The body he wears is beautiful and young yet the entity inside is so ancient, so vast, it is incomprehensible even to experienced entities like the long-lived vampires. Lesser creatures, demonlings and imps and goblins, flee before him like schools of fish before a shark. Witches bare their throats to him as he passes and dare not even think of crossing him, lest they draw attention to themselves. He is no mere demon to be banished or spirit to be exorcized; neither holy water nor black salt, nor even the will of God’s own angels, could stop him from so much as lifting a finger. Those wise enough to respect the true magnitude of his power bow to him and pray desperately he passes them by to torment some other poor thing – and perhaps he does, this time, but it is impossible to guess where his lightning-quick cruelty will strike next.



They say to be careful with spirits. Don’t summon something you can’t handle. Don’t play with ouija boards. Don’t mess with magic that calls for blood or binding promises. Make your salt circle thick, they say. Ward your doors and windows. Ground yourself and stop before you touch anything too ancient or too deep. But they don’t know what it feels like to stand on the edge; the exhilaration of opening your soul to the unknown and daring it to send its worst. They don’t know that once you’ve had a taste, you can’t ever go back to hiding inside salt circles and candlelight. Once you have reached out to the dark and the dark has reached back, opening wide all the channels that lead through and to you, what’s left to fear?