Summary: Set 7 years after the movie (yes, that makes it a future fic, and I'm guessing what life will be like in the future—not too different from now), the Sons of Ipswich have settled into their lives. But an old enemy leads a new evil to them, one more powerful than they've ever faced before. Can they survive? Pogue-centric, but all the boys will be important. If you've already read this prologue, you'll see that I reposted. Tried to add in more detail and make this chapter flow better; let me know if it's too florid, okay?

Warnings: future-fic, character death (sorry Chase fans), creepy baddy, slash (Caleb/Pogue), established relationship. This storyline will be plot-based, not pure porn; that being said, there probably will be scenes where Caleb and Pogue kiss, make-out, maybe even have sex (haven't decided yet). So if you have a real problem with slash, you may not want to read this story.

Disclaimer: I don't own The Covenant, and if I owned the boys, I'd be too busy doing naughty things to them to write. Except Chase, he creeps me out—I'd probably sell him on e-bay. Heinrich Kramer is based off of a real person, the man who co-wrote the Malleus Malificarum—basically the 'How to Hunt Witches for Dummies' book that helped set off the witch hunts and inquisition of the medieval ages. However, that is all I know about him. I do not know if he looked like or if he was liked, and I somehow doubt he was a sorcerer.

Prologue

Maleficence: the doing of evil or harm

Cologne, Germany 1489—

Heinrich Kramer swept through the chilly halls of the prison, long dark cloak flaring like deathly wings behind him, a stark contrast to his white robes. The guards stepped out of his way, bowing their head in deference to the blackfriar (1). Visionary, they whispered; torturer, they muttered; God's Hound, they breathed. They always spoke in a whisper because even the most pious priest, the most sadistic torturer, the most blood-thirsty fanatic, feared Kramer—though they dare not admit it and inadvertently confess to a guilty heart.

To Kramer, the drab grey walls and sullen robes, the scent of blood and bile and fear that clung to the stone and defined the holding cells where accused witches and heretics languished, was the scent of possibilities. And today, one of those possibilities was to come true, for among the huddled men and women who shivered in fear, there was a magic user. He could practically taste the power that the witch held tight, hidden under a mask of normality, of helplessness. It was hard to describe magic in conventional terms, words created by people who knew nothing of what magic truly was. It could not be sensed through mundane means—not smelled, or tasted, or seen, or heard, or felt, though those were the terms so often used to describe the indescribable. But, for those with the sixth sense, it was no less real than the sound of desolate weeping or coppery tang of blood that permeated the air. On the surface, Kramer was grim and sober, as suited his position—God's hound come to hunt down evil-doers; on the inside he smiled an exhilarated grin, the hunter's blood pumping adrenaline when prey is cornered.

Kramer did not always appear so dour; like any good predator he was a chameleon, able to blend in whenever needed. He knew his audience and schooled his face so that they saw the person he wanted them to see, the person they expected to see. He's survived for centuries this way, becoming a different person whenever it suited him; at first, it had been difficult having to leave his lives behind, never letting himself get close to another person. But over time, he'd grown stronger, colder, started to see people for the weak and vulnerable game they truly were, living their pitiful lives, allowing the tall grasses of the savannah to hide from them the lion crouching mere feet away. His square, plain face could be that of a kindly uncle or an imposing authority figure, a scholar or a craftsman, a lord or a commoner, a sinner or a saint. The solemn, sour visage of a priest was not the most enjoyable role he had ever played (priests just had no fun), but it was one of the most profitable. In no other role had he been able to find so many witches and wizards to feed his dark addiction to magic, to the power.

When he descended the stairwell into the cool underground chambers, the scent of magic grew stronger. Kramer followed it to the inquisition room, better described as a torture chamber; he knew it was filled with the standard tools of the trade—whips and chains, the rack, the pear, the iron maiden; none of it necessary for him, of course, but occasionally amusing to use. The equipment was lovingly cared for by the many assistants that helped run the prison, better care than either the prisoners, or the areas used to contain them, received. After all, if seeing a pool of blood left by a predecessor helped encourage a prisoner to confess sooner, then it was a useful tool. The blood other bodily fluids added to the environment of degradation and terror. The guards outside the door, slumped over in boredom after hours of standing in a secure hallway, stood up with a sharp snap as they saw Kramer. He just gave them a thin smile and ignored their insolent laziness, drank in their fear. He had bigger things to worry about today than terrorizing guards grown complacent in the belief that they could never become prisoners themselves. The door to the little room swung open and that scent, that taste, that indescribable feeling of magic rolled out like the tide.

