Beyond the Wicked Willow: Chronicles of a Teenage Witchslayer

INTO THE DEPTHS OF THE CRUCIBLE

Frankie crept ever so warily toward the ominous doorway of the Strega's bedchamber. The massive timber door was carved with an ornate eerie pentacle from top to bottom and strapped with sharply scrolled black iron hinges. It sat slightly ajar. His heart was filled with more dread than any other time in his life aside from the moment he had learned of his father's untimely death. But, surging to the surface from a wellspring deep within his being was a newfound courage so potent that it beat back the dark tide of fear and drove Frankie onward. Frankie's father's words echoed in his head, "Courage doesn't mean fearless, Francis, it just means not letting fear hold you back."

Frankie paused at the threshold, gritted his teeth, and adjusted his grip on the cornicello. He knew what he had to do to save Tsura and get his friends safely back home, and he knew this was his chance to do it. He quietly eased open the door just enough to squeeze his body through and then stepped courageously across the threshold into the lair of the evil Strega. In his left ear he heard the steady hiss of flowing air. He turned slowly toward the unsettling sound and saw the Strega standing in a state of ecstasy, eyelids aflutter, as she drew gluttonously upon Tsura's gravely waning life force.

"Leave her alone," ordered Frankie, his voice cracking with gut-wrenching concern for the helpless dying girl.

The Strega stopped feeding off Tsura's dwindling aura and turned a burning glare upon Frankie.

"You shouldn't have come alone, boy, but, I'm so glad you did," she said with sinister delight.

"I'm not afraid of you," replied Frankie, disdain in his voice and upon his face.

The Strega tipped her head back slightly and sniffed the air.

"You lie, boy! I can smell your fear from here," she said tauntingly.

"Sure that's not your breath?" he quipped.

Furious, the Strega jabbed forth her arm and fired plasma bolts from her extended pinky and index fingers. Frankie's reflexes kicked in, and he threw up his hands to protect himself. Clasped tightly within his right fist was the mighty cornicello. The ancient weapon drew in the Strega's plasma bolts, melded them into one, and sent the single shaft of energy directly back at her even faster than the two had come. The doubly potent bolt struck her in a blinding instant, blasting her backward. The Strega hit the solid rock wall like a sack of potatoes fired from an air cannon, but to Frankie's dismay she was hardly fazed. Having just fed voraciously off Tsura's life force, she was stronger than ever. Although furious and wanting to charge at Frankie, the Strega was keenly aware that even a mere graze from the powerful cornicello would spell certain doom. For only the second time in her wicked half-life, so to speak, the Strega had met her match. And, as was the case when she faced Frankie's ancient forefather, Flario Fretini, so many years before, the Strega became consumed and poisoned by her rage.

As Frankie stared at the Strega, bracing for her next attack, he noticed her features beginning to change before his very eyes. Her shiny black ringlets began to fall and gray until they became dull, straight, and stringy. Her taut skin began to wrinkle and crease. Her strong posture began to slump and shrivel until she was painfully hunched. There she stood with her ugly hooked nose and sunken eyes so black and evil that they sent a chill racing down Frankie's spine. The Strega saw the disgust on Frankie's face. She held out a hand before her eyes and examined it in horror. It was gnarled and knobby and a sickly pallid hue reminiscent of death warmed over. She glared at Frankie.

"What have you done?" she croaked in the same raspy cutting tone she had had upon addressing Mala and Tsura in the field of irises on that fateful day long ago.

"You've done it to yourself," said Frankie. "With your hate."

Before he could even finish uttering his final word, the Strega had blazed past him in a blinding blur knocking him to the ground as she went. Struck by a sharp pain, Frankie grabbed his right cheek and pressed hard against it trying to quell the sting. When he took his hand away and looked at his palm, he saw that it was covered in blood. Striping his cheek were five deep scratches that had been swiftly delivered by the Strega as she swept past him. Rather than straight across, the claw marks trailed off in a sweeping upward arc.