Cassie tried to focus on the colonial architecture and bucolic country roads, but the suspense was killing her.

“So why this librarian? What can you tell me about him?” she asked.

Her mother took off her sunglasses, propped them up on the top of her head, and looked straight ahead. “You’ll meet him for yourself soon enough,” she said.

“But how do you know him?”

“He used to know your grandmother. He’s an elder, a bit of an eccentric.”

Cassie noticed her mother’s grip tighten more securely around the steering wheel.

“What aren’t you telling me?” Cassie asked.

Her mother forced a smile. She watched the winding, barely paved road stretched out before them.

“Timothy Dent had a falling out with John Blake sixteen years ago,” she said.

Cassie knew there had to be more. She waited for it, and after a few more seconds, her mother added, “As a result, he was stripped of his power and banished from New Salem.”

“So they were enemies,” Cassie said. “He and my father. What were they fighting over?”

“By the end they were fighting about everything,” her mother said. “Timothy was extremely powerful back then. But he wasn’t a Crowhaven witch. He wasn’t a part of any Circle. Which was why your father did to him what he did.”

“But he was friends with Grandma Howard,” Cassie said.

“You have to understand, Cassie, it was a crazy time. People started breaking up into factions. Friends became enemies, former enemies became allies. Everyone was fighting with someone.”

“About dark magic?” Cassie asked. “Is that what all the fighting was about?”

But her mother didn’t respond to that question, perhaps because the answer was too obvious. “Let’s just say Timothy may not be very happy to see us.”

She put her sunglasses back on and continued driving in silence.

Chapter 3

The library was on an unmarked road set back on a long stretch of rocky, barren land. The two-story building’s gray facade of crumbly mortar slanted slightly forward as if it were taking a bow. Cassie could barely make out the wording etched across a sign hanging over the door: THE TIMOTHY DENT LIBRARY OF THE OCCULT.

Cassie stepped out of the car first, and then her mother followed suit. They stood side by side for a few seconds taking it all in before moving forward. By the looks of the building’s exterior, Cassie thought they might have come all this way for nothing. The library seemed empty, possibly even abandoned. But her mother assured her that Timothy would be in there, quite possibly alone, but there.

They pushed open a heavy wooden door and stepped inside.

It took a few seconds for Cassie’s eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight to the dimly lit foyer lined with tall wooden bookcases. The floor was a checkerboard of stone-gray squares that led to a high brown counter. Standing behind it was a small man leaning over a massive manuscript. He didn’t look up.

Cassie’s mother led Cassie toward the counter. “That’s him,” she whispered.

As they stepped closer, the man came into focus. Cassie could see his wrinkles and the raised freckle on the side of his face. Dust streaked his black short-sleeved dress shirt, and his fingernails were yellow. Still with his eyes on the tome before him, he spoke in a gravelly voice. “Alexandra.”

Cassie’s mother remained quiet until he finally looked up. His eyes matched the gray of the floor tile.

“After all these years, you show up here like this without warning,” he said. “I can only imagine the horrors that have driven you here. Too bad I don’t care.”

The gravel of his voice shot across the foyer, ricocheting between the rickety columns lining the perimeter of the room like soldiers. Cassie realized she was holding her breath.

Her mother stepped forward in spite of Timothy’s rebuke, and Cassie had the urge to pull her back.

“You’re right, we are in trouble,” her mother said in a barely audible tone. “Please just hear me out.”

“It’s exhausting, being right about everything.” Timothy shut his book and stared at Cassie’s mother with a curious expression.

“This is my daughter Cassie,” her mother said.

Timothy squinted his eyes and turned slowly to get a better look at Cassie. The sensation was similar to being on stage, under a glaring spotlight.

“Black John’s daughter, you mean,” he said. “You poor, poor thing.” But it wasn’t sympathy he was actually offering her; it was pity. It was a condolence.

Timothy tottered around the counter. Only then did Cassie recognize how frail his body was.

“You.” He pointed a dirty fingernail at Cassie’s mother. “Come no further. I don’t trust your motives.”

He turned again to look at Cassie while continuing to address her mother. “This victim of your foolishness and that evil man’s darkness can come with me.”

He made his way toward a set of glass doors, which Cassie understood to be his office, without bothering to check if she was following him.

She made no motion to until her mother gave her a sharp nudge. “Go,” she said. “Don’t let him scare you. Listen carefully to what he has to say.”

Cassie obeyed and followed Timothy into his office. He closed the glass doors behind him and gestured for her to sit on the orange vinyl chair opposite his desk. Hesitantly, she settled into the chair.

The office was much like the rest of the library: dusty, pulpy, and a little creepy. The wall behind Timothy’s desk was a row of dark cabinets protected by chunky brass padlocks. He unlocked one of them and retrieved an oversized book, thick with plastic-covered pages.

“Have you always known what you are?” he asked, dropping the tanned leather book onto the desk in front of her.

What, not who you are.

“No,” Cassie said, looking at the book. Branded onto its cover were the letters B-L-A-K.

“I worked closely with your grandmother, you know,” Timothy said. “To try to save your mother from that awful man. But their bond had been too strong. She was a lost cause.”

“I’m not sure if you heard,” Cassie said. “But my grandmother passed away earlier this year.”

Timothy’s face wrinkled forlornly. He sat down. “Oh,” he said, looking at his hands. “No, I hadn’t heard.”

Cassie watched his reaction. He’d softened before her eyes.

“She was an amazing woman,” he said. “But I’m sure you know that.”

Cassie nodded.

