald depths.

The candlewick ignited instantaneously, with perfect precision.

She looked down again at her hands, at the unused glasses resting in them. They have not assisted me in the Hunts I have participated in with Seth…but I had not needed them when protecting Amon before that. And now she had successfully lit the altar downstairs, without their aid—after an entire week of having felt her Craft slipping from her, wasting away, even when she'd tried to use them.

Robin held the spectacles against the chest of her pilgrim's smock, her eyes desolate. Amon. Even now, I still do not understand my own body... She was aware of additional feelings, new and yet familiar, coursing through her like lightning at the mere thought of his name; and her hands tightened around the glasses in her hands.

Was it wrong to want him now, as she did? Wrong to wish he were with her, in her bed again…kissing and touching her, as he had done? She had convinced herself that it was not sinful; but was that her heart, or her body that had insisted so?

And Sela…Sela was in the ground, and here she had been enjoying Amon in her bed. It was incredibly disrespectful, to have allowed such a thing to happen, so soon after such a tragedy—

But wasn't it a reaffirmation of your own life? her conscience asked, and she tightened her hands around the spectacles again in confusion.

Devil's Child...Akuma no ko. Selfish thoughts had made her recall the name given to her by the dying SOLOMON researcher.

I still do not understand anything, at all.

 

***

 

Hours later—well into the middle of the night—Amon still refused to sleep.

He'd survived on even less before; years of SOLOMON training had hardened him in that respect. Beyond the primary investigative requisites, he'd had extensive military instruction. He was certain that if their situation had called for it, he would have been more than able to get by on little to no sleep per night, rationed food, minimal water; and still remain watchful, strong, alert to the presence of danger. Hunters must be able to endure the greatest hardships.

And yet, ironically, he felt weaker now, more vulnerable—with ample food, shelter, and sleep—than he'd ever remembered being.

Not weaker...less in control. He realized that he still closely associated the two; perhaps too closely.

He was reading Vincenzo's pamphlets again, scouring the detailed notes from Mario Benedetto with fervent scrutiny. He pored over them, checking and cross-checking references, immersing himself totally and completely in the writings. Amon thought perhaps if he were diligent enough, if he paid careful enough attention, the fragments of Benedetto's experiments he'd already read would begin to make more sense to him.

And all the while, he was tensely aware of the unsettling fact that his renewed interest in the scientist's notes was the only thing keeping him from going to her at that moment; it was all he could do to keep from breaking into her room once more, waking her from her slumber, tearing the sheets away from her naked body and finishing what he'd started earlier.

In spite of the fear he'd felt upon experiencing the vision in her room, he felt the force of his attraction had grown stronger. He envisioned going to her room; he wanted to see Robin's expression as she witnessed him entering her suite again in a fluid rush, wanted to see the surprise and apprehension in her delicate features dissolve luxuriously into need and desire, as he came to her, half-crazed with want…wanted to at once be all around her, this time feeling his own skin against hers, over her, underneath her...inside of her…

The compulsion was almost overpowering, and it dawned on him that he could suddenly recall her scent, as he thought of her—could taste her in his mouth—feel her skin again beneath his hands—

Jesus… Amon blinked forcefully, running a hand over his face and shifting in his seat, focusing again on the page before him. He grappled blindly with his control; having thought he had successfully strengthened his defenses against her in the ritual Circle before he'd left, he now realized that he desperately needed to distract himself.

It is easier to exclude harmful passions than to rule them, and to deny them admittance than to control them after they have been admitted. Of course now, after the fact, he was remembering his philosophical discourses on the benefits of stoicism—a core part of his education under the organization's curriculum, in which he had excelled in his youth. Amon had the distinct impression that his recollection of Seneca's advice would have been of much greater value to him a few hours earlier.

Indeed, such passions were harmful things. If it had been anyone other than Robin, such actions would merely be release; but because it was her, because he had seen into her heart, because she had endeared herself to him as no one else had...he had allowed the innermost part of him to slip. And you won't make the same mistake again...no matter how badly you want it.

He put his nose to the grindstone again, churlishly forcing his eyes to the page. Keep reading. Benedetto's notes had succeeded in putting him to sleep, before; he had every confidence now that they'd provide much-needed diversion.

 

Discovered nearly sixty years ago, the Dead Sea Scrolls from Qumran and the Nag Hammadi writings from Upper Egypt did not come into our hands easily. The Catholic organization that was SOLOMON's predecessor at the time had done their best to prevent and suppress the distribution of the scrolls to international scholars throughout the world. Through discretion and subterfuge we were able to acquire copies of these works, which supplied us with a good amount of the mythos that we had been searching for, most of which had been buried and/or destroyed following the first few centuries A.D.. The writings are proof, in our eyes, of the shared heritage between the suppressed Egyptian and early Essene/Christian belief systems—as well as the necessary clues we needed to perform and carry out our research.

Fundamental in our tasks put to us by the organization was to shed light on the Arcanum of the Craft, also known as the `Arcanum Arcanorum', the `Secret of Secrets'—the wisdom sought by SOLOMON that had once been known to them, in the organization's various past forms, but had become lost over millennia. This was an insurmountable mission, it seemed; as no official records have ever been kept by the organization in its multitudinous forms over time of what exactly the Arcanum is, and the only undeviating information gathered on it being the `Rising Sun' motif explained in an earlier chapter. But, I believe we are closer now to knowing what it is than we ever have been before.

In our quest for the truth regarding the origin of Witches, my colleagues and I have uncovered evidence of many things lost to humanity over time; the Arcanum is only one such example of this. If we are to allow the natural evolution of our species once more—the inevitable changes that have been, are, and will be occurring—these lost bits of knowledge mustbe re-discovered, for ourselves and for our children. Egypt's past is the key.

 

It was easy enough for Amon to grasp that what made Benedetto's work exceptional from Toudou's, revolved around the fact that he had used Egyptian DNA—a rather significant amount of it—in Amon's genetic engineering. He had to admit that it explained some things quite well, such as why his features were not solely Japanese, despite being born to two Japanese parents; his height, unusual for Japanese standards; and why he barely resembled his own half-brother, Nagira.

But what he didn't understand was why Egyptian genes were used, and to whom such DNA had belonged…and what it had to do with Robin and Toudou's project. He had yet to find exact wording in Benedetto's notes that would answer those questions to his satisfaction.

He continued reading, coming to a section devoted to notes pertaining specifically to the Arcanum, according to the header.

