It’s a photo of what looks like a medieval woodcut printed on parchment, labeled with words in a language I don’t recognize. The image itself depicts six slender figures with their arms raised, gathered around what looks like a man being struck by lightning. After a moment, I type:?????

My video chat activates with an incoming call, and when I accept, Hope’s face fills the screen. “Hey. I, um … How are you?”

“Confused? Why did you send me a picture of a guy getting electrocuted?” I ask. “I mean, not to be rude. It’s nice to see you!”

Hope squirms a little, her mouth in a knot until she says, “Before I explain, you need to promise me you won’t tell anyone about this. I could get in deep shit, and … I mean, you can’t even tell Adriana.”

My eyebrows lift slowly. “Okay…”

“So remember when I told you that something about what the vampire who jumped you at Sugar Mama’s said sounded familiar?” she asks—and I do. I’ve been a little curious about it, but couldn’t figure out how to ask her questions without revealing more than I wanted to. Besides, I like Hope, but … what could she possibly know?

“Yeah, sure.”

“This is the reason. My uncle has a lot of books on the history of magic and witchcraft, and this picture is from one of the oldest. He would literally kill me if he knew I was showing it to someone outside of the family—especially someone who isn’t even a witch.”

“I get it, total secrecy,” I assure her. “But what’s the point?”

Hope takes a deep breath. “This image is titled ‘The Rising of the Dark Star.’”

I freeze. “The … what?”

“It’s from some ancient lore, basically a fairy tale about this legendary sorceress coven from, like, thousands of years ago.” Hope waves an apologetic gesture. “I don’t know if they were even real, but … that’s what the guy said, right? ‘The Dark Star rises’?”

I feel myself nodding. “Yeah … um. I think so.”

“The text under the picture is so damaged it’s hard to read, but it says something about an ‘arcane ritual’ and something called ‘the Corrupter.’” She pauses, watching me carefully through the phone. “Does that mean anything to you?”

“I don’t know.” I can barely feel my hands.

She watches me a moment longer, and then looks away. “I asked my uncle about it, but he wouldn’t say much. Apparently, it’s some mostly forgotten tale about six witches who kicked ass and took names back in, like, the Bronze Age, or something. I don’t know.” She gives me a meek smile. “I’m basically talking nonsense, right?”

“N-no, you’re fine,” I insist automatically. Clearing my throat, I try to sound casual as I ask, “What do you mean, an ‘arcane ritual’?”