“She and I joined forces against your father,” Timothy continued. “We knew that awful man would play your mother for a fool. But she was charmed by him the way everyone else was. I’ll never forget the way your grandmother cried on my shoulder the day John Blake betrayed your mother.”

Timothy touched his bony fingers to his shoulder as if Cassie’s grandmother’s tears might still be damp on his shirt. “She was devastated when your mother left New Salem. Not a day went by that she didn’t wonder about you, Cassie, the granddaughter she never knew.”

Cassie felt a knot form in her throat. She’d gotten so little time with her grandmother before she died. If only she could have known her as well as Timothy had.

“But I suspect you’ve dropped in on me today for a more pressing reason,” Timothy said, “than to reminisce about the past.”

“Yes.” Cassie’s voice sounded meek to her own ears. “My Circle performed a dark-magic spell from my father’s Book of Shadows. A witch-hunter curse that left them possessed by . . .” She trailed off.

“By evil spirits?” Timothy asked.

Cassie looked down at a stain on the floor, an amoeba of coffee or soda that had never been properly scrubbed clean.

“Your ancestors,” Timothy said.

For some reason, relief settled into Cassie’s shoulders. This man might be a little strange, but he seemed to understand. “How did you know?” she asked.

Timothy pointed to the leather book he’d dropped onto the desk. “I’ve studied the Blak family—that’s the Middle English spelling of Black without the ‘c’—for decades. All dark magic can be traced back to the early days of the Blak family.”

All dark magic, Cassie thought. That was practically like saying all evil in the world had originated from her ancestors. She was beginning to understand why her mother had kept her from this man for so long. He had nothing good to tell her.

“I assume you learned about the Black Death in school,” Timothy said. “The bubonic plague?”

“Yes,” Cassie said, but what did she really recall? Some rats, thousands of people getting sick and dying. She hadn’t retained much else.

“You only learned half the story,” Timothy said. “Medieval people called that same catastrophe many different names—the Great Pestilence or the Great Plague. It wasn’t until much later that people started describing the events as black.”

Timothy paused to let his meaning sink in. “Historians today agree that the term Black Death refers to black in the sense of gloom, to denote the terror of the events, as well as the way the disease caused the skin to turn black with gangrene. But the actual truth is that by the fifteenth century people began to figure out what was really going on.”

“What was really going on?” Cassie asked.

“A line of witches who went by the name of Blak were wreaking havoc on the world,” Timothy said. “They hated the Outsiders for persecuting them, and they had no qualms about getting revenge.”

Cassie’s stomach churned. “That was my family?”

Timothy nodded grimly. “The scientific-minded argued that the plague was spreading through rats and their fleas. That was true—but the rats had been bespelled by your ancestors. It took years, as the death tolls rose and hysteria grew, for more and more people to believe there was a supernatural cause for the sickness. That sinister witches were at fault.”

Cassie’s legs felt weak even though she was sitting down.

“It was a terrible time for witches and warlocks who weren’t of the Blak bloodline,” Timothy continued. “There were persecutions and massacres. But the real witches responsible, the Blaks, were smarter and much more powerful than the thousands of innocent witches who were persecuted.”

“But what started it all?” Cassie asked. “What did the Blaks want?”

Timothy grinned. “That’s the mystery I’ve been trying to solve for more than thirty years.”

“And?” Cassie asked. “Have you found the answer?”

“It seems that very early on, the man who began your family’s Book of Shadows was determined to attain eternal life. He made a deal with the devil. Sold his soul in order to live forever, but it backfired. When he died, his bloodline was cursed. And so was his book.”

“Cursed,” Cassie repeated.

Timothy allowed her a few seconds to process this new knowledge. “You come from a line of ancestors cursed with black magic, and all the uncontrollable urges that come with it.”

“I’m bound to my father’s book,” she said. “I wasn’t possessed like the rest of my friends because I’ve got his blood in my veins. So I must really be one of them. Is what you’re telling me, that I’m destined to be evil, too?”

Timothy shook his head. “You’re an innocent child. You can’t help what you come from. You can only control what you do with it—though it may not always be so easy for you to control.”

Timothy turned his attention to the leather album on his desk. “The Book of Shadows you’re bound to was composed over centuries and passed down through the Blak family, from the people I’ve just told you about, all the way to the Salem witch trials, where Black John’s younger sister fell victim to the inquisitions, and finally to Black John when he reappeared in New Salem as John Blake. That’s how the book ended up in your mother’s hands, I imagine.”

Cassie had gotten stuck midway through Timothy’s explanation. Black John had a sister? It wasn’t such a far-fetched idea, just not one Cassie had ever considered. Did that mean Cassie had other family out there besides Scarlett?

“What was she like?” Cassie asked. “Black John’s sister.”

Timothy flipped through the leather album. When he found the page he was searching for, he turned it around for Cassie to view close up. It was an artistic rendering, a drawing of a girl just around Cassie’s age.

“This was Alice Black,” Timothy said. “She was hanged in 1693.”

Cassie stared down at the drawing, which was so detailed it looked like a black-and-white photograph. Alice’s hair was pulled tightly back in some sort of bun or braid. Her face was thin and slight, nearly lost within the lofty height of her collar. But it was her expression that was the most striking. She wasn’t pouting, but her lips protruded just so, into a natural sulk. And her eyes—though it was just a rendering, Cassie could feel Alice’s cavernous eyes watching her. They were filled with longing and sadness. No, not sadness, Cassie realized. Anger. Anger directed outward, for sure, but also turned brutally in on herself.