With a quick shake of his head Kramer dismissed the thickly muscled "interrogator" who had been working the witch over with hot irons. And it was a witch. Now that he was in the room, there was no mistaking the sweet, pure, musky flavor of primal power; more raw and wild than the carefully focused energies of a wizard.

The witch was female, and quite beautiful. Witches, male or female, always seemed to be beautiful, their forms forced into pleasing molds by the raw fury of nature that was as intrinsic to them as the color of their eyes. Sometimes their beauty was a strength, as they drew others to them like honey. But beauty also engenders envy, particularly in a world taken over by denunciations; when people would accuse others of witchcraft in hopes of saving their own lives. It was magnificent: the hysteria, the hatred born of fear, the blood-thirst from self-preservation. The whole of Europe was turning on itself, devouring limbs whole in hopes of escaping a trap it created. The beautiful, the strange, the insular, the gifted—they soon found themselves sacrificed by their more mundane neighbors in a vain attempt to appease the monster that the inquisition had become.

Even chained to the wall, covered in torn rags, dirt, and her own blood, the witch was a sight to behold. A gypsy, if Kramer guessed right, with smooth, dusky skin and hair so dark it seemed to absorb light. She was curvy and muscular in the way of gypsy women, who worked hard alongside their men. It was no surprise she'd been accused—the pale, rosy-cheeked local bourgeoisie women who worked so hard to keep their hands and skin soft and dainty, their forms feminine, must have been green with envy when this little gypsy, dark and muscular with calloused hands and homespun clothes, outshone them all. Her large, dark eyes and full mouth, offset by a small, stubborn chin, were gave Kramer a venomous glare.

Her magic was tangy and musky and salty and warm and herbal; an Earth witch. Through her veins ran the power to succor the masses, or to shake the Earth, creating chasms and tremors and eruptions of the Earth's core fire. And yet she allowed herself to be tortured, to be burned and whipped and hit and worse; would allow herself to die, all to protect her coven. She would not dare prove her accusers true and risk drawing the inquisitors to her coven, nor would she use and draw her coven out of hiding to protect her. Witches were delicious prey, so powerful, and yet so weak.

"Hello my dear. Would you like to confess your sins?" He spoke in a kindly tone, as if he actually wanted to forgive her, to let her go.

"I have no sins to confess for your God." She spoke boldly, but was betrayed by the tremor in her voice.

"That really is too bad."

"I have not had 'congress with the devil'. I have never cast spells to harm others. I am not what you think I am." Brave little witch.

"On the contrary, my dear," he replied, walking toward her slowly, sensually. "You are exactly what I think you are, little witch." He dropped his voice so that by the time he was behind her, pressed against her back, he was whispering in her ear. "Do you know what I am?"

He heard her gasp of fear, felt her warm, compact body tense as she realized what she was trapped with, and it filled him with a darkling lust. He ached for her fear.

"Sorcerer!" She breathed in an accusing tone, as if the word itself were a curse. To her, it probably was.

"You do know me." Kramer leaned forward and smelled her hair; even under the sweat and dirt, it retained a sweet scent—she used lavender in her hair. "But are you ready for me? Is your coven?"

"They are long gone by now. You'll never find them." Ah, Earth witches. So stoic and calm, but so protective! They would destroy the world to protect their covens, and failing to save their little families—there was no greater torture. Kramer briefly considered keeping her alive until he could find her coven, letting her see them die, but he was too greedy, and she may be right; the coven may have already fled the area. Oh, it would hurt them to do so, but they would know that staying risked them all. No use letting this little tidbit go to waste. It would be in character for an Earth witch to kill herself rather than be used against her coven, now that she knew what he was.

Out in the hall, even the most jaded of guards and inquisitors shuddered when the screams started.

* * *

New York City, USA, 2010—

It should have been mine. That thought ran through Chase's mind over and over and over again. It should have been, should-have-been, shouldhavebeen. Everything that Caleb had, all of it. The respect of people for no more reason than his name; the old money that would open doors in a way that was almost magic itself; power and knowledge offered by the book of damnation and that old wizard that served the families. And the coven.

Caleb was the leader of coven because he was the oldest; only, Chase was really the oldest. Caleb was the coven's golden boy, the favored son, because he was the most powerful, the Earth witch, a natural born leader; but Chase was an Earth witch, too, and easily as powerful as Caleb. If Chase had been born in Ipswich, born into the Coven, it all would have been his: Tyler's shy admiration and soft, pale skin; Reid's piquant rebellion and smart, sensual mouth; Pogue's unflinching devotion and pretty eldritch eyes. And he would have been more to them than some know-it-all big brother. He would have used his coven as it was meant to be used, and they would have had so much power. Power enough to overcome their greatest weakness, the aging. Power enough that nothing could have stopped them. But, no—an accident of birth had given it all to Caleb. Limpid, weak, good-two-shoes, pathetic, boy-scout Caleb.

