I know it's been a decade. It may be helpful to reread the story. Or at least the previous chapter. But it's up to you. Very, very short summary of last chapter: Chris saves his teacher, Marcy Gowell, from a demon and almost dies in the process.

In the time since Chris's departure, Phoebe made her entrance, exploding through the front door, a woman on a mission. She made a beeline for the Book of Shadows in the living room and didn't even stop when, without looking up, she tossed her purse and keys onto the table in the foyer. Determined, she flipped through pages one after the other, in search of the few demonic clues she had gleaned from her premonition. Paige had also rejoined the group shortly after with Bobby safely tucked away at his father's office. But all of the added firepower offered little help in locating Chris, who had muted their ability to sense him, or their demon. As the minutes ticked by, Piper's scowl became thoroughly pronounced. Detecting hostility, Paige crept over to sit on Phoebe's other side, out of Piper's line of magic. Just in case.

When Chris finally reappeared, to the sisters' relief, he carried a passenger, presumably the Innocent. The boy himself looked like he'd been through a blender. Sticky with sweat and dirt, his hair sat plastered to his forehead. From what they could see of his face and neck—because most was hidden beneath a layer of dust—he was flushed with fatigue. The knees of his pants had torn—Another pair to replace, his mother thought with a sigh. There was blood. She couldn't tell whose.

The Innocent, although clearly shaken, seemed to fare much better than her rescuer, with no major bruises or wounds. She clung tightly to Chris's tattered shirtsleeve. Posture stiff, she refused to release the air in its lungs, as if afraid she would get no more. Her lips, pinched tight, had turned white. To Piper she seemed vaguely familiar, though she couldn't quite place the woman's face. Perhaps they had met at the gathering for the Spring Equinox? A Romani fair, maybe?

With an expression of decided discomfort, Chris wriggled out of the Innocent's white-knuckled grip and eased himself over to a floral armchair before his legs could give out. The movement snapped the sisters into motion themselves. As Piper and Paige gave the Innocent a quick once-over, Phoebe went to Chris, worry creasing her forehead. Even before she sat down beside him, a wave of his unbidden emotions rolled over her. That alone let her know: "You over-extended yourself," she accused her nephew. Chris hadn't lost control of his emotions in her presence since he was a tween.

He wanted to deny it, but right now even the effort it took to lie required too much of him. Falling to slouch against the back of the armchair, he sighed, "I didn't mean to." His eyes closed of their own volition. "He surprised me, so I tried to shake him off. I did what you've always said—you know, used the magic around me."

"Good for you," Phoebe commended, eyes still dark with suspicion. "But that shouldn't dry up your magic like it did. If anything, you'd be feeling energized. You'd get a buzz."

"I don't know. All I meant for was to use a little, but it completely overwhelmed me. I mean, it felt alive." Eyes bright, he sat forward. "It was the weirdest thing, Aunt Phoebe. Like it had its own mind or something."

"Lie back," she instructed with disapproval. "Like what was alive?"

"The ground." He did as he was told, still waving a punctuating hand as he spoke. "That's all I could think of to—"

"Oh, Chris." Phoebe pressed two fingers against her temples. Despite herself, she smiled. "You need to use something finite."

"Huh?"

Speaking slowly, as if he wouldn't understand, she explained, "The ground—that's connected to every single grain of dirt on this planet, which, although technically has an end, for all practical purposes is infinite. When I said 'use your surroundings,' I meant you should use… a flower or something, maybe even a tree, if you're desperate. Power like that—it'll suck all the magic right out of you. You won't be able to control it."

Glowering, Chris grumbled, "Yeah, I figured that part out, thanks. So how do I stop it from happening?"

With a grin, Phoebe patted his cheek; he winced at the bruises that he could feel beginning along his jaw. "Don't use it."

He sighed.

Meanwhile, Piper and Paige attempted to put their Innocent at ease. She still hadn't released her breath, still looked ready to faint, still did not appear to have registered her surroundings. When Paige clapped her lightly on the back, she blinked a few times, but that was all.

"Hi, I'm Paige," the youngest sister announced. "That's Piper, and that's Phoebe. I don't think I caught your name—?"

At the sound of an incongruously cheerful voice, Marcy's head tilted toward it. Her eyes focused on the calm, smiling woman, then at the other beside her. Both seemed to be waiting for her to respond. Finally, Marcy expelled her breath—her entire body seemed to deflate with relief—and glanced around. Chris had gone to sit beside a third woman on an old, worn chair across the room. From the way they all acted, the danger for now had passed. Unsteady, voice as shaky as the rest of her, she offered the two women her name.

Piper frowned. "Marcy… Gowell…" she repeated deliberately. The name rang a bell, but she couldn't place it, just as recognition of the face equally eluded her grasp.

"Yes." Marcy's tension melted into an ironic smile. "I'm Chris's teacher."

"Chris's… oh! You're the one with all those detentions," Piper exclaimed. Paige, beside them, snorted.