 

It is perhaps the most sacred object mentioned in the Bible—said to contain the stone tablets upon which the Ten Commandments were inscribed by the finger of God. It was believed to be the literal manifestation of God on Earth. But the Ark of the Covenant is also one of the most frightening artifacts described in all of biblical history. A golden box with the power to strike men dead, to the ancient Hebrews the Ark was both a divine manifestation and a talisman so powerful that they carried it with them into battle—a weapon of God. To their enemies, it was a treasure to be coveted—but once captured, a terrible punishment. It came to occupy the most revered spot in Jerusalem, the Holy of Holies at the Temple of Solomon, and then, six centuries before the birth of Christ, it mysteriously disappeared.

 

Arcanum. Arcanum...something in Amon's brain was clicking on, and he began to recall his elementary Latin tutelage, taught to him as a teenager during the rigorous early years of his European SOLOMON training, before he was sent back to Japan to work with Zaizen. Arcanum in Latin meant `secret, mystery'… probably a substantive use of the neutered form of arcÄnus, which meant 'shut up, secret'. Related to the verb arcÄ“re, 'to enclose, keep away, ward off', arcÄnus also originally meant 'enclosed in a chest'…

…which was from arca, 'chest, coffin'. Arca. Ark.

...The Arcanum of the Craft is the same as the biblical Ark of the Covenant?…It seemed farfetched at first; but given the fact that the Ark was a Hebrew relic from the Old Testament, and therefore of utmost importance to the Church, as was the `Arcanum'....

 

Notably, the Egyptians also had portable shrines in the shape of boats that were very similar to the Ark of the Covenant used by the Israelites. These arks became extremely popular by the New Kingdom when Moses would have been in Egypt. The New Kingdom saw a greater attention to the aspects of both the hidden and revealed in temple worship; the most holy was kept sacred by keeping it hidden, while the adoration of the masses was acquired through the use of the revealed. To accommodate these two conflicting ideals the Egyptians kept their most holy inner sanctuary hidden, while placing within it a sacred bark. Upon either side of the statue of the deity sat winged protectors facing the `mercy seat', where the God sat, much like the Cherubim on the Israelite Ark of the Covenant. Egyptians kept sacred portable shrines in the innermost sanctuaries of the temples. The focus upon these portable sanctuaries is one of the distinguishing features of New Kingdom temple design. The fixed statues from the Middle Kingdom still existed in the Egyptian temples, but they now took a secondary place... Here, some words were illegibly rubbed out.

The `Holy of Holies' in Solomon's Temple, where the Ark rested, was a place of `thick darkness' according to the Bible. Talmudic sources recorded, however, that: `The High Priest of Israel entered and left by the light that the Holy Ark issued forth' - a convenient state of affairs that changed after the relic disappeared. From then on the Priest `groped his way in the dark'. The Ark, therefore, was a source of paranormal lambency: a dazzling radiance was emitted by it - as numerous biblical passages confirmed (Exodus 40:20-38). In a similar fashion it sent out radiance 'so great that candles lost their brilliance just as the stars do at the rising of the sun or moon'. It was as though it were impregnated with a fiery celestial energy.

Curiously, most are unaware that this Divine Fire, evidenced by the Ark and the Burning Bush, was known as a femininecomponent of the deity in biblical times. This feminine Glory of God is the consort of Yahweh; She is the goddess consort of the king, seen as a visible cloud overshadowing or hovering over the Ark of the Covenant (Exodus 40:34-… Again, more words were scratched out.

To the Israelites, the Ark was a symbol of—and a vehicle for—God's almighty power. The Bible describes the Ark's power at the conquering of Jericho. When the Israelites hold it before them and sound their rams' horns, the city walls are blown over and Jericho is easily taken.

Many biblical accounts of the Ark seem almost to be describing a weapon of war. To march into battle bearing the Ark of the Covenant was to be undefeated.

 

Feminine. A weapon of war. Impregnated with a fiery celestial energy.

Even as his blood began to run colder, feeling as though icy water were seeping into his spine, Amon could still hear his brother's smart-mouthed, sarcastic query in his head. Sound like someone you know, buddy?

It was too much of a coincidence—they had to be referring symbolically to her. They were speaking ten years in advance of the end result of Toudou's project.

Robin.

Was this the evidence that SOLOMON had been searching for all along? Was Benedetto insinuating that the scriptures' references of the Ark of the Covenant were hints describing what SOLOMON had been in search of —what would later become Toudou's greatest life's work?

Did it mean that Robin, herself, was the Arcanum? If so, it gave him new reason to believe she was in more danger from them than he'd previously surmised.

Amon had not studied much regarding the Arcanum; he'd only before seen vague references in SOLOMON textbooks, something about an `ultimate technique' of Witchcraft...something about knowledge, wisdom. Never anything to suggest it was actually a beautiful, demure, teenaged pyrokinetic who wore her hair in a manner that startlingly resembled handlebars, who whispered when she spoke, who slept in the nude...who, in her infuriatingly blissful ignorance, radiated such magnetic sensuality that made it almost impossible to discount her.

You're doing it again. This time it was his own surly voice speaking to him in his head, and his jaw tightened in response to the thought.

On a level beyond “fiery female energy”, the symbolic association made sense. Toudou had talked about Robin being the “Eve” of a new race of Witches, a “vessel”, given her supposed ability to confer her genes to offspring; much like the Ark was the “vessel” of God. Additionally, the possibility that Robin was susceptible to being manipulated, as a weapon of war, had already crossed his mind more than once. By whom she would potentially be manipulated was less apparent. Seth? Although the male Witch was adamant in hunting members of SOLOMON, Amon doubted that Seth's motives went beyond utilizing Robin's basic fire Craft for use in such instances. Seth seemed genuinely concerned about her well-being; and despite his own feelings, he could not distrust based on jealousy alone.

As stunned by the new information he'd uncovered as he was, Amon still failed to see the connection to the work that had generated his own existence. If Benedetto's main project had been designing this “army of Craft-Users” for SOLOMON's purposes, why was he so attentive to Biblical and mythological lore, about the Arcanum…?

Unless, he rationalized, the Arcanum is so powerful, that to prevent it from falling into the hands of anyone other than the organization—particularly Witches who were not under their control—SOLOMON would go to any lengths possible. It wasn't so implausible to believe this included the manufacture of an army of their own, to hunt down and eliminate the threat; or, at the very least, prepare for it.

He had been meant to be part of that army; that much he had taken away from their brief meeting with Vincenzo. If Amon's Craft had awoken in a timely enough fashion, as the older man had insinuated SOLOMON would have preferred, perhaps it would have been he who would have been hunting for the Arcanum, instead of…

Something else dawned on him. Juliano had sent Robinto find the Arcanum of the Craft…he had sent a fifteen year-old-girl—his own granddaughter—to the far-off `Land of the Rising Sun' designated by this ancient SOLOMON prophecy, to find one of the most important artifacts in the organization's entire history.