And despite being born into the wrong family, despite everything that had held him back from his deserved destiny, he almost had it. He'd almost had Caleb, forced the other boy to will him his powers. And it would have been his! The coven would have rebelled and fought him, but with Caleb gone they would have needed a leader, and none of them were suited. Reid had the will but not the wisdom, Pogue the wisdom but not the will, and Tyler—Tyler had neither. Each was powerful in his own way, but without Caleb to hold them together they would have been vulnerable, for none was an Earth witch; even unascended, it was obvious that none of the others had the mindset of the Earth—Reid was too impulsive, Pogue too wild and untamed, and Tyler was too soft. And Earth witches were almost invariably the leaders of their covens, the alphas. Without Caleb, the others would have been ripe for plucking, like plums so juicy even the slightest pressure of teeth against thin, bitter skin would break through, bursting free the sweet meat trapped within.

Oh, Pogue might have presented a problem. His devotion to Caleb went far beyond friendship or even family, and he would not have willingly accepted Chase; but with Caleb's power added to Chase's already considerable abilities, breaking Pogue would have been easy enough. Fun, even—after all, hurting Pogue to get to Caleb had been surprisingly satisfying. It had been the first time he'd used power to hurt someone face to face. In the past he set traps, arranged accidents, poisoned. But with Pogue, he'd used his powers to enhance his own strength, then broke the other boy down with his own hands. The younger boy had barely even been injured in the crash, his power, quick reflexes, and helmet protecting him; a pristine canvas on which to paint dark art. The impact of Chase's fists on Pogue's flesh; the gasps of pain that deteriorated into muffled moans as bones broke and organs ruptured; Pogue's whisky crying out in agony —had been every bit as addictive as the power. Then the coup de grace, using his power to block Pogue's own, leaving him unable to heal his injuries. Leaving him vulnerable and frail, so he would be unable to resist when Caleb willed Chase his power. So addictive that a mere hour later, he'd used the power to throw Caleb around Sarah's little dorm room, reveled in the sound of his body hitting the walls with bruising force. He'd tried to beat Caleb until he willed his power away, when it may have been more effective to simply threaten Sarah until Caleb had ascended. That final battle had not been necessary. Sarah was already in Chase's grasp, and Caleb would not have been able to save her if Chase had decided to end things. Simple stopping Sarah's heart until Caleb willed his powers away would likely have been far more effective than the fight. It just wouldn't have been as fun. A miscalculation that cost him everything.

And it would have been his! Reid and Tyler would have fallen into line quickly with Caleb dead and Pogue broken. Neither boy appeared particularly close to the eldest, and Reid would have much preferred Chase's brand of leadership; no goody-two-shoes, condescending warnings against using, no orders to pretend to be lesser than he was, to be normal. And where Reid went, Tyler would follow. Once Pogue was cowed into submission, the two younger witches would readily follow Chase (2). But no; William Danvers had to interfere, to break the covenant—and the hypocrites lauded him for the same act for which they damned Chase's line.

It had been bitter, having to hide. Having to fake his death and run away. But there was no point in going after Caleb now that they were evenly matched. And he doubted the other members of the coven would have been foolhardy enough to face him one-on-one. Reid was ruthless enough and Pogue pragmatic enough that they would have had no problem ganging up on Chase, and Tyler was enough of a team player that it would never occurred to him to fight Chase alone. No, Caleb was the only one proud enough to try and take Chase out on his own. But it had been bitter, bitter as gall.

But it was not over. It had been 2 years of research; long enough for the coven to fully ascend, to forget about him, to move one. But it was not over—Chase had found it, found the answer. Henry Kramer, wizard extraordinaire. Most people only knew him as a financial wizard, the man who took Wall Street by storm in the late 80's. But Chase's research told him that Kramer was a real wizard, which likely had much to do with his financial success. And rumor had it that Kramer had a spell that allowed him to steal powers from others—a spell that circumvented that annoying need to have his victim will him powers. With that spell Chase could take what he wanted from whomever he wanted.

A less arrogant witch would have worried about confronting Kramer, but Chase was sure of himself, sure that his power combined with that of his father, was more than enough to take any wizard. Wizards were skilled magic users, but could not compare to the raw natural power of a witch. Wizards drew their power mostly from mystical objects imbued with their own magic—herbs and gems and other foci. Without a focus or carefully crafted words and runes, wizards could do little. Witches drew power from themselves, their life-source—power they were born with. Wizards required preparation and study to affect their spells; witches worked magic by will-power alone, as fast as thought. Given enough time, a wizard might be able to store up enough spells to defeat a natural witch, but Chase didn't intend to give Kramer that time.

