6. SPAIN 19th Century #6
Drawing upon the deep well of strength within his mind, spirit, and aura, the Romani witch focused intently, calling forth his innate, invisible force.
With a surge of raw energy, he not only lifted the bulky dresser off himself but also hurled the heavy piece of furniture across the room in a fit of fury, sending it crashing against the wall with a deafening thud.
“Alejandro!” the Romani witch shouted, filled with concern and dread.
With his mobility returned, he surveyed the wreckage of the room, searching for his companion.
He was worried about Alejandro’s safety and well-being; he was also anxious, knowing that the destruction of the sigils would grant Alejandro access to his dark magic, though he suspected his mana was extremely low.
The Romani witch steeled himself, preparing for any situation he might encounter.
Alejandro was nowhere to be found.
“Dammit!”
The Romani witch quickly checked himself for any physical injuries. Aside from some aches and pains and a nasty gash on his brow, he was fine.
Calling upon a power learned in another lifetime, the Romani witch brushed his fingers over the ragged, bloody gash on his forehead with a swift motion.
With reverence, he once again invoked the power of Zagovory, speaking an ancient Slavic word—a healing spell that had been taught to him by Damek centuries past.
A warmth spread in his palm, travelled through his fingers, and surged into the flesh of his forehead. The wound instantly knitted together, and all the physical discomfort from being pinned under the dresser soon disappeared.
Healed, he rushed out the open bedroom door; determination propelled him forward in his quest to search the streets of Madrid for Alejandro, utilizing both magic and mortal senses as tools to find him.
Once he stepped outside the inn into the chaos, the Romani witch’s sharp eyes scanned the smoke-choked streets of Madrid, desperately searching for Alejandro.
The acrid stench of death lingered in the air, mingling with the bitter remnants of destruction as parts of the city burned fiercely.
The cobblestone pathways surrounding the inn were grimly adorned with lifeless bodies, including, sadly, the kind innkeepers who had welcomed him with warmth and generosity.
Navigating this nightmarish landscape and avoiding the patrolling French soldiers became a matter of utmost urgency. The Romani witch yearned for the safety offered by his cloaking spell, a potent incantation that allowed him to meld seamlessly into the shadows of the night.
It required not only mystical words to activate the magic but also a potent elixir, one that included a drop of deadly nightshade. The potion was essential; regrettably, it was beyond his reach.
His belt and the pouches attached to it held only a scant few magical items, nothing that would help him in this war-torn situation.
All of his useful, potent magical weapons, trinkets, and vialed brews lay secreted away in concealed compartments within his carriage, which was now tucked safely in a rented carriage house down a narrow street to the south.
That street, however, lay under the oppressive control of Napoléon’s troops, rendering any attempt to retrieve his belongings a perilous gamble amidst the turmoil that engulfed the city.
Deciding against that course of action, he cast his protection spell, hoping that the invisible shield could withstand not only fists, swords, and bullets but also wayward cannonballs.
He pulled his long black cloak tight, concealing his head and face under the hood as best he could, and made his way through the streets, staying close to the walls of buildings—those that had not been blown apart or caved in—and to the shadows of the night.
For nearly twenty minutes, the Romani witch stepped over dead bodies, thankfully none of them children, while stumbling and tripping over debris from demolished houses and shops, avoiding fires left and right as he searched for Alejandro.
He assumed that, under these conditions and with little magic available to him, Alejandro, trying to escape the city, was likely in the same frustrating situation. The Romani witch was aware that his sigils not only blocked access to magic but also leached it from anyone imprisoned by them.
Surely, this has made Alejandro weak and vulnerable. And if he used up what mana he had left to break his bindings, he’s barely more than a glorified librarian at the moment. Traversing a war-torn Madrid at night isn’t going to be easy for either of us, though I do have an advantage.
“You won’t get far, my love,” the Romani witch called out into the night.
When he eventually found a moderately quiet spot to think—an alley between two still-intact shops, a bakery and a cobbler—the Romani witch set about casting a tracking spell, using an enchanted piece of parchment and Alejandro’s blood.
