Chapter 18

I tapped the photograph. “James Nihan Hindermost. The Eleventh Warlock in the Mali coven. The picture is from the 1970s.”

He hunched, looked closer at the black-and-white warlock group, chuckled, and admitted, “I haven’t seen that picture for the last twenty years.”

I closed the book and placed it aside. “So you do know him. How? Who is he?”

“My uncle as a young man. He’s dead now, of course. A bunch of common men ripped off his arms, legs, and head and burned him in a pile of rubbish near Brothshire Woods. Not that I blame them, since he wreaked havoc over Bitter, and other towns. Old men and women say that he was a serial killer of sorts, raping, sacrificing, and murdering boys, but written records will never admit such a horrifying label. The term serial killer didn’t exist then.”

“James was a warlock, right?”