Roughly translated from the original Latin, Malleus Maleficarum meant the Hammer of the Witches. In fact, the “hammer” was a book-an instructional manual written by a pair of inquisitors by the names of Heinrich Kramer and James Sprenger. In its day, it had been the one true and official guidebook for the persecution of accused Witches and heretics.

The language did not matter, however. Whether scribed in Latin or English, the tome was most definitely not my favorite piece of literature.

At the time of Porter’s original killing binge, I’d been asked by Ben to consult on the case because of a symbol found carved into the flesh of the first victim. My own spiritual path and studies of various religious practices had helped my best friend solve a crime before, so I guess I had seemed like a natural choice at the time.

The truth is that unbeknownst to me, I was already being sucked into it by an ethereal beckoning. Once I became directly involved on this plane, those forces came to bear with a vicious intensity. After that, it had all been downhill for me.

Much to Ben’s horror, I had even ended up becoming one of Porter’s prey; on a very foggy night, on a pedestrian bridge spanning the Mississippi River, February last, the self-proclaimed “Hand of God” had almost succeeded in making me his seventh victim.

“Yo, white man, you okay?” Ben asked.

It took a moment for the words to register, and I realized that I was just staring at him. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine. You were kinda zoned there for a minute.”

“Have you looked in a mirror?” I asked in retort.

“Yeah. Funny. Ya’know, I’m still not all that keen on you bein’ here, Row,” was his answer. “Felicity either.”