He'd surprise the wizard, do whatever was necessary to break him, and force him to tell Chase the spell. Witches rarely used spells, but that didn't mean they couldn't. He would return to Ipswich and use the spell against Caleb. No more intimidation, no more calling him out, no more duels. He'd surprise Caleb, quit and dirty. Incapacitate him before he could use that power he'd inherited from his father, and use the wizard's spell to rip all that power out, leaving nothing behind but an empty shell. After that, the other members of the coven would have no choice but to recognize him, ascended or not.

Kramer lived in a Manhattan penthouse suite located in a monstrosity of brick and stone that cost a fortune. The security sucked, though. One guard, likely a failed wanna-be policeman who was easily enough incapacitated, was all that separated the big, bad world from the wealthy elite who called the building home. In a matter of moments Chase left the elevator to enter the opulent apartment that took up the entire top floor. The walls were lined with bookshelves filled with texts both ancient and new; the furniture was large and masculine, placed haphazardly around the lofty apartment; the walls were panel wood. Chase wondered from room to room, too eager for the upcoming fight to appreciate the opulently thick carpet or the tasteful art on the walls, until he came to a study dominated by a large stone fireplace. A leather chair placed in front of the fire held what could only be Henry Kramer.

Kramer was a decrepit old bastard, 80 if he was a day. His thick hair was as white as snow, his skin wrinkled and thin as old parchment, and he hunched over in a dried, shriveled manner. But his eyes were a keen, piercing blue, and he stared at Chase with amusement.

"Hello, young man. You know, polite people call before they drop by."

Chase gritted his teeth in irritation. Was the old man senile? Who greets an intruder so calmly? Or did the wizard just not realize what Chase was? Maybe he had spells he thought would be able to handle the average robber.

"I want one of your spells."

"Spells? I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't play games, old man. I know what you are." Chase made to step toward Kramer, but found he could not move. No muscle below his neck so much as budged. He could feel them as firm as they had been only moments before, but he could no longer control them.

Chase's eyes turned black as he turned the power on the old man. The apartment shuddered and the force he'd sent against the wizard tumbled books and furniture, but not a hair on Kramer's head moved. Anger surged through the witch's frame and he pushed again, but this time the power backlashed through his own body, setting nerves on fire and bruising bone and flesh.

"Aaargghh!" Chase let out a strangled cry of surprise and pain.

"And what exactly do you think I am?" The old man who, moments before, had seemed a kindly fool—Dumbledore in NY—suddenly seemed sinister.

"You're a wizard," Chase ground out, quivering inside as he fought the spell that held both his body and his magic captive.

Kramer stood with an ease that belied his apparent age and walked toward Chase slowly.

"Oh no, young witch; I am much more dangerous than that. I am a sorcerer."

"Same thing!"

Kramer gave a long-suffering sigh and rolled his eyes. "Kids these days. No education, no sense of history.

A sorcerer, son, is, like a witch; only instead of having full access to the power, we are born with one spell, our red spell (3). We absorb. We are the jackals among the gazelles, the wolves in sheep's clothing. I can take power from any other magic user and add it to my own. Oh, I see you knew this? Let me guess, you thought it was some conjurer's spell? No, it's much more than that. Like the magic you do, my power is based on will and intrinsic to who I am. Its much less easy to use, unfortunately. You see everyone, even the talentless mundanes, have walls and boundaries that protect their innermost selves; their souls. I have to break them down before I take your power."

"No! You can't!" For the first time, Chase felt a frisson of fear break through his greed and envy.

"Why-ever not? I mean, I usually have to hunt your kind down, but when one so kindly walks into my home, who am I to turn down a free meal? That would just be rude." As he spoke Kramer trailed around Chase, taking him in with a predatory smile. He moved with a grace that belied his frail appearance, and raised a hand to run it through Chase's curly hair, testing the texture.

"Don't touch me!"

"You're in no position to make demands, my dear." Kramer crossed in front of his captive and let his hand trail around to cup his cheek, running his thumb over full lips. If Chase had been a more empathetic person, it would have occurred to him that this must have been what Caleb and Pogue felt when he targeted them; but, then, if he had been capable of empathy, he wouldn't have targeted them in the first place. He wouldn't have targeted the helpless looking old man who turned out to be a deadly foe.

"I…I can give you more!"

