Katrina von Epp was wicked.
I’ve known a fair few to practice magick, and most of them I counted as my friends.
This was not the case with Katrina.
There was a foul streak through her, from the time she could walk to the last breath she drew.
I’ve no quarrel with someone using their skills to earn a bit of coin. Or more than a bit of coin, for that matter. When Katrina put her magick to making money, I wished her the best.
When she started helping others harm and murder the innocent, well, that’s when my attitude changed.
She, unlike most of her family, discovered my secrets. Katrina did so in the foulest of ways, sacrificing children plucked from the womb and devouring the souls of the unwitting.
It was early in 1840 when she came to me, seeking congress and wanting to conceive a child.
The feeling was far from mutual, and I sent her on her way.
Later that night, the first of the assassins came.
Dark creatures armed with blades who thought they could slip into my house.
My house, where I’ve prowled the halls for the better part of two centuries. Where the dead listen for intruders and where monsters are still barred behind doors not opened in decades.
I killed them all, their corpses twisting into smoke and slipping down between the wide pine floorboards.
Less than an hour later, at the striking of midnight, another came in. He was larger than the others, towering over me as I sat in my chair and looked up at him. He leered at me, salivating and whispering in Latin. Katrina had promised my flesh to him. He was going to drag my corpse into the kitchen and feast upon my living body for as long as I lasted.
When he came forward, I drew my knife and jointed the bastard. As he lay on the floor, dying and bleeding black blood, I asked him how he’d been summoned, and he told me of the book Katrina von Epp had acquired from Paris.
I paid her a visit a short time later. She was, to say the least, surprised.
That expression is on her face still, her head on the shelf alongside the book she’d used.
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