The Devil's Crucible (Sequel to Danse Macabre)

Chapter 1

cru·ci·bleˈkro͞osəb(ə)l/ noun: crucible: a place or occasion of severe test or trial

"There is prodigious fear in seeking loose spirits"
Arthur Miller, The Crucible

Janus Dark puttered around his tiny potion shop in New York City carefully placing the arcane and unusual items, that were his stock-in-trade, back on the floor-to-ceiling shelves that lined the stone walls. The old fashioned bird cages containing his pet ravens had already been hung, and with any luck he would be back in business within a couple of days. It had been three years since he'd fled New York, concerned about the return of that frightful Lucia, the mere thought of her still made him shudder.. He'd heard that Magnus Bane had disposed of his half sister in short order, but there was no point in taking chances, not where that family was concerned.

The ancient warlock put his hands into the cardboard box he was emptying and pulled out a fancy wooden sign that read 'The Mortar & Pestle Potion Dispensary'. Dusting it off with the sleeve of his robe, the potion maker took it carefully outside and hung it over the door of his shop. He stood quietly for a few moments listing to the sounds of the city, hidden from the curious stares of his fellow New Yorkers by the deep shadows of the blind alley that sheltered the entrance to his shop. He had missed New York, its brashness and bustle and hoped he would be able to ply his trade here for many years to come. Taking a final deep breath, Janus Dark re-entered the shop. It was time for tea and to check any messages that had followed him from his shop in Moscow.

As the old potion master sat at the small round table in front of the fireplace enjoying his tea, he opened the first of the fire messages that had been forwarded from Russia; of course, it was from the Abbot of the Hellfire club. Dark heaved a sigh, it wasn't that he hadn't been expecting it, but the potion they required was complex and difficult to make under the best conditions, in the middle of a move, however, was definitely not the best of conditions. Once he finished his tea, he would have to dig out the ingredients and set to work on the order. Sometimes he wished he wasn't the only potion maker who could make the damn stuff.

The Hellfire Club had been good customers of his for generations and paid the exorbitant fees he charged without complaint. Still, he knew he was perhaps crossing a line doing business with them, and the last thing he wanted was trouble of any kind. He knew the Club boasted an exclusive membership of wealthy and powerful downworlders, mundanes and even shadowhunters, who had a taste for exotic, illegal and dangerous pleasures. The head of the organization was referred to as the Abbot or Abbess, depending on the gender, and the rank and file were addressed as Brother or Sister and their given name. Secretive as the club was, that was more than most people knew about it.

Pushing away the remains of his now cold tea, Janus Dark reached across the table to grab an old, elaborately carved box. The slightest touch of his vermilion magic and the top sprang open revealing hundreds of recipe cards written in the potion maker's own spidery hand. He quickly flipped through the potions until he found the one he was looking for, 'Curatio Daemonium Insanitas', the cure for Demon Pox.

Curatio, cure, as if, Janus Dark thought to himself sarcastically, nothing could truly cure that insidious disease. The best that could be done was to cure the symptoms, in much the same way as insulin cured the symptoms of the mundane disease diabetes. Still it was a far site better than had been available at the turn of the last century. Then, men like Benedict Lightwood and his ilk, had to spend their millions on 'cures' that would at best slow the disease, and at worst do nothing at all.

The old potion maker moved around his shop selecting some ingredients from the shelves, and some from boxes that had yet to be fully unpacked. At last he picked up the final ingredient and noticed he was running low. There was enough for a single batch of the Curatio, but he would need to visit his supplier as soon as possible. With all the hustle and bustle of moving, he had forgotten to re-order. Janus Dark frowned slightly as he measured out the dark, reddish-brown powder. He had tried numerous times over the years to analyze the ingredients of this powder without success. Nor had he been able to find a substitute that was nearly as effective, so every few years he contacted his supplier, the strange, reclusive warlock, Xavier Malum.

Finishing the preparation to his satisfaction, Janus Dark set it into the back of a small dark cupboard to cure. The Curatio would be ready to ship in three days, plenty of time to get up to Xavier's and put in a new order. Under normal circumstances he would have sent a fire message weeks ago and be expecting a new shipment at the shop. His own fault, he supposed, for being so distracted. He really was getting too old to do all this moving about. Maybe it was time to think about retirement, although that might make him very unpopular with the powerful, wealthy members of the Hellfire Club, particularly as he didn't know of anyone else who was making the Curatio.