Had this really been SOLOMON's agenda? Or simply Juliano's?

This meant one of two things. It was possible that Juliano had indeed only distrusted her, as he had admitted at Raven's Flat, and simply given her the task of finding the Arcanum to elucidate her fidelity to SOLOMON. He had already confessed to harboring the knowledge that she was Toudou's terminated project; and he'd tested her, under the guise of Masuda's Inquisition, using Cortion as an unwitting accomplice.

The other possibility was that he had known all along of the inner workings of both scientists' research, and their focus on the Arcanum—an unlikely prospect, given that the priest hadn't even been in possession of Benedetto's journal, much less Toudou's video data—and had been aware that Robin was potentially the `Secret of Secrets' herself.

If the latter were true, what would that mean about Juliano's objective towards her? Either he was completely ignorant of it, or he had been playing something of a very sick joke by sending her after the fallacious artifact.

Amon sighed to himself, raking his long fingers through his dark hair. It was still difficult to know just how much Juliano knew, or to what extent he was trustworthy. He'd confronted Juliano in Rome, face-to-face, after the attack on Raven's Flat—but even then had not been able to completely illuminate the priest's true intentions. Jana had also attempted to reassure him that the Master Hunter deserved their confidence during their last visit to her house, but Amon hadn't bought her explanation entirely. The old man seemed enshrouded in secrecy; Amon wondered what exactly it would take to ascertain

The next section of notes pertaining to the Secret sounded particularly embittered:

 

We came to the realization, in the midst of the work we were doing, that the Arcanum Arcanorum is in fact being sought after by SOLOMON not because they want so much to find it and use it...but because they wish to suppress it.Like everything else regarding the succession of Witches—or gods, as we should refer to them—SOLOMON seeks to bury it, to hide it away and prevent it from happening. Fear, hatred, and jealousy rule them...and in turn, they use these same human emotions to rule those under them. It is as if they believe that pulling the wool over the world's eyes, as they have done for thousands of years, will continue to ensure their control—

 

Here the notes were illegible again, scribbled out as though the speaker's thought process was interrupted mid-sentence; it was as though the speaker were suddenly and hurriedly changing the direction of his deliberation. As Amon read on, a new analysis began to emerge:

 

The great arcanum—that is to say, the Arcanum Arcanorum, and the Holy of Holies wherein the Sacred Ark rests inviolate—is the absolute knowledge of good and of evil.
“When you have eaten the fruit of this tree, you will be as the gods,” said the Serpent.
“If you eat of it, you will die,” replied Divine Wisdom.
Thus good and evil bear fruit on one same tree, and from one same root.
Good personified is God.
Evil personified is the Devil.
To know the secret or the formula of God is to be God.
To know the secret or the formula of the Devil is to be the Devil.
To wish to be at the same time God and Devil is to absorb in oneself the most absolute antinomy, the two most strained contrary forces; it is the wish to shut up in oneself an infinite antagonism.

 

God and Devil at the same time...what kind of nonsense is this? he wondered.

 

It is to drink a poison which would extinguish the suns and consume the worlds.
It is to devote oneself to the promptest and most terrible of all deaths.
Woe to him who wishes to know too much! For if excessive and rash knowledge does not kill him it will make him mad.
To eat the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, is to associate evil with good, and assimilate the one to the other.
It is to cover the radiant countenance of Osiris with the mask of Typhon.
It is to raise the sacred veil of Isis; it is to profane the sanctuary.
The rash man who dares to look at the sun without protection becomes blind, and from that moment for him the sun is black.
We are forbidden to say more on this subject; we shall conclude our revelation by the figure of three pentacles.
These three stars will explain it sufficiently. By reuniting the four, one may arrive at the understanding of the Great Arcanum Arcanorum. In the centre of the ring may be perceived the double triangle forming the Star or Seal of Solomon, the talisman of Saturn. —. It is actually the religious and metaphysical symbol analogous to the Ad- Ka—

 

...The words, as well as the remainder of the notes for that section, were again scratched out.

There was a drawing, however, which Amon immediately recognized as the Seal of Solomon; the six-pointed star that was one of the primary symbols of the organization. Believed to have been the symbol of the biblical King Solomon himself, it adorned—somewhat inconspicuously—the doorways of several SOLOMON-run legislative buildings. Of course it seemed perfectly natural, given the name of the organization, and its Judeo-Christian background, to harbor such an emblem...but the mention of it in the writing startled him. When had it ever been referred to as the talisman of Saturn?

The notes seemed to be making progressively less sense to him. God and Devil at the same time...we are forbidden to say more on the subject... It sounded like an introduction to a ridiculous conspiracy.

Then again, his mind prompted him, so did Toudou's video excerpts sound to Zaizen's ears. Despite his inherent skepticism, Amon decided he would not be so foolish as to disregard Benedetto's work now; the mentions of his mother's name in the experiments—as well as the fact that the elder scientist had inspired Toudou—were blatant evidence of truth that he couldn't ignore.

Another glance at the notes before him revealed a drawing similar to one he had seen before, a man with long, twisting horns; although this time the caricature was more man than ram, seated, holding a serpent in one hand and in the other a circlet of some type of metal. The handwriting after the picture was more hurried now, the writing sloppier; as though whoever was writing it had suddenly realized their time was limited.

He read on.

The Nag Hammadi scrolls gave us ample evidence of some of the attributes of what we were attempting to bequeath:

Names given to the worldly are very deceptive, for they divert our thoughts from what is correct to what is incorrect. Thus one who hears the word "God" does not perceive what is correct, but perceives what is incorrect. So also with "the Father" and "the Son" and "the Holy Spirit" and "life" and "light" and "resurrection" and "the Church" and all the rest—people do not perceive what is correct but they perceive what is incorrect, unless they have come to know what is correct. The names which are heard are in the world, deceive.

Lux e tenebris lucet

He is immeasurable light, which is pure, holy and immaculate. He is ineffable, being perfect in incorruptibility. He is not in perfection, nor in blessedness, nor in divinity, but he is far superior. He is not corporeal nor is he incorporeal. He is neither large nor is he small. There is no way to say, 'What is his quantity?' or, 'What is his quality?', for no one can know him. He is not someone among other beings, rather he is far superior.

For the perfection is majestic. He is pure, immeasurable mind. He is life-giving life. He is knowledge-giving knowledge. He is mercy and redemption-giving mercy. He is grace-giving grace, not because he possesses it, but because he gives the immeasurable, incomprehensible light. Images are visible to people, but the light within them is hidden in the image of the Father's light. He will be disclosed,but his image is hidden by his light.