"And you will," Kramer replied, leaning close to taste the young witch's full mouth. Such soft lips for such a foul-mouthed young man. Sexual intimidation and torture was not a necessary part of what he did, but it was so effective. A strong man might resist torture for days, but most crumbled at even the threat of rape. Besides, he enjoyed it—and a man should enjoy his work. It made life worth living.

"I mean others—4 other witches. A coven. Let me go and I'll tell you where they are, all about them." Once he was free of this spell, he could take Kramer out and find a better way to go after the coven.

"But that's the beauty of it—you'll tell me anyway. Once I devour your soul, I'll know all about your little coven, and anything else you know." Those blue husky eyes stared in lust—bloodlust, or regular old lust, or both. "You'll become a part of me, live on in me. It really is a beautiful thing. You just can't appreciate it yet."

"You know," the old man whispered conspiratorially, "most witches these days believe that it was the regular humans that hunted them to near extinction, but the truth is that it was me, and people like me. Once we have one member of a coven, we know all about the others; their powers, how they think, how they move—and it's only a matter of time before we find them. We are the perfect predators." Kramer took a brutal kiss, tearing tender lips with his teeth. Chase's eyes widened in true fear, at last, as he realized he would not survive the night.

Hours later the Chase Collins, AKA Chase Goodwin Pope, lay dead, a withered old man. Henry Kramer, once known as Heinrich Kramer, stood over his body, young and vibrantly alive. He had taken on the appearance of the young witch; short, curly hair, softly rounded cheeks, cleft chin, and intense eyes. A very useful spell he'd taken off a real wizard decades ago. Kramer was not a vain man, but it was nice to be young and handsome. He laughed giddily, reminded of the sheer joy of youth, and reveled in his new powers. It had been so long since he took a witch. Like any big game hunter, he was saddened by the clear knowledge that his preferred prey was being hunted to oblivion, without ever intending to give up the hunt himself.

It didn't take Kramer long to grab a few bonds and precious jewels from the safe hidden in his apartment. He took the clothes off his victim (the old-man clothes he owned no longer suited him) and used his stolen power to move an ember from the fireplace onto the floor beside the body. The thick rug quickly caught fire, and before long the entire suite was in flames. Kramer slipped out the back of the building as fire trucks and ambulances began to arrive. By this time tomorrow, Henry Kramer, Wall Street guru, would be officially 'dead' and Hank Cramer would build a new life and making preparations to find his way to Ipswich, Massachusetts.


(1) Kramer was a priest of the Dominican order, also known as blackfriars because they wore black cloaks over white robes, as well as the hounds of God…perhaps because they were so intent on rooting out heresy and witchcraft. I'll admit that I did not do as much research into the Inquisition as I probably should have, but there is only so much work I'm willing or able to put into any one project right now.

(2) I don't actually believe Taylor or Reid would ever have followed Chase; they may not have been as close to Caleb as Pogue, but they were loyal and capable of thinking for themselves. I just think that Chase may have seen them that way.

(3) In The Covenant graphic novel, Gormen trains the boys when they turn 13 in the use of their powers, and tells them that they will have a red spell that is "Unique. Individual. Unbreakable." I won't be including much from the manga because I, quite frankly, did not care for it, but I like the idea of a red spell. I really liked the way kos_mos607 has included the idea in the fics The Crimson Ritual and The Lords of Ipswich (on and the covenant slash livejournal), so I'll be doing something similar here.

So, the prologue was really just to set up the story and introduce the new villain. If you've already started this story, you may notice I've edited this chapter since I originally posted it. Again, sorry Chase fans. I felt like I needed a bigger bad. Hank will have some elements of Chase, though; when he absorbed his soul, he absorbed some of his personality traits—plus, he looks like him (at least part of the time). So, in a way, Chase isn't really dead, just kind of somebody else, if that makes any sense.

I'm looking for input now. I have a basic storyline down, but I'm not sure about a few details. I haven't decided whether or not to make Tyler and Reid a couple. They certainly seemed like a plausible couple in the movie, but it might be a little too much, pairing all the boys up. What do you think? (No slash-haters, please; this story will be slash, so if you don't like, don't read).

Secondly—I've already decided what careers Pogue, Caleb, and Tyler will have, but I'm not sure about Reid. He should be successful, but I'm not sure what future career suits him. Any ideas?

Anybody have any questions? Was anything about the prologue unclear? I will explain more about witches, wizards, and sorcerers in the future, but you should have some idea of what the differences are now, so let me know if not and I can be clearer in the future.

Any comments or critiques (that are not flames) are welcomed!

~Surrealgreen