Janus Dark poured himself a stiff shot of whiskey from an elaborate crystal decanter, and sat down heavily in a chair by the fire. In all the years he had been collecting his exorbitant fees from the Hellfire Club, he had never seriously thought about what would happen when he wanted to retire. If he trained another potion maker and divulged the secret of the Curatio, he would become a liability to the Hellfire Club, someone who was no longer useful, but knew too much. A shiver ran down Janus' spine. He didn't relish the idea of spending God knows how many years in hiding, always looking over his shoulder. It was a situation of his own making, the money he could earn from the Club had overridden any scruples he'd had about getting involved with them in the first place.

It was getting late and Janus decided that he would need get an early start in the morning. Further contemplation of this terrible situation with the Hellfire Club was unlikely to result in any immediate solutions. His supplier, Xavier Malum lived in an decrepit old house outside of Salem, the town infamous for its witch trials in the late 1600's. Janus still felt a hearty dislike of the place, though no actual witch or warlock had been burned. Mundanes could be so paranoid and unpredictable at times. Fortunately their excesses usually only harmed themselves, still it was the idea of torturing and hanging witches that did not sit well with the potion maker.

The morning found Janus Dark knee deep in requests from local clients wishing to restock their cupboards with the herbs, potions and charms he specialized in. News certainly travelled fast among the downworlders of New York. One request had even come from Magnus Bane, and you didn't ignore the High Warlock of Brooklyn if you wanted a thriving business in this city. Sighing, Janus hoped he could get through this work and still make it to Salem before dark.

Heaving a deep sigh as he put the finishing touches on the last potion of the day, Janus Dark realized that the deep shadows of evening had gathered around his shop and he dearly wished he could put off the trip to Xavier's one more day. Salem after dark, when the spirits of the unquiet dead were abroad, was not somewhere he wanted to be. Dark knew better than to think that ghosts were harmless, especially when fuelled by the rage of unredressed wrongs.

Heaving a sigh of resignation, Janus took his cloak from a hook by the door, grabbed his walking stick and a small bundle of rare dried herbs, and prepared to open a portal. The herbs he intended to leave as an offering, a tribute of sorts, at the entrance to the Witch Trial Memorial in the Old Burying Point Cemetery; from there, it would be a short walk to Xavier's house which stood just outside Old Salem.

Tumbling out of the portal, Janus dusted himself off and took a furtive look around. The Memorial was a small plot of trees and grass surrounded on three sides by a low stone wall. Cantilevered out from the wall were rough stone benches, each carved with the name, manner and date of death of a victim of the Salem Witch Trials. The Memorial seemed to be deserted, and the potion maker let out the breath he'd been holding, and tried to get his nerves back under control. It was foolish, after all, to let himself get so rattled over nothing.

Janus bent down to lay his tribute by the entrance, and when he rose again, he saw the ghostly image of a woman, dressed in old fashioned clothing that appeared to be quite ragged and dirty. Her head was tilted at an odd angle and she was glaring fixedly at the old potion maker. Janus Dark gasped as fear gripped his heart, he knew that if he could see the inscription on the bench where she sat, it would read 'Sarah Good Hanged July 19, 1692'...

"You're too late!" She croaked; "The wizard's been tried, found guilty and executed!"

"W-wizard? Janus Dark stammered.

"Don't be stupid;" the apparition snarled. "Condemn the innocent, and God will give you blood to drink!"

It was the echo of what she had said to the judges, who condemned her to death on trumped up charges of witchcraft, all those centuries ago.


Author's Note: I am finally working on The Devil's Crucible again, and I'm sorry for the long delay. I really didn't think it would be that many months, but I had some writers block and I really wasn't happy with the last few chapters of where the story was going. I needed to do it justice. I have edited and updated all my stories and am ready to begin reposting Crucible. There are chapters and scenes I added in the middle of the previously posted work, so I am starting over. I will post the first four chapters today and then a new chapter weekly (on Fridays) after that. Thank you all for your support and patience.