The powers do not see those who are clothed in the perfect light, and consequently are not able to detain them. One will clothe himself in this light sacramentally in the union.

A lot of time had passed between writings; the dates for further entries corresponded to seven or eight years later than the initial notes that had begun the journal. That was approximately when Toudou began his own research, on Project Robin.

He looked carefully at the written date again. You were seven years old, when this was written. You were—

My God. That's when it happened. His blood felt suddenly chilled.

Several lines had been underlined heavily...as though to make the reader aware that they were of the utmost importance.

...And his thought performed a deed and she came forth, namely she who had appeared before him in the shine of his light. This is the first power which was before all of them and which came forth from his mind, She is the forethought of the All—her light shines like his light—the perfect power which is the image of the invisible, virginal Spirit who is perfect. The first power, she glorified the virginal Spirit and it was she who praised him, because thanks to him she had come forth. This is the first thought, his image; she became the womb of everything, for it is she who is prior to them all, the Mother, the Holy Spirit, the thrice-powerful, the thrice-named...she who has been exiled from the Garden, has shared this fate with humanity, and will not return until the time of the Messiah.

When She was still with Him, death did not exist. When she was separated from him, death came into being. If he enters again and attains his former self, death will be no more.

She calls to him, as he is in his somnolent state; her liberating voice arouses him to awaken. `He who hears, let him get up from the deep sleep.' When he listens, he weeps bitter tears...and remembers...and understands. Only this way is he able to arise.

 

The next part was barely readable, due to scratched-out words and abrasions:

 

We have done all we can, given the circumstances. We have given him life; we have corrected the inherent Pi mutation. His potential is complete.

If he brings forth what is within him, what he has will save him. If he doesn't, it will kill him...or theywill.

We now have a better understanding of why his awakening is slow to progress; it was an oversight on our parts. However, I don't foresee having the time nor the resources to supplement the project with another one...I will leave that to my successor. I have the utmost faith in his abilities.

All is not lost. Hope has survived, as evident by the quotes—from a secretive order who had preserved the belief of la vecchia religione, belief in him—that I will end these notes with:

“I am the great god that sits upon a throne of white marble. Dark as the night are my eyes, but brilliant as sun-illuminated snowfields. My horns are of pure obsidian, trimmed in scarlet; in their tips, the honey of gnosis. My tail points to the snake's nose. My phallus is ever erect, for my I am forever united with the Lady of Dreams in a kiss. My feet are solid upon the earth, my horns pierce the clouds. I am the god to which the throne of Ra was given, I am the glorious one, Messiah named by some, by others BA-HO--T (part of the word was crossed out/erased),but Satanby the masses.”

May we be able to correct the mistakes made by our forefathers. May we continue to strive to better ourselves, as well as our understanding of what we can become.

Uomo è Dio facendolo.

—Dott. Mario Benedetto
Primo Direttore della Biologia Molecolare
FZ Genetics

The last page of the journal was signed along with the month, day, and year. It was the same year during which Toudou supposedly started the infamous Project Devil's Child; the same year that Amon had been seven years old; the same year his mother Matoko had awoken as a Witch and lost control of her powers, murdering several SOLOMON agents without provocation.

He reread the last quote. ...Satan by the masses... Amon suddenly saw before his eyes the picture of the snake eating its tail, forming a circle; and Robin's face, as she'd reacted to it, paled and whispering. He thought again of the picture of the man-god with horns, with the head of a ram.

Devil. Evil.

Is this what I have been designed to be? Was this Benedetto's true intention?

He recalled Seth's casually spoken words a week ago over breakfast....il demonio was supposed to have been found in Japan...

Oh, God. What in the hell am I?

Again he saw Matoko, as he had that day, in the entryway of their home; he was young, so young, and could barely recall the details --- but they were slowly coming into focus, becoming clearer. The man's hand on his arm...his mother's tears...his innocent confusion. Why is she crying? I have gone with these men before.

Time seemed to flash forward; before he could form a thought, she was screaming something in Japanese...he couldn't hear the words, inundated as he was in the commotion that happened next; but nevertheless he knew that it was she who was directing what was happening to the men around him. She was killing them.

This wasn't his mother doing this, wasn't the kind and gentle nurturer who had cared for him...this was someone else, someone terrifying—someone out of control.

She was still screaming, at him and at them; the terrible stench of blood and gore, as the men's flesh literally melted from their bones, filled his nostrils—and he began to scream, himself.

“Okaasan! Yamero!” he yelled, his gray eyes wide with fear, trembling in the man's grip. Horror washed through him as he realized, by the adult voice screaming in his ear and the warm fluid on his arm, that the man holding him had also liquefied, his very flesh disintegrating. He screamed again, and again.

yamero...yamero!...YAMERO! —

Suddenly a loud crack interrupted the turmoil...and Matoko stopped screaming.

She staggered, a rune bullet lodged in her shoulder; and paused, listing slightly and panting, as she looked down at her injury with something resembling dazed curiosity. Amon was frozen where he stood, his screams also having ceased; he was unable to make a sound as he watched, mouth agape in shock.

She barely had time to shape a word, before Amon heard a sound with which he would become devastatingly familiar over the next twenty years—the metallic snap-crunch of a semi-automatic weapon loading. Several of them.

The hail of fire that followed was like thunder, deafening in the small entryway, to a small boy. He saw his mother's body flailing in the barrage, like a puppet tossed about wildly with its strings cut—her blood was spattered on the wall behind her, on the adjacent walls next to her, on the ceiling above her…on himself.

His own mother mowed down before his very eyes, a distraught seven-year-old Amon watched, with neither sound nor tears, as her body was shredded beyond recognition by gunfire. He would not cry—not until many hours later that night, as he was locked in his new dark quarters, alone; and after that, he would never cry again.

As an adult, he was not wholly ignorant of the situation that had played itself out that day. Obviously his mother had seen the men as a threat; they had been armed. But they hadn't provoked her; she had killed so easily, so quickly...without remorse. She could have spared them—instead she had killed five men, simply by turning her eyes on them. There didn't seem to be any possibility that she hadn't been corrupted...as the agents who had led him away had insisted, she had been possessed by evil. She had been tempted by the same powers his father supposedly had, and she had succumbed to that power. It had been her undoing.

Again he felt that which he'd sought to suppress, as he recalled the memory in more vivid detail than before...the whispering in his head re-emerged, growing increasingly louder in strength; his body began to shake, and behind his eyes a piercing light developed…

The whispering, nausea, and light vanished instantly as Bast interrupted the memory, head-butting him at the desk while purring loudly. Amon jerked his head back, startled, his nose full of gray fur; before the residual anger in his eyes diminished. He reached out a slightly shaken hand to stroke the cat's fur, as his breathing slowly calmed. Perspiration had broken out on his forehead.

