(From previous chapters)
Jewel has a book of spells that contains one that will break the werewolf moon curse. But the book is demonic and forbidden to covenant witches, like Jewel and her friend Beatrice.  Also, now that Sheriff Wayne Tilbert is convinced that Tiara Winters was killed by a werewolf, he and Bob Wilson are off looking for the only ones to destroy them, the Grigorians, hunters of evil.

Beatrice dialed Jewel's phone number before stepping out onto the balcony for more privacy. She couldn't stop shaking. “Jewel, I think we’re in trouble,” she said, her voice trembling.

Jewel tried to keep the phone from slipping between her cheek and shoulders when she bent over to put the groceries in the trunk of the car.  “What kind of trouble? And who is we?”

“You and me, of course. It’s that book.”

 “No. The Covenantcy couldn’t have found out about the Grimoire. Could they?”

“Well—kind of, yeah,”

Jewel fumbled with her seat belt and then checked the rear view mirror before backing out.

“I…I mentioned it to Naomi…I was so excited,” Beatrice said. “ I swear I didn’t know she’d blab.”

Jewel hit speaker and tossed the phone on the passenger seat. “For Pete Sakes, Bee. Naomi is a high-level witch. She has friends on the council. What were you thinking?" She pulled out of the mall parking lot into traffic.

Beatrice kept looking over her shoulder to make sure she wasn't heard. “But she swore she would never say anything."
 
“Dear goddess. And you believed her?”

“Okay, don’t panic; let’s suppose she did tell them. No crime has been committed as long as you haven’t used the spell,” Beatrice said.

“You fool! Just having possession of that book is a crime itself. I told you that.”

“I know, but you could say you found it or something.”

“Great Jupiter! The council isn’t stupid. They know a Grimoire is no ordinary book just lying around waiting for someone to pick it up. There are those who have sold their souls to get their hands on the thing.  Shit!  I can't believe you did this.”

“I’m…I’m sorry…I…I didn’t mean to …forgive…me...so stupid…I… ”

“All right! Breathe. Calm down. Tell me exactly what Naomi said.”

“She…she said that…the council wants to meet with us.”

Jewel mumbled several curse words that weren't audible. "Did she say what it was about? Where? When?”

 “She just said she wasn’t certain—but that she’d call later with the details. Oh, Jewel, I’m so sorry. What are you going to say?”

“The truth… what else? Then I’ll throw myself on the mercy of the council.”

“But the council has no mercy when it comes to breaking Tenet rules, you know that."

“You better hope that they do, because you’re going down too. I gotta go.”

“Dammit!”

***
 
A cool wind parted the brown locks of Sheriff Tilbert’s hair and whipped the collar of his uniform shirt as he held tightly to the steering wheel. Bob sat on the passenger side staring out the window as the car rounded the curve on the dry dusty road.  A few rays of sun peeking through the dark clouds were the only hint that it was still day. Dead leaves swirled around the car like huge flies, and a tough sudden breeze blew from the east of them causing a windmill to squeak like a rusty, old door hinge.

“This place looks like something right out of a horror movie,” Bob said, straining his eyes to read the numbers on the old wooden houses.

“This was your idea,” Wayne smirked.

Bob had succeeded in talking Wayne into finding the Grigorians—a group of kick-ass tough guys whose specialty was fighting against witchcraft and supernatural entities. During the several weeks of their investigation, Wayne and Bob talked to about seventy people. Some stories about the hunters sounded believable and some sounded down-right cartoonish; people hailed them as everything from angels sent by God in human form—to a hard nosed biker gang turned vigilantes on a mission to save humanity.

It was told that when the Grigorians were needed, they would suddenly appear out of nowhere; and when their job was done, they’d vanish without a trace. Wayne got goose bumps listening to the local’s endless rants about the demons the hunters had encountered. No one was sure as to who they were or where they came from. Although the stories were conflicting, one thing remained constant throughout their investigation; Warren Campbell’s name kept popping up. He seemed the one man who knew how to get in touch with them.