He kept a small vial of it on him at all times, in case he ever needed to work blood magic against Alejandro.
He took out a piece of folded parchment from a small pocket in the inside lining of his silk vest and unfurled it on the ground in front of him. Then, he splashed some of Alejandro’s blood onto the blank sheet.
“Trova Alejandro Trevino!” [“Find Alejandro Trevino!”]
The blood moved chaotically across the parchment until it formed a perfectly shaped directional symbol: an arrow. This blood-made pointer would turn in the direction that led to the individual it was spelled to locate.
However, within seconds of the spell’s completion, the blood vanished, absorbed into the paper, leaving no trace behind.
“Dammit!” the Romani witch cursed.
He attempted the spell again using Aeneas’ name; this time, the blood dribbled right off the page, entirely refusing to heed the spell.
The Romani witch believed that this setback was caused by the Wheel of Destiny’s eternal interference in his pursuit of happiness.
Using his witchcraft to locate Aeneas’ soul had seldom been successful, as if his very essence was somehow shielded from being detected by magical means.
Still, he continued to try in every lifetime despite the frustrating failures.
As he waited in the alley, the sounds of gunfire and shouted orders in both Spanish and French echoed in the distance.
He contemplated his next move, considering which direction to take based purely on chance and luck, giving a silent prayer to the goddess Fortuna.
It was then that the Romani witch noticed something strange out of the corner of his eye.
A solitary man, tall and brawny with dark hair and a thick beard, had appeared out of nowhere and begun moving among the bodies on the street, both the dead and the dying, with an air of authority and a commanding presence.
The Romani witch noted that he was dressed like a Spanish officer, wearing a dark blue coat adorned with silver buttons and embroidered lace along the collar, cuffs, and lapel.
He wore white trousers and black riding boots that extended just below the knee, topped off with a black bicorne hat trimmed with silver lace, a red cockade, and a red plume.
Though there was dust and blood upon his boots, the rest of him remained remarkably immaculate.
Something was not quite right about the striking man, though the Romani witch could not pinpoint what it was.
He found it odd how the gentleman appeared completely unbothered by the war-torn environment, but it was more than that.
It was the way he moved, along with the shadows that seemed to shift around him, that made it seem as if he wore darkness like a cloak.
When the Romani witch blinked, the shadowy figure disappeared. Then, as fast as he had vanished, he mysteriously reappeared, but in a different location further up the street.
How is this man moving so fast? Is this but a trick of the moonlight? Is he a witch, a sorcerer? What is he—by Hecate! That face! Now that I see it so clearly, can it be? It can’t be him!
Only the Romani witch was certain it was.
This conviction only grew stronger when he witnessed the man lift one of the nearly dead French soldiers off the ground as if he weighed no more than a feather.
Then, under the glow of the moonlight, he watched the bearded fellow sink a pair of long, glinting white fangs into the soldier’s neck and begin drinking his blood.
By Hecate! It is him!
The blood-drinker was Gian, whom the Romani witch had not seen since the 4th century.
Before he could call out to his immortal friend, the god who was a father to Aeneas in his life as Rufus vanished.
“Dammit!” The Romani witch immediately attempted to locate Gian through magic.
Though he had no blood belonging to the immortal, he used his own Romani blood, pricking his finger and letting the scarlet ichor drop upon the goatskin parchment.
He willed the sanguine ink not to find a specific individual but anyone with blood as powerful as his, as magical , more so.
Within a few moments of relative silence, before the gunfire started up again, the magic locked onto something.
“Yes!” the Romani witch cheered. He reasoned that once they had their brief reunion, he could ask Gian for aid in finding Alejandro amid a battle-torn Madrid.
With a renewed sense of urgency and excitement, the Romani witch followed the map through multiple streets and alleys, occasionally needing to avoid patrolling soldiers and rebels.
Spells of misdirection and confusion were most effective when used quickly without drawing attention to himself.
And they needed nothing extra to cast, only words and will.