The Boone Family Curse

The shadow of a nightmare descended upon Wanda once again. She dreamed of an old man in a black robe standing atop an altar, his face pale and withered. Below him stood a group of inbred, vacant-faced relatives who resembled him. Ugly, malformed limbs swayed to the unbearable sound of a flute. She dreamed of an eyeless, noseless infant lying in a woman's arms, while the madwoman pointed at the gloomy sky and wept, babbling blasphemous words. She dreamed of a man standing beneath a spire as a gigantic gray monster burrowed up from deep underground, half a mutilated face protruding from the church's shattered floor.

She had seen that face before! Not long ago, right beside the altar!

The sweltering summer storm clouds made it hard to breathe. Ravens shrieked as they swept over the roof of the car, and Wanda struggled awake in the passenger seat, her back drenched in sweat. "I fell asleep?" The witch's breaths were short and shallow, as though she had not yet escaped that frenzied dream.

"Yes." Salomon nodded. He could sense the magical aura of the distorted pentagram trembling. He knew perfectly well that Wanda had dreamed something utterly filthy; the safeguards had awakened her from the dream before she could fall into deeper darkness. Wanda shuddered and told the Arcanist about her dream, every last detail.

"Your inspiration is too strong. Simply touching the corpse let you perceive things that ordinary spellcasters could never foretell." Salomon's expression did not change, but he accelerated slightly. The Aston Martin roared down the highway. "This is not a good thing, Wanda. Control yourself. In the magical world, talent is a curse. That applies all too well to both of us."

A few hours earlier, they had come into contact with the corpse left behind