Pink heat blossomed over Marcy's cheeks. A quick glance at Chris determined, even past the blood and grime, he was blushing as well.

"Um, yes…" Marcy admitted uncomfortably. Nobody spoke, which gave her the feeling they expected her to say more, but beyond this affirmation she couldn't figure out what else required mention.

Piper broke the silence first, offering a vote of sympathy and a dry smile. "I'm sorry about my son. I know what he can be like."

"Hey!" Chris protested, struggling to sit up against the hand that pushed him back. He scowled at his aunt but, at her insistence, gave in and settled back into his seat. She allowed him to cross his arms, which he did passionately to make up for his surrender. "I'm a perfectly fine student," he stated, chin thrust out in defiance.

"Right," Paige snorted, diffusing his bravado, "except for the whole 'being in class' thing. And that 'doing homework' thing." She swallowed a snicker, letting Chris hang onto at least a piece of his pride, and with a hand on Marcy's shoulder she gently guided their Innocent to a beige sofa.

"At least my classroom never had to be guarded by the cops," Chris challenged.

Paige smiled sweetly. "Bringing up my past hooligan days—ha. That's a good one. Because now I'll be so embarrassed that I'll back down—Wait, hang on…" She pretended to ponder the point, and when Chris muttered something unintelligible, she smirked.

During Chris and Paige's repartee, Piper had slipped out of the living room. Now she returned, a cup of ice water in either hand. "You two done?" she remarked without much interest. To Marcy, in a voice purposely softened, she said, "Here, drink this. You look like you could use it." Grateful, Marcy took a deep sip, relishing as the liquid soothed the back of her dry throat. The other cup, Piper handed to her son, eyes roving over his face as he tipped the rim forward and gulped down its contents. When he came up to gasp for breath, she decided, "Paige, I think we could use a bit of healing here."

On principle Chris would have protested. He was no child, and he didn't need to run to the nearest whitelighter every time he got a "boo-boo." On the other hand, every inch of him hurt. As it was, he had barely summoned up the power to orb home after his ordeal. He let Paige kneel in front of him with a glowing hand upraised. Still, to keep his dignity, he grumbled a bit as she brought that hand to his chest.

"I'm fine," he mumbled half-heartedly.

"Yep," Paige cheerfully agreed, pressing her hand firmly into his dusty shirt, "You're the picture of health." The orange glow emanating from her palm sunk beneath Chris's skin like a cool balm.

While Paige healed, Piper asked her son, "Did you get him?"

Blushing, Chris ducked his head. He'd gotten so sucked into his magic that he let the demon escape. "No," he admitted, "He got away from me. Sorry."

Almost forcefully, eyes on Piper, Phoebe assured, "That's okay, Chris. We'll scry for him again. Demons like this one never stay quiet for long. Especially"—she shot a look at the witch sitting alone on the couch, her hands clasped between her knees as she watched them—"when they've set their eyes on a catch." Even from this distance, her eyes bore into Marcy's. Suddenly unsure of what to do with herself, Marcy fiddled with her fingers, breaking eye contact to stare down at her peeling cuticles.

Piper's voice broke through her thoughts. "Yeah, it's okay that you didn't vanquish him," she concurred. "What isn't okay is that you left me behind." Chris winced. In all the excitement—with the threat of death hanging over him—he had long since forgotten their argument, along with his frustration. Apparently, his mother had not. "You put me on mute!" she continued, voice rising. "Did you really think you'd get away with that, buster?"

Quickly, sensing Chris's own mounting anger, Phoebe cut in, "I'm sure Chris is really sorry he did that, Piper." Chris looked over to glare at her; he was not sorry, not in the least! There was nothing more annoying than a nosy empathy who put words in people's mouths.

"Done," Paige announced, and sat back. As soon as her magic drained out of him and back into her, a wave of fatigue hit the boy in the chest like a physical blow. He felt, if possible, more drained than before, as if his injuries, the adrenaline spiking through him, had somehow kept his mind too preoccupied to realize how much energy he had exhausted.

Voice thick—even words were too heavy at this point—he mumbled, "Thanks, Paige."

Paige propped a hand on either hip, far from finished. "Chris," she tutted, "you know you can't use all your magic in one go. You easily could have killed yourself."

Embarrassment made Chris snap, "I'm not an idiot, you know. I didn't have a choice. I meant to use only a little, but… well, it got sucked out of me. The ground—look, it's a long story, not a big deal." Trying to look defiant, although it came across more as tired defensiveness, he crossed his arms over his freshly-healed chest.

A hand gripped his shoulder, but he didn't look up. "All right," his mom interrupted. Her anger seemed to have dissipated with his own flight of energy. "Paige, don't lay into my son when he can barely stand up." Her hand turned him to face her, and knowing what she wanted he struggled to open his eyes. Her own gaze, soft but firm, met his. "You need to rest," she said sternly. "We'll take it from here."

