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I almost gasped. “That means this is ancient.”
She smiled. “It belonged to my grandmother. Such powder cannot be made in the world ever again.”
“How sad,” I noted.
“Why?” she wondered, opening the lid tenderly. Then, she turned her attention to me. “Nothing should last forever.”
“I’m sorry that you have to use that now, to help me,” I couldn’t help but apologize.
She shook her head. “What else would it be good for, child? Standing on the shelf, gathering dust?”
She gently placed the journal onto the center of the table, bringing the jar to her lips. “Make sure this doesn’t get into your eyes. It might sting a little.”
Upon those words, she blew a cloud of sparkling, yellow smoke that seemed to fill the entire cottage. Not getting it in my eyes was not an option. I blinked heavily, coughing as the powder permeated both my nostrils and my mouth. I found it difficult to breathe. The powder burned my throat. It burned my eyes. I coughed violently, pressing my hand to my mouth, but it didn’t help much.
Then, suddenly, I started to notice a change. The yellow hues of the powder in the air started to turn dark. I had no idea what that meant. Tears started to stream down my face, stinging my eyes. I felt as if an invisible, clawed hand had gripped my throat, preventing me from breathing. I had to get out of the cottage, but at the same time, I wanted to be here. I wanted to see what would happen.
The witch however, seemed to be immune to what was akin to poisonous fumes for me. She started to chant something, in a language I did not understand, and the more she spoke, the darker the air around us became. It was still sparkling, but now, it was as if night had managed to sneak into the hut, through the small windows that now, refused to allow any sunlight in. Dust particles glistened all around us like an explosion of stars, and although it was a most beautiful sight, I knew it couldn’t be good. Nothing that turned from a sunny yellow to mournful darkness could have been good.
Finally, I couldn’t hold on any longer. I barged outside through the door, continuing to cough, until I could catch my breath properly. I lowered my hands onto my knees, bending forward, hoping that this position would help. It didn’t.
A minute later, the witch followed me outside. She was holding the journal in her hands. Just like she promised, it was untouched by the powder. However, I didn’t like the look on her face, as she handed me the journal back.
“It is as you feared,” she told me. “There is a doppelganger of him in this world.”
“I knew it,” I said, on the verge of tears.
She recognized my pain immediately. “There is no use in crying, child. Leave tears for the dead. Your husband is still alive. And he needs you.”
“But where is he?” I asked, and this was only one of the millions of questions I had for her. “And how do I help him?”
“Your husband is the only one who can defeat the doppelganger,” she revealed. “He has to… ingest him.”
“Ingest him?” I gasped.
“The doppelganger is a part of him,” she continued. “Evil, but we are all made of good and evil, light and dark. We need both. We need evil to know good, we need dark to know light. They must become one again.”
“I understand,” I nodded, shocked to hear this.
“The doppelganger won’t fight,” she divulged. “It exists only in the sense that it is following orders by the higher being, the being it has stemmed from. It has no knowledge of itself as a being apart. That will make it easy to defeat, but only your husband can do it. No one else.”
It all sounded terrifying. I had no idea what to say, what to think. Then, she continued.
“And… The only one knowledgeable enough to find someone for this sort of magic would be…” she paused, looking around, almost expecting someone to overhear us. “Constantine.”
“I know that name,” I said quietly.
“You should,” she nodded. “If anyone has your husband, it is him.”
“Then, I have to go to him.”
Going to see the vampire king, myself, without my father, was akin to suicide. But I knew that my father wouldn’t let me go. Neither would he come with me. He would deem it too dangerous, as it most certainly was. But if he held my husband a prisoner, then I had to go to him.
“How do I find him?” I asked, after she didn’t say anything to my last statement.
“He is looking for you,” she said ominously. “I can smell him on you. Be careful, child.”
“What?” I gasped. “Have I somehow come into contact with him without knowing?”
