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The hinges creaked as she pushed the door inward. She knew no one would answer. Idonea shut the door behind her and lit the nearest gas lamp with shaking fingers. Yellow light spilled weakly across the foyer.

An unnatural stillness hung over the house.

Idonea stormed up the staircase, and the floorboards creaked underfoot. Her old bedroom greeted her with cobwebs and peeling wallpaper. At the window, she peered down into the street.

A boy who appeared to be in his late teens stood at the end of the gravel garden path. Nothing about him appeared daemon. He was looking directly at the front door, like a statue. The Current around him pulled too tight.

“Where are you,” she muttered.

The boy’s head jerked upwards, and his eyes drilled into her. She took a step back and closed her eyes. Line of sight mattered, a lesson learned early by every witch. The Current travelled easiest along attention. She counted to ten before peering back out the window. He was gone.

She pressed her palm against the glass. When she removed it, there was no fog from spirit residue. Marked, not possessed. There was a difference, and it mattered. She hated patterns she didn't understand.

When he didn’t reappear, Idonea knew she'd to find Nellith, and fast.

The daemon-possessed must've been the one to follow her earlier.

The sanctum air stagnated, heavy and wrong. The iron clock struck one, driving a chill deep under her skin.

She went towards Nellith’s room. On her way, she passed the door that had remained unopened for fifteen years. She ran her fingers over the wooden lettering spelling out her sister’s name: Dyota. She stood at the door a moment with her hand on the wood. She didn't open it, or put her ear to it. The smell of rosemary came under it the way it always had. By any reckoning the smell should've gone, but instead the rosemary persisted, faint but unmistakable. She stood with her palm flat against the door of her sister's room, and then she moved on.

Nellith’s bed covers lay strewn at the end of her bed, and a sooty scent permeated everything. She never opened her window.

Idonea ran her fingers along the dresser and came away with an uncharacteristic layer of dust. A glint of silver caught her eye. She snatched up the ring and ran her thumb along its rough ridges. It was Nellith’s dragon-eye ring. The pale green, slitted iris stared up at her. Nellith had worn it earlier. Idonea clamped it tight in her fist.

A bang vibrated up through the house, and her heart thumped.

“Nellith?” A few seconds passed, but there was no response.

Every instinct told her not to go downstairs. Each step was slow and careful as she worked her way down, doing her best not to cause a rattle. Halfway, she crouched and peered into the foyer; the front door stood wide open. Cold air drifted through.

Her hand clutched the ring tighter; the sharp edges dug into her palm. She stepped from the stairs towards the doorway. Current hummed all around her, indicating recent magic use. She took a breath, and spun her head towards the source, nausea twisting her insides. The remnant was strong, almost mistakable for Nellith's own.

Idonea had been practising for ten years since her fifteenth birthday, and for the last six away from her mother’s watchful eye. She dared not contaminate the area in case she destroyed the remnants of magic. If something powerful enough to breach Nellith's ward had entered the house, brute force would be useless.

Ritual first. Panic later.

She retrieved all the items required for a ritual that would give clues to what had happened. Near the front door, she placed the bowl of water. Laid at her side was Nellith’s ring, a silver needle, and a strand of black thread.

She should've felt more. That was a frightening thought, that a daughter whose mother had been dragged into the dark should've felt something more than the usual old, careful watchfulness.

Using the needle, Idonea pricked her index finger and let three drops of blood fall into the water. As ripples formed, she wrapped the thread around the ring, whispering Nellith’s name three times.

The Current gathered, smothering her, caressing her.

Idonea crashed sideways. The bowl overturned, water splashing across the floorboards. Growling, her pupils shifted back from their slitted appearance, an occurrence when she connected to the Current.

Nellith’s pet Iaculus, Lance, a flying serpent of onyx scales no longer than her forearm, curled up on the floorboards near one candle.

Idonea glared at him. "You little bastard." Her shoulder throbbed where he struck her. She slid Nellith's ring onto her thumb.

Lance recoiled instantly, flattening himself against the floorboards. An uneasy hiss slipped from him.

"If you're still here," Idonea muttered, rubbing her shoulder, "someone took her by force."

Lance never left Nellith, not willingly. He cocked his head to the side and fanned out his leathery, paper-thin wings, jutting out below his head.

“Go on,” Idonea said, pushing him to the side, “get.”