The houses were all on the right of them; though wooden, they were sturdily built and mystery crept from each house as flickers of dim light streamed through the cracks of faded window shades. The grounds surrounding the houses were mostly dirt and stones—with a few patches of faded grass throughout.

Scattered trees filled with large black crows stood on the other side of the road. Behind the trees was a small gloomy graveyard full of grey wooden crosses with white chalk markings on each one. Just beyond the grave—a thick forest lurked with shadows of movements within the trees and on the ground. The wind whistled about them like a mystical, yet sweet song.

“That’s the house, there,” Bob said, pointing to a three story, grey frame.

The banging of both car doors seemed the only sound other than the wind as Wayne and Bob made their way up the walkway to a red painted door.  Wayne pulled the odd-looking door knocker up—a bronze colored metal hand; it was cupped and had a large head of a nail in its palm. A horrifying high pitched cry that made Wayne freeze swept from behind the door.

“It’s probably the TV,” Bob said.

Wayne banged the knocker lightly at first, and then pounded loudly and more vigorously after many moments of no answer. Quickly a shadow appeared through the curtains at the window. Then the shadow disappeared and the door opened to a crack; a tall slim figure stood with a dim light at its back.

“Can I help you?” said a graveled female voice.

“Good evening, Ma’am. I…I’m Sheriff Wayne Tilbert,” he said, trying to get a good look at the face, “and this is Dr. Bob Wilson—we’d like to speak to Warren Campbell.”

“He’s not here,” she said and closed the door. The two looked at each other and Wayne banged on the door and called to her several times before giving up. 

“Why, that rude bitch,” Bob said.

Half-way to the car, Bob looked over his shoulder and saw a shadow—larger than the woman who’d opened the door. It stood still behind the thin curtains. Bob got into the car, but kept his eyes peeled to the shadow in the window. Wayne pulled off leaving behind a long trail of dust. 

“Well, genius, what do we do now?” Wayne asked, squinting at the road ahead.

Before Bob could answer, a dark figure of a man wearing strange sun glasses that had tiny, blue lights blinking on either side of the frames appeared. He was draped in a long black leather coat and wearing black leather boots with silver points on the toes. He stood still and wide-legged in the middle of the road—the shadows of his hands at his side.

“What the hell…?” Bob said. 

Wayne mashed on the brake—coming within inches of hitting him. With long slow strides, the man made his way over to the passenger side of the car. Bob glanced quickly over at Wayne who slid his hand under his jacket and placed it on the handle of his gun. Wayne nodded an okay, and Bob lowered the window.

“Howdy,” Bob said.

But Bob’s pleasant voice didn’t match the wariness in his eyes. The stranger bent over and a long, blonde lock of his hair fell over his shoulder and stood out against the cold dark leather.

“What do you want with Warren Campbell?” his soft but sinister voice asked through clenched teeth that gleamed through a tight-jaw and olive face with a five o’clock shadow.

Bob looked deep within the glass frames and saw no eyes. “Are you Campbell?”

“No—but I can take you to him,” he said

“Just tell us where he is—we can go there on our own,” Wayne said—his hand still on the gun handle.

“Without me—there’s just one problem,” the man said, his dark glasses fixed on Wayne's face.

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“You’d be dead before your foot cleared the floor of your car.”

Bob glanced at Wayne...Wayne bit his bottom lip, and there was a short pause. Then Bob’s sudden movement to stick his hand inside his jacket made the stranger quickly fall back—his left side facing Bob—the right side of his long coat flew over his right hip and his hand held fast to his side. When Bob pulled out a card, the man took his hand off his side—allowing the coat to fall back into place. 

“If you see Campbell, tell him it’s urgent,” Bob said, poking the card at him.

The stranger stepped forward.  He took the card in his black gloved hand and glanced down at Bob’s name and phone number. He stepped back from the car and slid the card in a deep pocket on the outside thigh of his tight leather pants.  He said nothing but stood there and watched the car disappear in a grey cloud of dry dirt and swirling dead leaves.  When Wayne looked up into his rear view mirror, the man had vanished, and the sky was dark with the flapping wings of black crows.