Just as it will be myundoing, he thought. It is only a question of time. The powers simmering beneath the surface of his skin, of which he'd had a glimpse of earlier that night, would not be contained for much longer—that he was sure of. He had seen far too many Witches during his employment with SOLOMON lose their fragile grip on reality upon coming into power; and the prospect of having his own released, and he not able to control them, frightened him beyond comprehension.

He wasn't just frightened. He was fucking petrified.

Oblivious to his state of mind, Bast remained seated before him, staring up into his face with her feline green eyes and blinking slowly.

Not only that; but if one is to believe what is suggested in Benedetto's journal, then my powers are an abomination...never meant to be fully realized, he thought, recalling the Satanic references. It was something a dark part of him had suspected all of his life—he wasn't just a Witch; his existence was blasphemous, a curse. There seemed to be no question now whether his awakening would cause misery.

And he realized that as long as he was around her, it was inevitable. She is the catalyst.

He sighed, eyes drawn to his window, as he observed the colors of the emerging morning rays; the sky resplendent with the pink, orange, and yellow hues of the rising sun. Gazing at it, instead of a quiet and hopeful serenity he felt dread.

You know what you must do. The decision weighed like bricks upon his soul.

You have no choice.

***

The morning saw Robin heading outside, towards the white patio used as a morning breakfast nook, pilgrim's dress and loose pigtails in place.

She rounded the corner to see members of the Coven at their meal, serving themselves fruit, pastries and espresso. Seth looked up as she arrived, standing up from his chair immediately, something all of the male Coven members did regularly for her. Robin caught a glimpse of something on Chanan's face as he turned his gaze towards her, remaining seated in his chair, even as a few of his comrades stood in her presence—she felt taken aback suddenly as she saw an angry glint in his eyes, but just as quickly he disguised it.

“Tesoro,” Seth crooned, distracting her, “buon giorno. Sleep well?” He took her hand affectionately between both of his, as was customary when he greeted her, and she felt her lips gentling into a smile.

“Si,” she replied softly, “I slept very well, grazie.” She did not mention to him that she thought perhaps the quality of her sleep had less to do with the successful recovery of her powers in the Circle, and more to do with what had occurred before the ritual.

“Bene,” he gushed; and to her surprise, leaned in to kiss her on both cheeks. He smelled clean and sweet, and she could detect the moderately spicy scent of his after-shave. Startled, Robin blushed a light shade of pink, as he turned away to reclaim his seat; it was another moment before she had composed her wits sufficiently to take her own.

Seth passed her the fruit and espresso, chatting amiably at the table with the other Coven members. Something seemed amiss to her as she raised her cup of espresso to sip; the tension in the air at the table was palpable, laden with energy.

Perhaps it is because of Sela, she deduced uncertainly, and decided not to speak of the deceased Witch. Any mention of her after the ritual the previous night had seemed to cease. She wondered absently if it were custom, or simply too upsetting for the group to reflect upon.

Gideon leaned across the table to pass a small container to Hedya; unexpectedly his hand shook, and he dropped the small pitcher of cream. Rivulets of milky white spread across the breakfast table. “Maledizione,” he muttered.

Robin looked in silent fascination at the pattern of the cream; it had formed something of a straight line, with a fork at the end. Algiz?

She sat staring at it, for several moments, until Seth turned to her and asked her if she was all right. Meekly, she turned back to her breakfast, allowing her eyes to skip over the pattern once more, before Gideon mopped it up.

***

Robin attempted to keep herself busy later that morning. She took a walk outside around the castle grounds.

She busied herself with the espresso machine in the makeshift kitchen, making more for herself before taking it entirely apart to clean every last facet of it thoroughly.

She passed by Amon's door again. It was still closed. She fought the loneliness that threatened to creep up into her chest, and instead set about making herself even busier.

She took cleaning supplies and scrubbed her bathroom clean, despite Seth's protests that it was the responsibility of the weekly maids. She set about doing the laundry.

Two hours later, as she was folding clothes, Seth appeared again. His tall, lanky frame leaned in a relaxed pose against the open doorway, his arms folded as he observed her.

“Come stai?” he asked. She nodded pleasantly in reply without interrupting her work. “I wanted to let you know, tesoro, that the briefing for the Hunt is about to start.”

She stopped folding. “Amon has still not awakened,” she told him, concerned; at which Seth did a sudden double take in her direction, a shocked expression—marked with suspicion—on his face.

“Chiedere scusa?” he asked incredulously.

“He has not risen yet, he's still in his quarters,” she went on carefully, and she watched with curiosity as he schooled his features.

“Ah, si...va bene.” He looked distracted. “Mmm, it's no matter...he's not required on this Hunt, anyhow.” He motioned with his hand for her to follow him. “Per favore...we don't want to be late.” She stopped folding and went to the doorway where he waited, as he stepped aside to let her pass through.

***

In the conference room, the other members were already gathered around the table; Robin took her seat quietly.

“The target is Mita Russo, nineteen years of age,” Seth began, and Robin felt a modicum of surprise at the girl's youth. “She's relatively new to SOLOMON's ranks, having only spent two years with the organization so far, and thus her Witch-hunting track record has not had a chance to develop yet; however, we understand from our contact that Signorina Russo is an integral part of a partnership who plans to conduct a substantial Witch-hunting raid right here in Grosseto. It would be in our best interests to put a stop to this fledgling Huntress before she gives away our position to SOLOMON.”

He went on, describing the location and more of the details of the Hunt. Robin felt her mind wandering again as he did; and despite her best efforts to pay attention to the briefing, her eyes strayed. A glance around the boardroom revealed most of the Coven looking tired and jaded, bordering on mildly irritated.

Her gaze fell on the corner of the meeting room, partially hidden by shadows, due to the dim light needed for the laptop projection...against the wall, on the far side of the room, she could see lines of shadow bisected by light—one long line forked at the bottom with three shorter lines...

Algiz Merkstave. The same rune she had seen on the breakfast table, outlined in spilt cream.

Ice flooded her veins. She stared at it, heart pounding, as her breathing became erratic. Algiz is the rune of protection, she thought, defense...a guardian. Awakening to higher consciousness. But when it is merkstave, reversed, it signifies hidden danger...loss of a divine connection...turning away, that which repels.

Turning away...

Robin rose from her seat at the table.

Seth stopped in mid-speech. “Tesoro?” he asked, uncertainly, as he saw her move towards the door of the room.

She moved past him, through the door, without even looking in his direction. “Scusi.”

