It is a little-known fact that witches live for a very long time. The idea that witches live among the general population is also a secret kept from many. Aubrey McKenna was unsatisfied with both.

Why simply live for a long time if you could live forever? Aubrey was unattached to everything, nor would she care if everything around her withered away to nothing after a few decades. She wanted to sit quietly in the dark for eternity, silently pulling the strings behind every major event. That was what true power was, she reckoned-- being able to drastically influence events without ever getting your own hands dirty.

Aubrey looked down at her own cracked, dry hands. Yellowed nails curled around a wooden spoon, stirring a thickening rust-colored liquid. A bubble of the glop exploded as it rose to the surface, burning her wrinkled skin where it touched down. Aubrey's familiar hissed as it touched her thin fur.

"Hush, Lillian," Aubrey murmured in a raspy voice as the cat wound around her legs in a figure-eight. "We are nearly done."

Aubrey's workshop was less cluttered than other witches', but still unordered. She combed through dirty cabinets as she searched for what she sought, occasionally going back to rifle through the ancient spellbook resting delicately on her desk. Aubrey had fished it out-- literally-- from the sunken city of Atlantis. It had taken substantial effort, considering her age.

Grasping a pair of forceps and grimacing slightly, Aubrey pulled a strand of damaged grey hair from her scalp. It disappeared as she dropped it into the cauldron, but the mixture lightened from rust to mustard yellow in an instant.

Hours passed as Aubrey and Lillian waited for the contents of the cauldron to boil down. The Atlantic spellbook was quite finicky, and seemed almost sentient; it kept flashing new instructions for Aubrey to complete. It was one of the quirks of the old tome from another time, something that modern spellbooks did not retain. With such archaically dangerous spells, perhaps that was best.

The crumbling parchment flickered again, with new instructions.

Drink. Aubrey did.

The liquid was thick, sliding down her esophagus like molasses, burning like hot sauce and strong mint at the same time. Aubrey coughed as she felt it warm her chest, moving to her stomach with a sickeningly heavy feeling. She curled over in her chair, breathing heavily, until the sensation passed. She opened her eyes, seeing more clearly than she had in a long time.

Aubrey found the book had new writing for her.

Sixty-three souls, harvested at midnight on consecutive days (children preferred).

And so the murders began.