1

October 28, 10:33 a.m. GMT

Exeter, County of Devon, England

Sharyn Karr was no witch—despite what local townsfolk might believe of her and her classmates. Even her mother back in Tulsa, who was devoutly Catholic, all but disowned her after learning Sharyn had fled across the Atlantic to pursue a postgraduate degree in witchcraft at the University of Exeter.

She’ll eventually get over it, Sharyn repeated to herself for the umpteenth time.

Her mother certainly would not approve of this morning’s sojourn across the city. Even Sharyn saw little reason for this pilgrimage. She had a paper to start and had just completed a two-mile run when her two roommates had insisted she accompany them on this journey. The day was sunny, a rarity this past month, and clearly her roommates wanted to escape the three-bedroom flat they shared. They cajoled and browbeat and pressed upon her the morning trip’s academic interest, while also stressing the respect that was owed the past.

Ultimately, Sharyn was persuaded by a promise of the city’s best coffee and doughnuts—the latter being a particular weakness of hers.

And what the hell, I did finish a two-mile run.

After a bus ride and short walk through the crisp autumn air, their goal appeared ahead: the crumbling gatehouse of Rougemont Castle. Its archway, constructed of rough-hewn red stones quarried from local hills, was all that remained of the old Norman stronghold built by William the Conqueror in the eleventh century. She gaped at its towering height, which looked ready to crumble upon her. Down lower, modern black iron gates stood open, allowing traffic into the courtyard beyond, where a music festival was being set up.

She and her friends had not come to participate in such festivities. Though, one of the pair looked enviously upon the trio of stages being set up by bustling crews of roadies.

“I attended a Coldplay concert here several years ago,” Naomi said. “Back in my wild youth. I snuck out of the house with a group of friends. On the eve of my A-level exams. Supposed to be studying, but I had a crush on the group’s bass player. So, I could not be dissuaded.”

“Seemed to have done you no harm,” Tag noted, leaning heavily on his cane as he kept up with them. “You still did crackin’ well on those tests, didn’t ya? Got accepted to Oxford with a full ride. Graduated with a dual masters. Archaeology and anthropology.”

Naomi shrugged. “Took me until I was twenty-one. If I had reined in that rebellious streak, I could’ve completed the coursework a year or two earlier.”

Sharyn detected no conceit behind the woman’s words, only a matter-of-fact resignation. Naomi Wren, who had grown up in Wales, was not only the youngest in their study group at Exeter, but also the youngest accepted into the university program. Only months into their first semester, Naomi had already proven to have a nearly eidetic memory and an uncanny ability to wend together disparate disciplines. Her mind was as slippery as it was sharp.

Though, from the bright crimson dye of her hair and buxom shape, few suspected the brilliance shining behind Naomi’s forest-green eyes. Even more daunting, the woman’s legs seemed to stretch forever, presently accentuated by skin-tight jeans, which were topped by a vintage denim jacket embroidered with the Welsh battle standard: an emerald-and-white flag emblazoned with a crimson dragon balanced on one foot.

Sharyn could not help but feel inadequate in Naomi’s shadow, not that her roommate ever sought to diminish her. Still, Sharyn’s bachelor’s degree from the University of Oklahoma in library sciences, with a minor in art history, seemed a paltry accomplishment in comparison. Like Naomi, Sharyn had earned herself an undergraduate scholarship—though in her case, it was not for academics, but for track-and-field. Still, her Sooners’ team had become national champions, for which she took great pride.

Despite continuing to keep fit, Sharyn looked the part of a librarian. She kept her blond hair in a trim ponytail, wore dark-rimmed glasses when her contacts bothered her after too much eyestrain (which was often), and her figure, while slim and athletic, had none of Naomi’s dangerous curves.

“There it is!” Tag announced, pointing his cane down the street while hobbling a step.

Sharyn steadied the young man with a hand on his elbow, but he brusquely shrugged her off.

“I can manage,” he groused, clearly not wishing to be coddled. He swiped aside a drape of fiery red hair, which matched his trimmed beard. His pale cheeks reddened as he lowered his cane and stepped away.

Sharyn mumbled an apology. Her actions had been instinctual, reflexive, a part of her nature to help, something ingrained in her from her years under the unpredictable bearing of an alcoholic father—or so she had come to understand from Al-Anon meetings, where she had learned codependency came in many forms.