That woke him up. He shook away fatigue, protesting her statement in the same gesture. "What? No way!" he argued, pushing himself to his feet. Although wobbly, the floor kept him steady. Already, he could feel adrenaline pumping him back into a state of energy. He could still push himself; he still had something to offer the hunt. Standing firm, he insisted, "You need me. Phoebe's premonition didn't help for much"—Phoebe scowled but didn't negate his claim—"and I'm the only one who got a good look at the demon."

"Uh…" It was Marcy, who cleared her throat before pointing out, "I saw him—the demon, that is."

"Perfect," Piper said. "So we'll be here with your teacher while you—"

"Actually…" Paige, hesitation slowing the declaration, said, "I was thinking… I may be able to get a sense on him from the Underworld. While his trail's still hot."

It was Phoebe, not Piper, who objected. "We can't bring an Innocent to the Underworld. She'd be a sitting duck. And she can't stay here alone, especially since she's already been picked as his next victim. You saw photos of the other bodies…" The youngest sister shot a meaningful glance towards Marcy, whose eyes widened as she listened to them so casually discuss the threat to her life.

"One of us could stay with her," Piper suggested, although she herself seemed to dislike the idea.

"What if we need the Power of Three? From the looks of it"—Paige shot a glance at Chris—"he's pretty powerful." She sighed. Their plan was falling apart before they could even begin.

Impatience wrinkled Piper's forehead. She frowned at their Innocent, looking thoughtful. At length, she spoke, taking Marcy by surprise when she asked, "Do you know why the demon attacked you?"

Chris answered for her. He had, after all, significantly more experience with demons' motives than she. "It sounded like he was after her powers."

"Which are…?" Paige prompted, one eyebrow raised.

When everyone, Chris included, turned to stare at her, Marcy stuttered out, "I can, uh… turn invisible. Sometimes."

Paige grimaced. "I don't love the idea of him learning that handry little trick." She turned back to her sisters to consider the implications. "I wish we knew which powers he acquired from other victims. Without that, we have no way of gauging how strong he is. Even if we did find an entry in the Book, it could be seriously outdated by now. Remember Zahn?" Piper nodded; Phoebe winced. Bewildered, Marcy glanced over and, with a considerable amount of relief, noted that her student looked equally confused. When their gazes met, the latter shrugged.

Sensing Marcy's discomfort, Phoebe sidled up to Marcy, sat down beside her, and put an hand around her shoulder. "Well, he didn't get Marcy, and that's what counts."

"The question still stands," Piper announced impatiently, "What do we do with—"

"I could stay with her," Chris offered. Before his mother could come up with a reason to baby him further, his words tumbled out. "Think about it: you can have the Power of Three, and she'll be protected. It's perfect." Somehow, Piper didn't seem as convinced about the perfection of his plan as he did. In a last-ditch effort, he added, "And I'll be able to take it easy—lay low at the manor."

Paige hesitated, glanced from Chris to Piper, unsure of what to say. "He… has a point," she said at length.

"I don't like it," the matriarch stated flatly. "What if the demon tracks them here while they're defenseless?"

"We can find him in the Book of Shadows—both of us saw him," Chris reminded her. With one sister on his side, he renewed his efforts. "We'll work on a vanquishing potion to use in case he surprises us."

Piper could find nothing to answer, but she still looked extremely unhappy with the plan. Scowling, she warned, "If I come back and find the house in shambles because you decided to mix jimson weed with henbane..." She let the threat hang.

"I'm not that bad at potions," he protested.

"Yes you are," Paige supplied cheerfully.

As Piper gave Chris a run-down of her expectations ("Don't you dare summon him when you finish the potion!"), Phoebe smiled at Marcy.

In an undertone she asked the young woman, "You doing okay?"

Marcy forced a smile. "Yeah, yeah, of course." Phoebe didn't look convinced, and frankly Marcy didn't blame her. She widened her smile until it almost hurt, and then insisted, "No broken bones, right?"

"Mm," Phoebe murmured with a knowing smile. When Marcy, uncomfortable, remained silent, Phoebe offered, "I still remember my first encounter with a demon, and I wasn't even alone. My sisters were right there beside me. It's okay to be freaked out."

Arms folded, brow raised, Marcy retorted, "You and your sisters don't look scared."

Phoebe laughed at the Innocent's first display of confidence since her arrival. "We've been at this a long time."

"Hmph. And Chris?"

"He's still young enough to believe he's indestructible," she chuckled, and then sobered when she realized Marcy looked no calmer than before. In a much gentler tone she assured, "It's normal to be scared, but I promise we'll keep that demon away from you. You have nothing to worry about. Chris may be young, but he's good at what he does. You'll be safe with him." Phoebe patted her arm.

Marcy looked Phoebe over. She worried at her lower lip, thinking. Finally, she sucked in a breath, gathered her courage, and released her concerns into the open air. "Phoebe?" She had the witch's full attention, but now she wasn't so sure she wanted it. "Those other witches—the ones the demon killed—what did they look like? You said there were photos…"

Phoebe's smile waned. She opened her mouth to speak, then hesitated, closed it again.

