[center][H1][color=#840810]CHAPTER 1[/color] [color=gray]//[/color] [color=black]THE WITCHING HOUR[/color][/H1][/center]
[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/vCua3v4.png?1[/img][/center]

[color=9e0b0f][b]Salem, Massachusetts
One Month Ago[/b][/color]

The witch knelt upon a floor of oak planks, her dark robe draping from her shoulders like a silken, watery shadow. With her gaze downcast, the flaxen strands of her hair obscured the ethereal smoothness of her cheeks, and the stark azure of her eyes. All ten crimson-tipped fingers of her hands were splayed before her, pressing firmly into the five-sided center of the pentagram, which was drawn in gruesome red tallow upon the floor. All five points of the inverted star were marked with a burning candle--their shifting flames granting the only light to the bare room. 

“Elemanzer, come to me.” The witch breathed, her voice filling the room. 

“Elemanzer, come to me.” The room darkened, the blackness encroaching over the light of the candles.

“Elemanzer, [i]come to me![/i]” 

Upon the third utterance of the witch’s command, the flames atop the candles roared. Tongues of fire spouted forth, licking high enough to lap at the plane of the ceiling. The darkness that had filled the room was banished in an instant, and every corner was bathed in intense, blinding light. The witch’s eyes lifted, wide with shock as the intensity of the flames pushed her off or her knees, and back against the closed door behind her. A scream built within her lungs, and her mouth opened like a gaping wound in the porcelain mask of her face, yet no sound escaped. 

The gouts of fire began to pulse then. They took upon a rhythm, their light and heat wavering in exacting crescendos. It took only the breadth of a moment for the witch to realize that the beat of the flame matched that of her own racing heart. A second more, and she became aware that with each new thrum she could feel the force of her life draining from her body. Weakness crept over her, and she found herself melting towards the floor on atrophied limbs. 

“No, not like this…” The witch mouthed soundlessly. “I have served you faithfully?”

As if in answer, the flames were extinguished. Three cracks resounded like rending bones in the now total dark, accompanied by the growing stench of smoke and brimstone.

“Faithfully, indeed, my child,” said a new voice amidst the dark, feminine, and soft as down. “You have served your master with distinction.”

“And thus we honor you,” said another voice, this one trill. 

“Your soul alone has brought about the dawning of a new era,” a third voice sounded, slick like a serpent’s hiss. “With your sacrifice, you have gifted us passage, and a means to carry out the master’s command.”

The witch stared into the dark, her face now resting upon the floor. She was so weak now that the muscles of her neck could not bear up the weight of her head. Her mind raced, trapped within a husk that no longer could muster itself to her command. So many questions tattooed themselves upon her thoughts. She attempted to give them voice, but only a choking wheeze broached her lips. Terror was the only sensation her senses could perceive as her whole body wilted around her, and her soul became untethered from its mortal threads.