In Tag McKnight’s case, she recognized her coping mechanism could be misconstrued as condescension. Her roommate, who was gay, had grown up in the outskirts of Edinburgh and had been diagnosed with cerebral palsy at the age of four, but he had set out to show the world that he would not be constrained by his body’s limits. He had already earned a masters in biochemistry and had joined the Exeter program to study medieval pharmacology, specifically with an interest in ancient herbal medicines and psychedelics.

Tag continued forward, aiming for a wall to the left of the gatehouse. He pointed ahead, wheezing a bit from the exertion. “We made it.”

Sharyn followed him into the shadow of the gatehouse’s arch, where a plaque had been secured to the rough red stone. The title at the top read The Devon Witches.

Naomi stepped closer. “Let me get ready.”

They gave her room as she extended her phone’s selfie stick. Beyond paying homage to the persecuted women, Naomi had come to immortalize this visit on TikTok, specifically on a sub-section of the site known as WitchTok, a niche community with billions of views that centered on all aspects of witchcraft and magic: from herbal recipes, to Tarot reading, to the daily lives of Wiccans and their practices. Naomi had gained a large following as she shared her interest in the subject matter, though from a more erudite and educational standard, sharing her experiences and reasons for coming to Exeter, along with documenting her ongoing coursework and campus life.

Once ready, Naomi flipped her hair and turned to Tag, trusting his judgment more than Sharyn’s—and for good reason. “How do I look?”

“Posh Spice has nothing on you.”

She touched his arm, thanking him. “Such a dated reference, but I’ll take it.”

She cleared her throat and began to record. As she stood before the placard, she ran a finger across the engraved names of the women.

“Here is a marker commemorating the last four women hanged in the UK for witchcraft. Temperance Lloyd, Susannah Edwards, Mary Trembles, and Alice Molland. The women were tried and found guilty and hanged at the Heavitree Gallows. Afterwards, their bones were buried in unconsecrated ground. Where you might ask?” She dramatically pointed straight down. “Supposedly right here at the Exeter, beneath the car park at St. Luke’s campus. I hope to confirm this in the year ahead. So join me. Hit the follow button and let’s dig into this together!”

She cut off the recording and sighed. “That should do. I’ll add some captions and music once we’re back at the flat.”

Sharyn frowned at the plaque. “Was that all true? About these women—"

“You mean witches,” Tag reminded her, tapping his cane on the sign.

Sharyn frowned at him. “Who were no doubt innocent of those accusations.”

“Ah, but all four women confessed to be witches.”

“I’m sure they did. Under duress. A forced admission.”

Tag shrugged. “Records suggest otherwise. Temperance Lloyd was accused of casting a hex that sickened a local shopkeeper. Others came forward with similar incriminations, along with wild talk of communing with the devil. Eventually, Lloyd confessed. Even the day she was hanged, she continued to assert that the devil forced her hand. The other women were similarly accused and were tied to Lloyd’s actions.”

Sharyn turned to Naomi. “And their bodies are buried on our campus? Were you making that part up?”

“That’s what’s believed and what I hope to confirm. This winter, I’ll bring in ground-penetrating radar and search for any evidence of a mass grave. Once verified, I hope to set up a dig site in the spring. I’ll make it part of my doctoral thesis on urban archeology.”

“Above and beyond that,” Tag said, “if their bones are discovered, those women deserve a proper burial. I’ve also read they were interred with their journals, which reportedly contained recipes for herbal brews and potions. If the books were preserved in an adequate manner, it might offer great insight into early folklore and medicine?”

Sharyn stared between her two roommates, grasping the reason behind this pilgrimage. The trip here was plainly tied to their own particular interests.

But not mine.

She studied her roommates, whose eyes glowed with a matching avidness. She had no interest in digging up bones or divining the medicinal mysteries buried in moldering journals of disparaged women.

Instead, she simply loved libraries. The smell of dusty shelves, the lingering hint of resin from leatherbound texts. But mostly, it was the secrets buried in faded ink that captivated her. Her primary interest in traveling to England had been to gain access to the university’s growing archive of ancient texts, some dating back to the Dark Ages. Many of them were said to be richly illuminated with stunning art that had not seen the light of day in centuries.