"Phoebe! We're going."

Phoebe gave Marcy's shoulder one last squeeze for encouragement. "Don't think about that," she said brightly, but she had always been a bad liar and Marcy could see through her mask of cheer.

Before Marcy could say as much, Phoebe had joined her sisters. The three witches linked arms.

Throwing Chris a salute, Paige winked. "We'll trust you to hold down the fort while we go deal with the latest Big Bad."

Exasperated, Piper sighed, "Oh, Paige, just orb already."

In a moment, they were gone. The silence they left behind served as such a stark contrast that Marcy almost felt the need to cover her ears. Feeling silly, she refrained.

"You learn to tune them out," Chris intoned. He nodded toward the door. "All right, the kitchen's this way." As they relocated, he scooped up the Book of Shadows under one arm.

Marcy paused at the threshold to peer inside the room. The pot that Chris and Paige had deserted earlier that afternoon remained as they had left it, a boiled-over mess of magenta. The potion still hissed occasionally, insulted by its abandonment. "Is that for the demon?" she guessed.

Chris spared her a glance as he dumped his armful unceremoniously onto the table, the only clean surface available. He lugged the cauldron over to the sink, where it got tipped down the drain. "Nah, we're just getting ready for All Hallow's Eve."

Marcy blinked, expression blank. "All Hallow's Eve?" she echoed.

"Sorry—Halloween. A lot of creatures come out of the woodwork. So how did the demon find you anyway?"

She nibbled at her bottom lip, anxious. "I don't know," she admitted. When, sighing, Chris dumped his armful onto the table and flipped open its cover, Marcy finally took note of the magical tome. Its pages, yellowed from age and overuse, had turned brittle, as if even the most cautious of hands would make them crumble. Yet, somehow, Chris's irreverent touch didn't cause damage. In awe of its ancient shell, Marcy found herself asking, "Is that your family's…"

"Book of Shadows?" he finished for her, and then shrugged, "Yeah."

It called to mind a memory of her own encounters, few and far between, with the handed-down inheritance of her father's family. She had touched it only four or five times, and used it even fewer than that. Still, from the moment she had first seen it, she had known it held great power and ancient wisdom.

As if compelled, she glided forward, toward Chris and the Book. "It's a lot thicker than mine," she told him, thinking back to how thin hers had been the last time she'd seen it. She'd still been mostly a child. A hand reached out of its own accord but then, at the last moment, she hesitated and drew back.

"May I?" she asked delicately.

For a moment Chris seemed to debate the request, but he couldn't very well refuse with no better reason than it seemed too weird. His teacher, here, paging through his Book of Shadows. The whole afternoon since the attack had been out of the ordinary, which the Halliwells were known for taking in stride. Just because Chris had been thrown for a loop didn't mean he had to act like it.

With a slight tilt of his head, a nonverbal granting of permission, he closed the Book and pushed it across the table. She accepted it with far more respect than he had given it, with fingers that traced the outline of the Triquetra on the cover.

When nothing happened, Chris let out a sigh that could have been taken as disappointment. For so long and after so many detentions, he had entertained himself by imagining his teacher a demon and all the various ways he could vanquish her. A part of him, however small, half-expected the Book to shield itself from her touch. To see its utter indifference to her unfamiliar presence—even if Chris hadn't actually believed his fantasies…

Pushing back his chair, he went to rummage through the junk drawer. "See if you can find the demon," he suggested. He found himself a pad of paper and a pen. "I'll start on a spell." Practicality suggested that he start on a potion, which would take longer to brew than a spell to write; but he had just spent the better part of his Sunday afternoon concocting a thoroughly useless brew, not to mention his skills were barely passable at the best of times, let alone in a state of exhaustion. Somehow, between his lack of desire and even greater lack of ability, the boy's 'practicality' went unheard.

"Wait, there are demons in here?"

Surprised, Chris looked up. It was as if she had asked if there were really recipes in a cookbook, or directions in an instruction manual. After a moment, quite unsure how to respond, he wondered, "What else would there be? Don't you have entries in your Book of Shadows?" To himself he thought, No wonder hers is so thin—there's nothing in it!

Marcy blushed. "Mostly about herbal remedies," she admitted. "And I've used a few spells from it, too, but…"

The sharp eyes that scrutinized her, emotionless, made her squirm. Was this how her students felt when she played the 'annoyed, impatient teacher'? This sudden role reversal, both strange and undesirable, made her particularly uncomfortable. She had never felt so ignorant. At last, to her relief, he broke the silence by asking, "You don't have any Romani blood, do you?" When she shook her head, clearly bewildered, he explained, "Herbal stuff is more their style. I don't know. Not every witch deals with demons, I guess. We do. There's a prophesy—multiple prophesies, actually. It's kind of something we can't escape."