Upon exiting the conference room, she headed straight for the stairwell in the foyer, almost at a running pace—intent on going to him and entreating him, in her most earnest tone, to answer her.

Surely he had thought on his actions the previous night, and wouldn't turn her away again...he vacillated, she knew, but she could see the conflict in his eyes when he looked at her. If she could just get through to him, if she could just find the source of his discomfort when it came to her...if she could convince him that she would do everything she could to alleviate it—

She came upon his door and stopped before it, knocking gently. “Amon,” she called, a measure of urgency to her voice. “Amon, è mi.”

She tried the handle. “A—” The door opened, to her surprise. It had been unlocked.

Stepping hesitantly inside, she could see that the room was empty; his clothes were gone, his papers, his belongings, his travel bag—gone. His bed had not been slept in...even Bast was nowhere in sight. There was no longer any sign that Amon had occupied the room.

She stood, gaping, in the doorway for several minutes.

Seth had run up the stairs after her, and appeared behind her in the doorway, breathing slightly with exertion. “Tesoro, che—” He stopped as he looked upon the empty room. “Dov'è lui?” he asked, his eyes narrowed.

“Non lo so,” Robin responded, somewhat mechanically. She stepped further into the room.

Hedya, who had come up beside Seth, turned to go back down the stairs. “I'll check the garage.”

Robin slowly and methodically crossed the room to the desk by the window; she stopped before the chair, gingerly resting her hands on its hard wooden surface with reverence. She wasn't psychometric, but she thought she could still perceive his scent there, the faintest trace of it...could still barely detect his presence...He must have left early this morning, she deduced silently.

How long had he sat here, at this desk? How long had he isolated himself in his room, probably torturing himself psychologically, for what they had done the night before?

And there had been no reason for him to do so. She had been more than willing—more accurately, she had loved what he had done to her, as wrong as it was according to the Scriptures. She had wanted it as badly as he.

Now he was gone, and she had nothing more to give. She had bared all of herself for him, physically as well as emotionally, in her naive effort to be as close to him as humanly possible, to demonstrate to him how important he was to her...and he had run, unable to deal with the repercussions of it.

Nothing had prepared her for this, not even his hasty exit from her room the previous night...she'd held the unwavering faith that he wouldn't leave her side. Amon....you had told me that you were with me now, and you weren't going anywhere...

She felt a reeling wave of sadness wash over her, mingling with confusion to flood her senses, contracting in her chest; she brought one of her hands to the breast of her pilgrim's smock, curling it there tightly.

“Robin,” Seth spoke softly, carefully; she noted he used her name, which he rarely did in lieu of the affectionate moniker he usually called her. “Do you have any idea where he might have gone?” She didn't answer him, barely having heard his words, continuing to stare at the desk before her.

Hedya came running back up the stairs, reappearing in the doorway. “The BMW is gone,” she reported, panting. Her Nordic features took on a hardened expression. “Shall we report it stolen?”

“Non,” Seth said, glancing at Robin as he did. “But put out a call to Leor and Noa, who are en route coming back from Pisa...tell them to look for him, and to notify me when they find him.” Hedya nodded and went back downstairs.

Seth regarded the chestnut-haired girl before him again, taking a step towards her. “Tesoro...”

Suddenly Robin turned, sweeping past him in a flowing rush of dark dress, and he ducked his head as she passed. Without a word or glance, she left the room and headed down the stairs.

Seth looked on somewhat wistfully after her.

***

She lay in her bed, fully clothed...staring as she had before at the half-moon spectacles on the dresser not far away. She clutched at things around her tightly—the white coverlet of her bed, the dark red stone of her pendant around her neck—as though she feared to let them go, afraid to let them out of her grasp. She had to swallow more often than usual, around a particularly painful lump in her throat that seemed primed to overtake her entire body. She fought hard to breathe normally.

Her mind continued to ask the question that her heart feared the answer to. Has he abandoned me? Has he betrayed me, as my nightmares had suggested by linking him to il demonio?

Robin had been convinced that she had successfully scaled the walls of his seemingly impenetrable fortress at last; she'd seen it crumbling, layer by layer, brick by brick, with each encounter between them. She thought she had finally crossed the deep trenches surrounding his heart—she'd seen the look in his eyes when he stood in the shadows of her darkened room, like battlements aflame, and her confidence had been renewed; surely the end of the crusade was near. He wanted to let her in…she could sense his desire to surrender completely, could feel it in his touch, in the press of his lips against hers.

But when he had left her room, as sudden and tumultuous as a bitter squall, she had realized the illusion; that the walls she had been scaling, the ones he'd built around himself, were much higher than previously thought. He had rebuilt them overnight, it seemed, and now she could no longer see past them.

If I could just understand why he runs from me, Robin thought, perhaps I could change what it is that bothers him so much. But upon deliberating on it more, she realized that perhaps it wasn't that simple.

His confusing behavior towards her seemed to run much deeper than guilt over the differences in their ages, or any feelings of shame he might have associated with disrupting the ward/warden balance of their relationship...there seemed to truly be a modicum of fear that he had somehow attached to her. Even though he had indirectly denied it the previous night, his response to her suggestion that he was afraid of her had seemed telling.

He had reacted as though he'd been directly challenged with the truth.

But it had seemed whatever dread he'd harbored had dissolved when they had been close enough to touch...in fact, his attentions to her had grown stronger, more demanding, after he had held her and kissed her. At the same time, he had been gentle and tender—not at all indicative of apprehension or fear. She dared regarded the moments in her bed between them to be the closest to happiness she'd ever seen expressed by him.

Yet, all of it had vanished again, instantly. The fear and dread had inexplicably returned with a vengeance. What had caused it?

She turned over in her bed, away from the glasses…the evidence of his role as her warden. The sorrow wormed its way into her chest again as she realized that he had abandoned that link to her, as well.

A soft knock came on the door of her suite. “Tesoro.” It was Seth. He tried the door handle, opening it part way, and halted in the doorframe. “Posso?”

She turned back over on the bed, sitting up and attempting to compose herself. “Entrari,” she entreated, softly.

He came through the door, closing it gently behind him, and approached the center of the room cautiously. She could see the concern evident in his usually boyishly mischievous features. “Come va?” he asked, more informally than before.

She lowered her eyes, giving a half-shrug in response.

“May I join you? To talk?” Seth asked, still in his calm, gentle voice, his eyes flickering briefly to the space on the bed beside her. She hesitated momentarily, before yielding a small nod. He crossed the remainder of the room to the loft in an effortless, fluid movement, ascending the steps to the bed and taking a seat at the foot of it, facing her.

Robin pulled her knees up to her chest reflexively where she sat against the pillows, observing him with a hesitant curiosity. “What did you wish to talk about?” she asked, quietly.