The latter was the center of her own academic interest. With her minor in art history, she wanted to work on a thesis pertaining to medieval illuminated manuscripts. Yet, the exact direction of her pursuit still escaped her.

I just need to find the proper approach.

She hoped to discover that path during her time here. A year ago, she had read how Exeter’s new program had garnered donations of rare texts pertaining to magic and the occult, everything from alchemical treatises to monastic doctrines, even encrypted works that had yet to be deciphered.

She knew that somewhere in those stacks had to be the answer that had troubled her since she had graduated.

Where do I go next in my career…and my life?

Naomi offered a more immediate answer to this question. She nudged Tag. “We should head back, but first we promised to show our new American friend where to find the best coffee in Exeter.”

“And doughnuts,” Sharyn reminded them pointedly.

“Come!” Tag turned and thrust his cane forward like a call to arms. “Off to the Toadstool!”

Sharyn shook her head at the nickname for the establishment, which was actually called The Toad on a Stool. But considering its proximity to this marker and the program they were enrolled in, the name seemed apropos.

Naomi hooked an arm around her waist. “Let’s get you properly caffeinated and carbo-loaded before we return to campus.”

Having paid homage to the witches, the trio set off. Shortly thereafter, the weather proved to be as fickle as her father’s moods, going from sunny and pleasant to dark and windswept. A low layer of clouds rolled in from the nearby river, propelled by a drizzling rain. By now, they had entered a warren of narrow streets, lined with cobbles. It was as if the trio had turned a corner and ended up falling into the medieval past.

“The café is not far,” Tag promised, ducking from the wind and wet. “And besides the excellent espresso, the barista is sight to behold. While sadly he does not bend in my direction, a man can certainly look on with appreciation.”

“Tag is not wrong,” Naomi said. “I find myself tipping far too generously when he’s working.”

Despite such appeals, Sharyn considered skipping the detour. The weather made her ill at ease. As did the story of the four persecuted women. Instead, she longed to return to the university library, to ensconce herself among its stacks. After her difficult childhood—where danger was only an empty bottle away—the quiet of a library offered a steadfast measure of security and contentedness.

Books had always been her refuge.

As an adult, she recognized this was yet another coping mechanism. But it was one that had never failed her. Even now, she took solace in the stillness of a library, in the quiet turn of a page, in words that transported. It was a balm against the panic attacks that still plagued her.

While she knew such escapes were an emotional crutch, she had come to recognize her faith was not misplaced.

For truth be told, what harm could come from a book?

2

October 29, 11:04 a.m. CET

Larvik, Norway

Jakob Haugen fought the restraints that bound him to the steel chair. His efforts were less about freeing himself as escaping the body of his wife. She had been forced to her knees before him. Still, she had not begged for her life. Instead, she had stared resolutely at him, remaining silent as her throat was slit. Her blood had washed across his lap.

Afterward, his captors had thrown her body at his feet and continued ransacking his home, leaving him to keep vigil over the price of his silence.

Oh, Elli…

From the runnels that flowed from his shattered nose, he tasted iron on his tongue. His only solace was the angry crashing from the library around him, where two levels of books were being tossed and searched.

You bastards are too late, he silently cast out to the marauders, allowing himself this small amount of satisfaction.

Unable to bear the sight of the ruin at his feet, he cast his gaze out the library’s tall row of windows. They narrowed to gothic points at their tops, as if this space were a cathedral, one dedicated to preserving knowledge. Only this library’s true purpose was far simpler: to hide a single volume among the many. He was the Twelfth Keeper, dedicated to protecting the book from those who hunted it.

He knew he would not survive the day, not that he had many days left to him. The diagnosis had come a month ago. Pancreatic cancer, a highly aggressive adenosquamous carcinoma. At stage four, he would be lucky to make it to Christmas; certainly he’d never ring in the New Year.

Still, it would not be cancer that killed him.

He tugged again at his restraints as he stared past the windows to the beechwood forest outside. The snows had yet to come. The forest floor remained a crimson swath of fallen leaves. He and Elli had spent endless days exploring the parklands, lazing along Farris Lake, hiking the Passion Path trail.

But no more…

Knowing the end was near, they had reached a measure of peace, finding solace in quiet moments, grieving and laughing, all in a long, slow good-bye—never suspecting the end would come so swiftly and brutally.