Marcy frowned. What did she hear in his voice? Bitterness? That couldn't be right. She had witnessed firsthand the quirk to his lips, the sniping humor, the glow that made him come alive at the challenge of attacking that demon. He had put every bit of himself into the fight. He lived for it—she could tell, even if he couldn't.

"Just find our demon," he sighed. His attention returned to the pad of paper.

"But…" She hated to disturb when he seemed to need focus.

He looked up.

"How will I know once I've found him?"

Chris sighed. It felt strange to find himself, for once, on the teaching end, especially in this case. While he had mastery over his own powers, he was still, relative to most other people he knew, more or less an amateur. His mother, his aunts—all experts in their field. In his father, a mortal, had more experience with demons. "Most entries have a picture," he explained. "Skim through those first. If nothing turns up, you'll have to start reading to see what might match a description of our guy. That's a bit trickier."

"What if he's not in there?"

"Then we're screwed," he remarked with an off-handed shrug. "It happens, but usually they're in there somewhere. Our ancestors—the ones that peek in from the Afterlife when they're bored—they help us out. If they've come across the demon before in their own lives, they'll add the entry with whatever knowledge they have."

Eyes wide, Marcy said, disbelieving, "They can do that? Even though they're… well, dead?"

Despite his attempt at nonchalance, Chris grinned. "Sure. It's magic." He looked back down, distracted, to concentrate on his spell once more. "That's what makes us so strong. It's not our powers as much as it is our ability to join together. Demons, essentially, work alone. Even a clan of demons—all they have are their clan-mates in the here and now. The Book of Shadows lets us tap into the past—all the knowledge of every other Halliwell or Warren there ever was."

For a moment both were silent. "Wow," Marcy breathed at length. "I never realized the power of a Book of Shadows." It made her regret how disconnected she was from her own, hidden away in a box somewhere in her parents' garage. Not just her heritage, but according to Chris her ancestors—passing themselves down to her in the pages of a book. Once she was done here, she would have to find her own Book of Shadows. Even if magic wasn't a prevalent part of her life, she owed it to her predecessors.

As Chris had instructed, Marcy began with the pictures. One after another, lifelike, gruesome demons passed across the pages. Demons that looked human, with white hair and crooked smiles; demons that looked like monsters; demons with tribal markings, with magical staffs, with billowing robes; demons with red eyes, with no eyes; demons whose eyes burned with living fire.

"Whoa," she whispered, awed and terrified and disgusted all at the same time.

Chris glanced over to see what had elicited the comment, and grinned at the picture of a demon, head shaved, eyes empty of color. "You think that's bad?" he challenged, reaching over the table to flip through the entries. "Take a look at this one." He stopped, tapping the picture, his grin smug.

He had flipped to a well-worn page whose margins had been jam-packed with scribbles in someone's short, loopy scrawl. A series of photos had been glued to the page—Phoebe, Marcy recognized; next to her was a dark man, kissing her cheek, pulling a silly face, smiling, laughing. Beside this was a repulsing creature, its shaved head the color of blood, marred with indecipherable black markings. Its teeth were razors; its hands ended in claws. Across the entire page, as if someone had defaced the Book, was a thick black 'X.'

"What—?" Marcy started, but unsure what to ask, she didn't finish the thought.

"They're like regular people in a lot of ways," Chris told her. "Some demons even have families. Usually what that means is a 'grief-stricken' demon comes after us with a vengeance for vanquishing a sibling. It's fun."

Families? Marcy's eyes widened, staring at the red-and-black demon. She couldn't picture a bunch of those little beasties wreaking havoc in the world, calling in high-pitched shrieks for their "Daddy." Shuddering, she returned to her search.

They worked quietly for a bit, sitting across from each other, with only the flipping of pages and the scratching of a pen to fill the silence. Suddenly, a sharp intake of breath made Chris look up. "Found him?" the boy guessed. Nodding, Marcy pointed out the picture, which very accurately illustrated her attacker's grizzly features.

"Well, what's it say about him?"

"Uh…" Marcy forced her eyes to move to the short paragraph next to the demon's shoulder, only a few sentences. "'Agramon is a demon who feeds on the powers of demons, witches, and warlocks alike. He acquires their magic through a tribal athame that kills its victim and steals his or her magical signature, similar to a dragon blade'—What's a dragon blade?"

"It's used in Eastern magic for stealing souls. Is that all it says about him?"

"No, there's a bit more: 'His own powers include energy balls and shimmering, although he can also display powers from any of his previous victims, making his full range of abilities unknown.'" When she finished, she looked up.

"Vanquishing potion?" Chris asked, and Marcy checked lower down on the page.

"Uh, yeah," she replied.

"Excellent!" Chris said, grinning. "And the summoning spell's pretty much done, too, so we're good. If Mom were here, she'd know how to brew a variation to compensate for the powers he may have collected since this entry, but we'll do our best with what we've got."

