Free The Warlock's Curse by M.K. Hobson Page A

quickly. To his surprise—and dismay—it contained only a single sheet of paper. It was a very fine piece of stationery, bordered and engraved with a rampant eagle which had clasped, in its claw, a two-sided scroll. One side of the scroll read “ Ex Fide Fortis ” and on the other side, “From Faith, Strength.” Beneath the eagle were the words:
    T HE S TANTON I NSTITUTE
N EW Y ORK C ITY
    A beautiful piece of paper, clearly swiped from Ben’s employer. But it hardly seemed worth the swiping, for Ben had only written eight words on it:
    Dreadnought Stanton 32: “The Warlock’s Curse.” Page 153.
    Will puzzled over this for a moment. He knew what the writing referred to, of course; Volume 32 of The True Life Tales of Dreadnought Stanton . Ben didn’t even have to give the volume number. While The Warlock’s Curse had always been one of the lesser known installments, the fact that Edison Studios had recently selected it as the basis for the first-ever Dreadnought Stanton photoplay had caused it to skyrocket in prominence. The motion picture was to debut with great fanfare on New Year’s Day, and all the movie magazines were filled with news of the production, which was rumored to be the most lavish and expensive Edison had ever undertaken. Even Walnut Grove, the small town nearest the Edwards’ ranch (which didn’t even have a moving picture theater) was plastered with handbills from rival theaters in Sacramento and Stockton advertising the film’s premiere.
    The Warlock’s Curse was among the many volumes that Jenny had left behind. He pulled it from the shelf and blew dust off it. On the cover was a picture of a young man’s face drawn in two halves—one half that of a nice all-American boy, the other half twisted and sneering, demonic. The picture gave away just about all there was to the plot—the kid on the cover had inherited a family curse or something, and Dreadnought Stanton had to defeat the evil spirit who possessed him.
    Will quickly turned to page 153. It was a page of illustration, showing a magical sigil, but with no other explanation. Will flipped back a couple pages and was laboriously scanning the text to try to figure out what part of the story the illustration was in support of, when a voice called from below:
    “Hey, you up there?”
    It was Jenny. Goddamn it! But of course she knew where to find him, this was where they’d played together as kids. Still, it annoyed him that she assumed she’d find him here—as if nothing about him had changed or ever would change. Why did everyone treat him like that?
    “What do you want?” he growled forbiddingly. But Jenny had already climbed the ladder to the hayloft and was settling herself in next to him, taking care with her tidy costume. A shining curl had escaped from the thick mass of hair piled atop her head. Her very presence here seemed outrageous. It was one thing for her to come up here when she was a girl, with scuffed knees and freckles. But now she dressed like a woman and smelled like a woman, and it was a clear violation of every secret hideout code ever written.
    Will quickly tucked Ben’s letter into the pulp novel, and shoved them both inside his coat. Jenny didn’t notice, too busy eyeing the dusty bottle of whiskey in his hand.
    “Thank God!” She seized it and wrenched out the cork before Will could protest. “I was hoping you’d have a drink. And I wasn’t about to squeeze in between Laddie and Lillie looking for one. Those two are like the stones of the pyramids, you can’t get a piece of paper in between them!”
    Will did not comment, but watched Jenny take a long swallow of the rye. She only gagged on it a little, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
    “And of course, after you stormed off, your father felt it was his duty to make small talk with me. You ever try to make small talk with your father? Especially when he’s mad?” Jenny shivered at the memory. “Your family tires me out.”
    “You