Witch's Bell Book One

door one day to see a fire-breathing dragon with a saddle, waiting to take her on a quick trip around the world. Or tomorrow Ebony could be standing behind the counter of her store, only to be inundated by an unexpected lifetime's supply of chocolate and boiled lollies.
    But what really irked Ebony, what really made her regret the whole business altogether, was that she was half-sure she'd written something terribly romantic in there. She'd formed some silly idea of her perfect match, and written it on some random page of her Journal of Life. Who knows what ridiculous man she'd written of, and who knows when she'd written it for!
    The whole experience had set such a bad taste in Ebony's mouth, that she had always had a careful relationship with the journal ever since. She only wrote little things: trivial meetings and sudden boons – rather than epic life-moments. She preferred to think that regardless of tradition, and regardless of the journal, Ebony wrote her life every day. Though there certainly was magic behind the journal – she didn't doubt that – she still tried to keep it to a minimum. Ebony tried to live each day as it came, she assured herself as she carefully took the darkened steps that led down into the belly of the crypt. She wrote each day at a time, and never the whole story in advance.
    The sound of a soft, stuttering moan met her ears. It brought her back to the here and now, pushing her off the path of memories, and onto the road of magical policing. She had strengthened her memories, wishes, desires, and general life-purpose. And she hoped that it would be more than enough to keep her from being magically rewritten, to put it simply. She felt more like herself than usual, more at home in her skin. And it would have to be enough, because that chanting was only getting louder.
    As Ebony descended further into the bowels of the crypt, she wondered at just how deep this thing went. Either this crypt was a giant basement of a thing, housing a whole lineage of some wealthy Valian family, or time and space were playing a trick on her. That was one of the things about magic. When a lot of magic built up in a place, it tended it stretch itself between the two pillars of time and space, until reality became thin, hazy, and different.
    But the chanting was growing louder, and regardless of how long these steps were, or weren't, Ebony had a job to do.
    In another second, she rounded a corner, the body of the crypt finally opening out before her. It was a large room, but not as epic as Ebony had previously envisioned. There were six or seven tombs raised on plinths, all lined up in a row. Right at the end of the room, around the final tomb, was set a circle of flickering candles. The flames danced violently, as if there was a vicious wind roaring about the room. There was hardly a breeze though. The air of the crypt sat as still and stagnant as air trapped in a bottle and buried deep underneath the ground. The flames would be reacting to a different force – the welling, spiraling, breaking magic that would be seeping up from the very ground itself. It was hot, raw, and strangely ticklish – leaving Ebony with the feeling she was standing on a hot grill.
    A man stood before the tomb, intoning deep, mournful words. His head lolled this way and that, like a drugged snake. His voice occasionally peaked with a sudden, manic pitch, before drawing back to its steady drone. Before him, he had a book, probably a diary of some description.
    Ebony stared for a moment, trying to take the whole scene in, before deciding how to act.
    The book would contain the spell or the story, rather, that the man would be trying to create. Whatever he wanted would be written on its pages. When Death was summoned, and its magic released, that spell would be enlivened. Ebony hadn't been lying when she'd told Nate that Death was the force that kept things alive. Death kept things going, by ensuring nothing truly stopped. By writing down the present as he wanted it to be, ripped from the bounds of the past, the man would be hoping that the power of Death would breathe life into the spell.
    Powerful, but incredibly stupid.
    With a sudden spike, the light of the candles glowed as if ignited by a puff of gas. They illuminated the edges of the crypt, showing Ebony exactly what she didn't want to see.
    There was a woman curled up against the far wall, her head tucked into the crooks of her arms. It seemed like she was trying to make