Witch's Bell Book One

any other day, Ebony would have commented on it, or at least offered a cheeky whistle. But the fact was, she was cold, and she had such a feeling of dread billowing in her stomach, that she felt like she was going to float away on a black cloud of fear at any moment. 'Look, just like any other police operation, we have to wait up for backup.'
    'But I thought you said the witches weren't coming, yet. And I hate to say it, but what use are ordinary humans against whatever the he- heaven, is waiting for us in there?'
    'In a word? Guns.'
    'What?'
    'Guns, Detective Nate. I think you'll find they're still quite effective against most magical creatures. They make loud noises, give off smells, and if you are lucky, propel metal objects at the speed of sound.' She pulled her gaze from the Detective's wet clothes, and back up to the sky above.
    'I don't get it, in the past our guns have hardly done a thing-'
    'Oh, they won't work against everything, that's for sure. You face a cloud apparition – and filling it with lead isn't going to count for much. Anyhow, that's not the point.'
    Nate flattened his tie, for the fifty millionth time in his life. 'But we're fighting ghosts, right. I really don't think-'
    'Two things,' she held up two fingers, the long sleeves of Nate's jacket almost completely obscuring them, 'you won't be using ordinary bullets today, and you won't be fighting the ghosts.'
    'Aren't the ghosts the ones doing all the damage?' Nate gave a quick shrug as the sound of concrete cracking filtered clearly over the walls. 'Aren't they in there right now smashing up the whole cemetery?'
    'No, they're the victims here.'
    'The victims,' he repeated, voice empty. 'But they're ghosts.'
    'Now, now, don't be discriminatory. Anyone can be a victim, Detective. But the real culprit today is the evil blighter who has crammed himself inside that crypt. The ghosts are just trying to protect themselves, and what they were, from being sucked up by his pointless spells.'
    'I don't get this,' Nate ducked slightly as an even louder noise seemed to crack through the dark afternoon like a bull-whip by his ear. 'And shouldn't we hurry up and do something?'
    'We're waiting for the restricted ammo to come in. As soon as it arrives -' she didn't finish her sentence. Because as soon as it arrived, well, Ebony would have to think of a way to achieve the impossible. Because that's what this would be. Somehow she would have to make her way through the cemetery – through the wild, enraged ghosts, and through the various horrible creatures that would have been attracted to the excess magic – and finally into a highly protected crypt. Once inside she'd be faced with some jumped-up, cape-wearing loon who didn't understand magic, but still had the balls to steal into a graveyard and perform rights on the dead. And... if the idiot was successful, she'd likely come face to face with Death itself. She'd have to do all this in an oversized jacket, with no shoes on, and in the pouring rain. And, she'd have to ensure no one else got hurt.
    Oh man, that little voice in the back of her head moaned again, you should be watching a movie by now.
    'So what are the parameters, what do we do? And what the heaven is going on?'
    Ebony just looked up at him, rain trickling off his face. 'Okay, time for a crash course in Death Summoning. There are several ways to directly rewrite a story, Nate, this is one of them.'
    'Rewrite a story,' he repeated, voice incredulous. 'Are we going to be dealing with a bunch of Gothic copy-editors in there?'
    'Look at it this way; we are bound by our past. Our past is a reminder of who we are, but it is also a shackle. Without it, we would be lost. But if you hold too closely to the past, then it restricts what you can do in the future. If you have been an ice-skater all your life, but would really like to be a particle physicist, then you can't just wake up one day and decide to start smashing some atoms together. Your past will remind you – your memories, your friends, the photos of you on your mother's bookshelf – they'll all remind you of who you were.'
    'I get it. You can't click your fingers one day and change jobs, the color of your hair, and blood groups,' Nate said.
    Ebony gave a small laugh. 'Strange examples, but they work. The past keeps us on track, but it also binds us to one path. However, there are certain ways, certain magical ways, of lessening or eliminating the hold of yesterday over today. If you can