"Witch?"
Adrian glanced at the book in Clark's hands, his tone flat. "Since when did you start researching witches?"
Clark lifted the heavy book on medieval European witch hunts and gave it a small shake. "Honestly, I'm not really into the sensational side of witch culture. I prefer The Witcher series. Not Salem-style witches, but monster hunters. Andrzej Sapkowski's work. I just looked some things up online."
"Then why are you reading that?" Adrian asked, frowning slightly. "Bored?"
"I'm helping Lana," Clark replied. "I don't know why, but she's been really interested in witch-related history lately."
At the lockers, Clark slid the book inside and shut the door. "Especially seventeenth-century French witches. She's trying to find something specific."
"Did she tell you that?" Adrian asked.
"No. I offered to help. What she's looking for is mostly my guess," Clark admitted, then smiled faintly. "I've got time."
"Witchcraft is usually tied to dark magic," Adrian said calmly. "And magic does not care how strong you are. Your body won't shrug it off the way it does everything else."
Clark went quiet for a moment. "Dark magic," he repeated. "I've seen it used once. Whatever that power was, if I wasn't paying attention, I don't think I could stop it. That's why I want to understand it."
"Magic is borrowed power," Adrian replied. "And borrowed things always come with a price. Interest included."
He shut his locker and started to walk away. "Curiosity gets people killed, Clark. Try not to make it a habit."
Clark watched him go, his expression conflicted.
After school, Clark went looking for Lana, planning to talk to her about what he had found. Instead, he learned she had taken the afternoon off and gone home. The disappointment lingered longer than he liked.
At The Talon, Lana sat alone, a thick ancient book resting in her hands.
The spellbook was bound in gray parchment, its surface worn smooth by time. It radiated something subtle and unsettling.
"Lady Isabelle Thoreaux's spellbook," Lana murmured.
Since buying it online, she had barely put it down.
As she flipped through the pages, the symbols made her brow tighten. They felt familiar. Too familiar.
Memory or recognition, she could not tell.
At the center of the book lay a page stained dark with dried blood. A talisman was pressed into the parchment.
Lana reached out.
The moment her fingers touched it, a violent chill ran through her body.
Energy surged up her arm, flooding her veins.
The fireplace roared to life. Flames leapt upward, far stronger than before, nearly licking the top of the hearth.
Purple light flared in Lana's eyes.
She stood slowly, rolling her shoulders as the power settled into her body. Her smile widened, confident and cold.
"This body," she said softly. "Unexpectedly adequate."
The door burst open.
"Lana?" Nell Potter rushed in, alarmed. "Are you okay?"
The fire burned steadily now. Lana turned, smiling brightly.
"I've never felt better."
That evening at Kent Farm, Adrian focused on the beef stew in front of him with genuine appreciation. He rarely indulged, and he hated wasting good food.
His search for Lex had led nowhere so far. Mentally draining work. For now, he welcomed the quiet.
The flight path still bothered him. The plane had not followed its intended route. Whatever happened to Lex, it was deliberate.
"Clark," Jonathan said, "your mom tells me you've been reading up on mysticism."
"A little," Clark replied. "Just curiosity."
"Your father had a phase like that," Martha said with a smile. "He loved Margaret Oliphant's The Open Door. I used to read it to him in the hospital."
"It's an old ghost story," she added to Adrian. "Nothing flashy. Jonathan just likes it."
Jonathan coughed. "I've also been reading Adrian's book lately."
Martha raised an eyebrow. "You fall asleep within five minutes."
"I'm honored," Adrian said dryly. "If my writing helps Dad sleep, that's a public service."
Clark barely listened. His eyes were fixed on the book beside his plate.
One passage caught his attention.
During the peak of the seventeenth-century French witch hunts, Countess Isabelle Thoreaux was accused of practicing dark magic, sacrificing servants, and leading a coven. She and two others were burned at the stake.
Below the text was the family crest.
Clark's breath caught.
The symbol was identical to the one on Lana's kryptonite necklace.
At The Talon, Lana had already finished reading every book in the room. The world made sense now.
Her soul was no longer Lana Lang.
It was Isabelle Thoreaux.
Through blood magic and a binding pact, she had returned.
Her next goal was clear.
The following day, Chloe arrived at The Talon with her cousin, Lois Lane.
"Lana, this is my cousin, Lois," Chloe said. "She's staying with me while chasing a story."
"I followed a headline," Lois added, smiling. "Then I realized this town attracts weird like gravity."
Lana smiled pleasantly. "And what are you researching, Chloe?"
"Please tell me it's not witchcraft," Chloe joked.
"Scientific research," Lana replied smoothly.
"From which century?" Chloe teased, eyeing the antique equipment.
"The seventeenth," Lana said. "Outdated, but effective."
Chloe and Lois exchanged looks.
"I can't stand the smell in here," Chloe said. "I'll wait downstairs."
"Stay," Lana said gently. "I opened a bottle of wine for an upcoming gathering."
She poured three glasses.
Lois's eyes lit up. "Now you're speaking my language."
They drank.
Moments later, darkness swallowed Chloe and Lois.
Lana smiled.
"Welcome to the twenty-first century."