Frowning, Marcy paused. "Hang on, didn't your mother say not to summon him?"

Chris, barely even blinking at her accusation, calmly answered, "Don't worry, we won't use it. It's just a precaution."

Marcy wondered how a spell to bring the demon to them, a clearly offensive move, could be a precaution. Before she could ask, however, he reached over to take the Book. Jerking it backwards, she snapped it shut, expression stern. Her sense of authority over her student came rushing back.

"You're still weak," she stated firmly, "and this—this Agramon nearly killed you last time. There is no way I'm letting you bring him to us. You let your mother and aunts take care of it. I'm not facilitating this idea in any way. It's ludicrous."

"Look," he reasoned when she wouldn't budge, "Even if we don't summon him, we'll still need that potion. Agramon could attack us at any minute." Although she seemed unsure, Marcy refused to open the Book. Chris challenged, "You think he forgot about you? I doubt it. Especially now that we intervened. Demons tend to get tetchy when it comes to losing Innocents to the Charmed Ones. And like you said yourself, I'm still weak. If he attacks now and we're unprepared…" He purposely let the sentence trail off. The hanging threat seemed to compel the woman. She hesitated for only a moment longer before, with a sigh of defeat, she opened to the page they needed.

"Thank you."

When Chris took the Book of Shadows over to the counter, Marcy frowned and followed him. "You're meant to be resting," she admonished firmly. "Go sit down. I'll make the potion."

"Do you know how?" Chris asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, isn't it just… cooking but with magic?"

Chris shrugged. "Dunno. I don't really cook. Probably." He was tired. And even on a good day he dreaded brewing, so he chose not to argue. Returning to the table, he sank into a chair while she moved the Book to the counter. "Ingredients are in the third cupboard from the fridge. Except the pigs' feet, which we keep in the freezer or else they start to smell."

Fighting the urge to gag, Marcy wrinkled her nose. "That's disgusting."

From his seat at the table, half-propped up on his elbows, the boy directed his teacher to a clean cauldron, which she set up on the stove beside the congealed magenta mess that was Chris's earlier potion. Determined not to mess up, she worked with silent focus. Each ingredient was added with caution, as Chris looked on just in case. Once or twice, he called out to stop her from accidentally using the wrong ingredients—some were so old their labels had rubbed off—but otherwise didn't disturb.

After some time, Marcy began to think Chris had dozed off. He certainly deserved the rest. But all of a sudden, breaking the silence, he said, "Can I ask you something?" He waited for her nod to spur him on. "Why haven't you heard of the Charmed Ones? They're kind of famous in the magical world, but my name never tipped you off."

She added a teaspoon of what looked like small green pebbles, labeled ogre essence. "I don't know. I mean, I'm not really… part of any kind of magical community. My father was a witch, and he showed me a couple of spells when I was young, but for the most part magic wasn't a prevalent aspect of my life. I grew into my power pretty late. My childhood was pretty normal."

"Huh," Chris intoned, "Can't picture 'normal.' So… what's the first spell you ever learned?"

Marcy removed the wooden mixing spoon and set it aside to give her potion the two minutes of "bringing to a boil" that the Book of Shadows prescribed. Meanwhile, as she dried her hands on a nearby dishtowel, she sifted through her mind for her older memories. If she were honest, there weren't many to find. At twelve years old, late one night, she had woken to her father whispering her name. He had led her to the basement, where they sat in the dark, side-by-side, the tip of her father's cigar providing the only light in the windowless room.

"You can't tell anyone. Not even Mommy. She doesn't like to hear about this stuff." He had made her swear it. And she did, mostly because curiosity dictated she follow his instructions in order to get answers to this puzzling, secret rendezvous.

"You're a witch, Marcy," he had told her. At the time she had laughed. I'm not a baby anymore, Dad, she had said importantly. She knew that witches were the stuff of fantasy, her favorite stories, certainly, but never more than that—just a book to read under the covers when her parents thought she had fallen asleep.

But he had proved his ludicrous statement, teaching her the words to an odd-sounding poem. A spell they cast together, watching the results swirl before them in wisps of pale blue light. The shape of a woman taking form in the air, an ethereal robe billowing around her ankles, hair flowing down her shoulders and back, half-lidded eyes, a vaporous smile, lips that opened to speak—but before the words came, a figure stormed straight through the glowing half-body, which dissolved instantly, and there stood her mother in her pajamas and fuzzy gray slippers. She looked absolutely livid.

Her father sent her to bed, but she hid behind the door and listened to the quiet argument that had ensued between her parents. About "a right to her heritage" and "all this freaky magic business." Although she was too afraid to bring up the incident again, the insatiable curiosity never left her, and the few times she practiced magic she felt the thrill of that first time, the glow of wonder. She remembered the question whose answer she would never know—what would that beautiful ghost have told her?

Marcy saw Chris watching her, and she quickly backtracked to his question. "My first spell? It was to summon a ghost."