He met her gaze with grave blue eyes, and she found she could not look elsewhere. Seth paused, as he seemed to mull over his own gentle words. “Amon, tesoro.”

She ducked her head, discomfited; but out of the corner of her eye, she could see him, his attention fixated on her reaction.

“I need to know, Robin,” he said, calmly and slowly, “where he has gone…and if he is going to return.”

She looked up at him, her face solemn. “Non lo so,” she answered in earnest, feeling a degree of unease at his blunt question.

“If you knew, would you volunteer the information?” he asked pointedly; and she paused, before nodding in honest avowal. “Do you think he is going to come back?”

That was much harder to answer. She averted her eyes again, and Seth cocked his blond head slightly to the side expectantly.

“Non lo so,” she whispered.

His blue eyes blinked slowly, patiently. “Robin,” he began again, his voice even softer, this time lilting with sentiment. “You know that you can tell me what is on your mind.” He gave her a disarming half-smile. “You'd find I'm very good at listening.”

Now she looked up at him in moderate apprehension. She was suddenly aware that he could read the expression on her face as plain as day, and that he was coaxing her to divulge what had happened between them the previous night…

But he couldn't have known what had happened, she told herself. He might speculate, but he couldn't have known…

As she met his gaze once more, she saw his concern again evident in his eyes. He was so supportive, so eager to have her share her thoughts with him; and she felt her ever-present desire to trust welling up in her again, like a cresting wave.

Robin took a deep breath. “Something happened, between Amon and I,” she said lowly. She felt, against her will, her face beginning to color.

“Che cos'è?” Seth prompted with gentleness, but she shook her head, her eyes downcast.

“I can't tell you,” she whispered hurriedly. “I—” She stopped, unable to finish the word, caught up in the modest embarrassment and confusion of what had occurred—as well as what had gone wrong—between herself and her guardian the night before.

It was abruptly too much for her to grapple with, much less attempt to explain to someone else. Amon...I don't understand...why...

She hadn't noticed Seth moving closer until he was right next to her, reaching for her, pulling her into his embrace. The action was so graceful and smoothly executed, that she was too startled to protest as he took her into his arms, pressing her chestnut head into the soft material of his shoulder.

“Shhh,” he whispered consolingly, and sighed. “Va bene.” His warmth was comforting, and despite the initial strangeness of it, Robin felt herself relaxing into a boneless, confused mass against him, assailed by the scent of his after-shave she'd detected earlier that morning. Painfully her thoughts turned to Amon.

It is not so wrong, she reasoned. Seth is kind to me. It was something she had tried to convince Amon of several times, but he'd seemed reluctant to believe it.

“I know it is hard for you right now, miei caro,” Seth went on softly, “after everything that's happened in the last couple of days...with Sela, with Amon...but you have to be strong, tesoro...capisci?”

She nodded briefly against the comfort of his silk shirt, wondering how he had known it necessary to encourage her strength at such a time.

“There is still much we have to do,” he said over her chestnut-haired head, stroking her back gently. “I need your help …regardless of Amon's intentions, I need your assistance to bring these members of the organization to justice.” His voice was softly cajoling. “You are the only one who can help me do that, tesoro.”

Part of her knew it to be true; now that her powers had been restored by the ritual, and with Sela's demise, Seth needed the help of every available Craft-User in his service….

But the thought of the subsequent Hunts caused her discomfort.

Seth released her, pulling himself back to look into her face. “Come on the Hunt with us,” he entreated, his words simultaneously pleading and authoritative. “It will distract you…will alleviate your mind from that which you should not be worrying about.” He smoothed a lock of her chestnut-blonde hair absently. “Besides, it's possible that he just left for a short time, and will come back, si? One should not give up hope so easily, tesoro.”

His words struck a chord of irony within her. Hope.

I seem to have less of that, as of late, she considered thoughtfully. Despite her unease, Robin felt herself nodding in response to his statement. A residue of her former iron will asserted itself once more.

Amon…I won't give up, just yet.

***

Hours later, in Seth's Jaguar, they headed out to their destination in Grosseto in the early evening; Robin seated up front with Seth, and Gideon and Hedya riding in the backseat. Hedya and Gideon chatted animatedly amongst themselves, seeming not to take notice of Robin's solemn mood, while Seth glanced at the downcast chestnut-haired girl periodically out of the corner of his eye.

They passed the Palazzo della Provincia, out into the heart of the township, driving for several miles until they headed off the main road. At a smaller, more run-down section of the town they finally stopped, exiting the car.

Seth surveyed the area, his dark blue coat fluttering gently in the breeze that had picked up around him; he briefly sniffed the air as though he were searching for quarry. “Dusk approaches,” he spoke to the group, standing a ways off from the car, as they readied themselves. “We will need to move quickly, if we are to find her by nightfall.” Robin looked east, to the encroaching darkness that was steadily making its way across the sky.

“Gideon and Hedya will take the west section,” he instructed, pointing in the direction he spoke of. “I will take the south corridor, and Robin will go east. Andiamo.”

They set out, in their separate routes, to find the SOLOMON agent.

***

For a half hour, Robin wandered the eastern quadrant of the town, hands in the pockets of her dark red trench coat, carefully scrutinizing the inhabitants she came across in the fading light. She hadn't yet found anyone matching the description of the young SOLOMON agent assigned as a target; she briefly wondered why Seth had not given her a cell phone or communicator, to keep in close contact during the search. It was certainly not the case that they lacked sufficient funds, judging by the lavish lifestyle the Coven led.

She plodded along the street slowly, reluctantly. I do not want to do this. Each step she took began to remind her of other Hunts she had been on, months ago, during her employment with STN-J. As much as she realized now what the organization's insidious agenda was like—you're for us, or against us—and that Seth's group offered Amon and herself protection, the Hunts she'd participated in had begun to wear on her soul.

A movement ahead of her caught her downcast eye, and she scanned the crowd of people on the street. A young girl matching Mita Russo's description was headed in her direction, walking quickly, eyes darting furtively about.

Robin stopped in her tracks, her face inadvertently betraying her surprise. The girl met her gaze, her own advances halted; and both stared into each other's eyes, for a long stunned moment.

Robin could almost see the words forming on the girl's lips. È lei.

Mita Russo turned and ran in the opposite direction, her long brunette hair flying out behind her; and Robin broke into a hesitant run after, darting her way through the throng of people on the street.

The chase lasted two blocks, until the target disappeared around a corner, into an alleyway. Robin followed, her heeled boots clacking on the pavement as she rounded the corner after the agent.