Still, the two had taken the necessary steps, not just legal and financial, but also in safeguarding the treasure that had been entrusted to them.

He returned his gaze to the sprawl of his wife, to the spreading pool of blood on the stone tile. The shock had dulled, replaced with a fury that sharpened his breath and spurred a heavier flow from his broken nose.

How had the bastards known? Who had betrayed us?

Jakob had believed he had attended to all the precautions in transferring the book to the Thirteenth Keeper, a number that now struck him as ominous. Last week, he had shipped and hidden the volume in crates holding hundreds of texts. The bill of lading and provenance declared it to be the bequeathment of a dying historian, which was the truth. Once the shipment reached the UK, the Thirteenth Keeper would secure the crates. The man had already found another library in which to ensconce the book, to again bury the treasured text amongst many others.

Over the centuries, such a transfer—from one Keeper to the next—had always been a risk, a rare moment of potential exposure.

Which proved the case now.

Jakob knew what this must mean.

Someone betrayed us, possibly within our own organization.

Still, if their enemy was searching this estate, the traitor clearly remained unaware of the transfer, of its destination in England. He hung his hope upon this thinnest of threads.

They must never know where I sent it.

It must vanish into history again.

A commotion drew his attention to the mahogany doors into his study. A tall figure strode into the room, flanked by two others, all three enrobed and hooded in crimson, their faces hidden behind folds of black cloth.

Jakob scowled at the trio, at their artifice and pompous garb. He focused on the man in the center, clearly their leader, whose eyes were as black as his scarf. His complexion, what little that could be seen of it, was a pallid shade.

“You will never find the alchemist’s book,” Jakob assured the man, spitting a gobbet of bloody mucus at his toes. “It is already beyond your reach.”

“Nothing is beyond the reach of the Confrérie,” the man said.

The leader waved to the two men who flanked him. The pair dragged Elli’s body off. Watching her limp form be manhandled so callously, her arm scribing a bloody trail, inflamed Jakob’s fury. Anger tightened his chest and strangled his breathe.

Once the way was clear, the tall man sidestepped around the pool of blood to approach the chair.

“Professor Haugen, I apologize. This savagery should never have happened. If I had reached your estate sooner, I would have prevented it. Our methods need not be so crude.”

Jakob had a hard time reading this one’s sincerity. The other’s eyes remained cold, his voice matter-of-fact. Jakob heard a slight French accent, but he could not even be certain of that.

The leader nodded to one of his companions who carried in a steel briefcase. The man crossed to a neighboring lamp table and snapped open the case. Jakob had expected to see a splay of sharp instruments of torture. Instead, a set of three syringes rested in velvet, along with a row of vials.

“Truth serums have been notoriously unreliable,” the leader intoned as his two companions prepped the drugs. “At least in the past. Today’s intelligence agencies have refined their methods, which are kept tightly guarded. Yes, analogs of thiopental and scopolamine continue to be useful, but the concurrent addition of oxytocin and MDMA encourages complete cooperation.”

Once the syringes were filled, the two companions closed upon Jakob. He fought and writhed, but strong hands pinned an arm. Needles stabbed: one, then another, but he never felt the third. By then, the room had darkened, and his chin fell to his chest.

Words trailed him into oblivion. “In twilight, no secrets can be kept.”

By the time Jakob woke again—which felt like no more than a long breath—he found himself alone. The forest outside had gone dark, but the room inside blazed with flames. Shelves and books burned all around. Smoke choked high. The heat seared with each breath. Panic cleared the haze from his head. He fought his restraints, but it was not the fire that set his heart to pounding. Death had already been coming for him.

Instead, it was the unknown that horrified him.

What did I tell them?

He had no memory of any interrogation.

He craned at the spreading flames and feared this manner of death was the leader’s cruel way of letting Jakob know that the truth had been stolen from him.

Weeks ago, Jacob had been amused upon learning of the book’s next hiding place, a location that he had deemed sardonically appropriate, particularly considering the book’s contents. He had even shared an adage with Elli from a revered writer: Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.

As the fire and smoke closed upon him, he knew these flames were meant as final message to him—especially knowing where he had sent the alchemist’s diary.

For in the past, they burned witches.