Chris snickered. "I've had some nasty experiences with that one." Off her confusion, he elaborated, "My great-grandmother doesn't like kids much. And she hates boys. And she definitely doesn't appreciate getting disturbed from her everlasting slumber all because of a sneaky little six-year-old who somehow got his hands on the family's Book of Shadows when his mother's back was turned. Oh, she gave it to my mom like you wouldn't believe." He chuckled to himself. "After that, she and mom argued for months about if they should bind our powers because boys are too immature to handle magic." After a beat, he added, "Mom won, in case you were curious."

Marcy laughed at the tale, somehow unsurprised that her student could cause that much trouble even back then. "So was it also your first spell?" she wondered, but he shook his head. If the spirit summoning spell, at six years old, had not been his first, how young had he begun his witchcraft studies?

Chris answered without hesitation, a grin quirked across his lips. "'To Banish the Woogy.' Aunt Phoebe taught us that one practically before we learned to talk."

"Banish the what?"

With an off-handed shrug, Chris advised, "You should probably mix the potion."

She jumped to do so, having forgotten about the brew altogether until he mentioned it. While she stirred, he explained, "The Woogy is a being that lives in our basement. A demon of sorts, but not really. Demons are corporeal—they have bodies. The Woogy, on his own, doesn't. He feeds off the Nexus. Every once in a while the Woogy grows powerful enough to put up an actual fight, so we banish him until the next time. It only happened once that I've been alive, and I was just a kid back then. Four or five, I think."

Marcy stared, shocked, into her potion, her mind attempting to sift through Chris's information. Right now, at this very moment they had a creature beneath their feet, growing steadily stronger until it could attack? Perhaps in the middle of the night, when no one would be the wiser. That didn't sound particularly safe, not to her, at least.

"Why doesn't your mom kill it for good?" she asked. "Doesn't she have that kind of power?"

Chris's expression darkened in an emotion she could not name as he corrected, "Vanquish. And yes, she does have the power. But vanquishing the Woogy means we risk corrupting the Nexus, too. After centuries of him feeding off it—he came before the manor was built—they're too intertwined. Besides, like I said, as long as we keep on top of the situation, which we do, we're not in any danger."

There was silence as Marcy considered his blasé attitude toward his basement resident. She checked the recipe again, which called for a teaspoon of toad's flesh—she shuddered at the thought of anyone keeping such a thing in a kitchen—but obediently checked the cupboard. Sure enough, she found it right there in front next to the rosemary, as if an ingredient as common and as frequently called for as salt. "So," she said as she lifted a piece of slimy flesh between two pinched fingers and quickly dropped it into the hissing potion, "What's this 'Nexus' thing anyway? Sounds pretty important." Gurgling happily at her addition, the brew changed to a lovely shade of puce.

"It is," Chris said, "Very. It's our power supply. A Nexus occurs in any place that is equidistant from the five elements—earth, fire, water, wood, and metal. And the Halliwell Nexus is doubly powerful because each element is also equidistant from each other. Which means no, we can't just 'get rid of it.' How's the potion coming?"

Marcy blinked at the abrupt change in subject. "Uh, okay. I think. Would I know if it were going badly?"

"Usually, if you do something wrong," Chris said, grinning, "it explodes."

Half an hour later, their potion bubbled nicely on the stovetop. For half of that time, Chris had dozed off, though he tried to keep awake. He rose only when his teacher, apologetic, roused him for advice. While by no means an expert himself, he clearly had more experience in the area. He stood over her, watching as Paige had done for him a few hours earlier. How strange that he had suddenly become the teacher of a subject in which he himself required special tutorage. He found himself rechecking the recipe twice before allowing her to add the last few ingredients, an act that grinded against his own impulsive nature. He caught her hand just as she had been about to drop in a sprig of basil.

"That needs to be crushed or it'll overpower the potion," he said. Where he had learned that fact, he couldn't remember, but all of a sudden bits of information were flooding back to him as if it were second nature. He mixed while Ms. Gowell put away some of the ingredients taking up space on the counter. When the next item on the list required that they 'determine that the brew grew one and a half shades lighter,' Chris peered into the cauldron and could note with satisfaction that it, in fact, had done exactly that.

"Wow," Ms. Gowell remarked, impressed, "You're a natural."

Chris let out a bark of laughter. "Not even close. I ruin every potion I touch. My sister's the talented one. If you want to see a natural, watch her."

Before Marcy could respond, a light tinkle filled the room. She turned, expecting to find that the sisters had returned, but instead came face-to-face with a boy not much older than Chris. His hair, thick, curly, and blond, was stained brown with dirt.

"What's cooking?" said the boy. "Smells good." His voice sounded like it knew how to laugh.

Without missing a beat and without looking up, Chris replied, "Dinner. Want some?" He held out the ladle, filled with liquid.

Horrified, Marcy cried, "Chris!" To the newcomer, she hurriedly warned, "Don't. It's a vanquishing potion."