She was stopped by several gunshots fired at her feet; attempting to incinerate the bullets, Robin gasped with a mix of surprise and horror as her Craft sparked…then dwindled out into nothing.

I still cannot use my flame?

Mita Russo was training a weapon on her, advancing slowly. Robin could see the girl was terribly young…and terribly frightened.

“Don't move,” Mita demanded, ice in her tone, eyeing Robin with wariness. “I will not hesitate to shoot.”

Robin stilled, her posture straightening from a fighting stance. Without the use of her Craft, she was at this Hunter's mercy. The ritual was a failure after all.

“I won't harm you,” she offered calmly, and the girl's eyes changed as she spoke.

“What is wrong with your Craft? Why don't you use it on me?” Mita challenged, moving even closer. She was now only ten feet away.

Robin kept their gazes locked, hoping to quell the other's fear. “I can't,” she admitted; to which the girl blinked, obviously confused.

Mita retrained her gun, resuming her frown as she panted in fear; she tried hard to steady her shaking hands. Finally she lowered the pistol, ducking her brunette head slightly.

“Then I can't harm you, either,” she relented.

Robin's countenance lifted in surprise. She studied the girl, curious. “You're not a Craft-User?” This Hunter is a Seed?

“No,” Mita confessed, her weapon now lowered to her side. “No, I'm not. My boyfriend, mia fidanzata, was, though. He was extremely powerful…we were to be married, on the sly,” she said, beginning to chatter rapidly, as if she thought her time was limited. “When they found out, they killed him.” She shook her head angrily. “Now I won't hunt—I refuse to hunt anymore…I can't, now that I know what the organization has been hiding.”

Robin was about to ask the identity of the “they” who had killed Mita's fiancé, when abruptly the girl clutched at her head, with the hand not holding her pistol. She groaned as though she were in sudden agony, as though she were recalling a terrible memory that caused her physical pain.

“Che cos'hai?” Robin asked, concerned, and the girl looked back up at her, her eyes widened with a new understanding. The look in the girl's eyes unnerved her.

“It's you,” Mita whispered, and Robin felt the blood in her veins turning to ice. “I know who you are. Is he with you?”

“He?” Robin asked, and watched as the girl shook her head back and forth wildly.

“It's you….It's you!” The brunette girl's voice had developed from a strange sort of giddiness, to nearly full-blown hysteria. She clutched at her head. “I don't want to, anymore…I don't want to kill them anymore!”

Robin's own eyes widened as she witnessed Mita's breakdown. She heard wailing, crying—but it was not coming from the girl before her.

“Tesoro!” An Italian-accented shout disrupted her thoughts, and she saw Seth running towards her from the street end of the alley, followed by Gideon and Hedya. “Robin, get away from her!”

“No!” Robin tried to intervene, but she saw Gideon had already begun to unleash his Craft. She could see the tendrils of air that emanated from his direction, slashing things apart in their paths, like razor-sharp blades.

The blades of air missed Mita, who now looked over at Gideon furiously. Sparks of electricity crackled in the air around and above her head, twisting and curling into the darkness around her—her Craft, Robin realized.

She tried to call forth her flame, to form a barrier to protect the girl…but she could not even create a flicker.

“Gideon, no!” she cried, as she saw him unleashing another wave.

One of the blades sliced into Mita's arm, causing her to drop to the ground on one knee in pain. She looked up again at him, holding her bleeding arm, eyes full of violent hate, as she faced the next barrage of slicing wind—

Robin turned her head away, sickened, as Mita's brunette head rolled on the ground, her corpse in tatters.

She turned on Seth, who had finally made it to her side. “Perché?” she demanded, frowning in consternation. “She had said she wasn't going to Hunt anymore. She had said she didn't want to kill, anymore!”

His voice stern, Seth took her arm in his grip. “She would have killed you, tesoro. SOLOMON agents will say whatever you want to hear; they will say anything to save their own lives, don't you know?” He looked slightly angry, and she felt the sting of his reprimand. “Why didn't you use your flame, Robin?”

Her head was bowed. “I could not.” She was lost in confusion.

Seth frowned. “Your Craft still does not work?” His troubled expression caused her to further sink into bewilderment, and she fell quiet as the Coven members disposed of the body.

Following the concealment of their work, the group made their way back to the castello in heavy silence.

***

In the dim light of her own room, Robin considered what had happened.

The girl had been a Seed, and had said she didn't want to Hunt…that she was refusing to Hunt, because of what she had found out…

She had been a Seed, and had suddenly awakened…

Robin recalled her words. It's you! I know who you are…

Flashes of other memories began to assail her; the captured Witches in the Factory, floating in their green tanks, who had become animated despite their comatose states…they had recognized her presence.

Zaizen's words, directed at her with fury, as he realized his prisoners inside the Orbo production facility were awakening; You'redoing this?

The Sovanan villagers, having seen her Craft's eruption, reaching to touch her dress, her hand, her hair; asking for blessings, asking for her to touch them. It was to gain power.

She had been responsible for Mita's awakening.

And, Amon—his Seed, his fear, his mother…

Her chest heaving with an oncoming sob, Robin buried her face in her hands, and wept.

She knew now that he was not coming back.

***

After having knocked several times on the oak door in front of him, he waited, his dark coat fluttering gently in the evening breeze as he stood at the porch. The door finally opened before him, the woman's face, peeking out from behind it, simultaneously pleased and expectant.

“Bentornata, Amon,” Jana said, stepping aside to encourage him to enter.

***

***

Next chapter:

Accursed destiny....The Hanged Man....A bittersweet farewell. After three thousand years of repression, the hope for the future comes at a cost with which none are content to bear. Chapter 17.

***

 

Italian/Japanese/whatever else: ^^;;

Translations: Cortion: the Inquisitor from chapter 13, “Eyes of Truth”.
Lux e tenebris lucet: (Latin) The light that shines from the darkness
la vecchia religione: the old religion
Uomo e Dio facendolo: Man is God in the making
Dott.: Dottore, abbrev. Doctor of philosophy (PhD)
Primo Direttore della Biologia Molecolare: Senior Director of Molecular Biology
Il demonio: the demon, the Devil
Okaasan: (Japanese) mother
yamero: (Japanese) stop it
tesoro: darling, treasure
buon giorno: good morning
si: yes
bene: good
come stai: how are you?
chiedere scusa: beg your pardon
va bene: all right, okay
che: what
dov'e lui: where is he
non lo so: I don't know
posso?: may I?
entrari: come in
come va: how you doin'
va bene: it's okay
miei caro: my dear
capisci: do you understand
che cos'e: what is it
andiamo: let's go
E lei: it is you
Mia fidanzata: my fiance
che cos'hai: what is wrong
perche: why
bentornata: welcome back