The boy, blue eyes twinkling at her concern, chuckled. "I figured. Chris doesn't cook. He zaps leftovers in the microwave."

Retort in hand, Chris looked up, but he stopped short as soon as his gaze fell on his brother: a matted mess of dirt, mud, and blood—hopefully not his own. Comment forgotten, Chris snapped, "You look like you just went through hell." Worry made him short-tempered.

"The Underworld, but close," Wyatt corrected with a cheeky grin.

The ladle was set aside, the flame lowered, before Chris allowed himself to respond. When he did speak, it was in a low voice, matter-of-fact, that stated plainly, "Mom and the aunts went down there. They could've sensed you."

"I know, I felt them. That's why I came back up. To get a cloaking spell from the Book." He stared at the tome beside Chris. "Which wasn't in the attic."

"We're using it," Chris said defensively.

"I'll just be a minute," Wyatt insisted and, elbowing his brother aside, flipped through the pages. Meanwhile, only half-interested, he asked, "What are they doing down there anyway?"

"They're trying to scry for Agramon—our demon."

This made Wyatt pause his search, at least momentarily. "Hm," he remarked thoughtfully. He soon resumed his search until, a few seconds later, he found what he sought. Off-handedly, he offered, "Maybe I'll try to sense your demon while I'm there, see if I can't get a whiff."

Chris rolled his eyes. "Great idea!" he chirped, voice laden with sarcasm. "Except they think you're studying for a test. Whoops, forgot about that lie, didn't you?"

With a purposely irritating smile, Wyatt patted his little brother's cheek. "I never said they had to know I was helping." He read off the cloaking spell from its page, snapped the Book shut, and—with the sweetest smile—returned it to Chris. "Thanks for the help," he said.

Chris snatched it back, feeling possessive. Before either he or Marcy could speak, Wyatt had vanished once again. His glower pronounced on his forehead, Chris angrily yelled, "Wyatt! Would you—!" Back onto the counter went the Book of Shadows, which Wyatt had thoughtlessly neglected to reopen to the page Chris had been using. Flipping through to find the recipe, Chris grumbled, "He's so selfish. Thanks a lot, Wyatt!"

Marcy blinked at Chris, whose head tilted upward toward the ceiling as if actually calling to someone. "Um... can he still hear you?"

"No," Chris said shortly. He took up the spoon; liquid trailed down to his fingers when he dunked it back beneath the surface. "Not in the Underworld. Otherwise yes. Well, unless he puts me on mute, but he knows not to—I don't call unless it's an emergency." Marcy nodded as if she understood but then shook her head, realizing she didn't have a clue. "The idiot's gonna get himself killed one of these days. That's all he ever does anymore, is go vanquish demons."

Marcy didn't know much about magic, witches, or demons, but she did know teenagers. Whether or not Chris's brother was a powerful witch who battled demons, he was still barely out of adolescence. She knew enough to recognize distressing behavior when she saw it. Taking a stand, she said, "So what do we do about it?"

Chris released his anger in a long string of air between his teeth. "We do nothing." He promised himself to lay into Wyatt after all this played out. "Wyatt can take care of himself. Right now, we just need to focus on finishing this po—"

The soft tinkle that interrupted his statement made Marcy look up again. Were the sisters finished, or had Wyatt forgotten something?

It was neither; the orbs looked like nothing she had yet seen today. Not the light blue of Wyatt's or the pink-tinged azure of Paige—this was deep indigo that darkened to black as a form took shape. More than that, they felt wrong. They sent goosebumps racing up her arms. Slowly, the orbs dissipated and left behind—no.

In the time since their last encounter, the demon she now knew as Agramon had seemingly upgraded his supply of weapons. In place of the unobtrusive dagger that fit neatly into the palm of his hand, he balanced in both arms a vicious-looking crossbow made of smoothed-down, gleaming black wood. It looked like something out of the dark ages, clunky and difficult to maneuver, but still something that left Marcy hollow and quaking with fear.

With a sneer, Agramon raised the weapon, aimed it at her student. Suddenly, she found her voice—"Chris, look out!"

Dodging an arrow should have taken no effort. How many times had he ducked significantly more menacing attacks than that? But exhaustion had drained every last bit of strength from him. His reflexes were nonexistent. He could only watch, frozen, a deer in the headlights. His body jerked backward when the long, slender arrow, embedded itself into his stomach. With a groan, his legs gave out and his body crumpled to the floor.

"Oh my god," Marcy whispered as Agramon lowered his weapon.

"A gift," he sneered. "It took me all afternoon to find a darklighter to siphon. They're slippery little demons. But I killed one, and look what he left me in his will. Nice fellow." His eyes found hers, and she stepped back, mind racing. "Consider this payback. I'll come back for you when you're all alone and vulnerable, witch, so count his breaths." This time, when he departed, he used the power he had used during their first encounter. The air around him wobbled and then steadied, leaving Marcy alone with an injured teenage boy.

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