The sound of screams shattered the early morning stillness of the small Bel Air neighborhood. Bill Barrington leapt out of bed and pulled on a coat. The screams were coming from his mansion, he realized. His stubby legs whisked him past the living room and down the hallway to his son’s room. Inside, his wife was on her knees beside the bed. She had stopped screaming now. Her face was buried in the motionless body that lay on the bed.

Bill stumbled over to her. “Bertha!!” He seized her shoulders and shook. “Bertha!! What the hell is going on!”

His wife’s pale face turned towards him. Her vacuous, listless eyes seemed to stare at everything and nothing in particular. He would certainly not be getting answers from her.

But a quick glance at the body told him everything he needed. His fears over the past three days had come true. Ben Barrington’s skin was a shriveled, stony gray, save for purple splotches that were forming around his lips and eyes. His breathing was shallower than a puddle of water on the sidewalk. Bill could feel the body sucking all the warmth out of the room; the hand was colder than ice to the touch. He grabbed his son’s wrist. The pulse was faint, and fading fast.

A horde of butlers and maids and private security staff pressed against the doorway, each person fighting and climbing over one other to catch a glimpse of what was going on. Outside, a clamor of cars and footsteps could be heard fast approaching. His nosy neighbors were already here. The tabloids and media would soon follow.

“What are you staring at!” he barked at the servants. “Make sure none of the bastards outside get within 100 feet of the fence.”

“Yes, sir!” all shouted in unison. The crowd began to scurry away. One maid, however, was fumbling with her phone. She was trying to call 911! He snatched the phone out of her hand.

“Shouldn’t we at least call a doctor?” the maid protested.

“I’ll handle it,” said Bill. With his son in this condition, he knew the regular cops and paramedics were useless. Bringing them over would only invite uncomfortable questions about his life, then about his encounter with that witch, then about everything following that encounter that led up to his son turning into a raisin. Then everything he said and did would make the rounds, and then the media would pounce on the story and destroy the precious good life that he had built for himself. There was no way he could let that happen.

But there was one place he could call. In fact, he knew they could not possibly refuse a request from him, and, if he showered them with enough money, would be more than happy to keep his secrets safe. He was the top benefactor of the Collegium of Sorcerers’ classified lethal potions research program, after all. Perhaps, all of his donations and his schmoozing with the Collegium’s higher-ups will finally pay off today.

“I’ll be borrowing this,” he said to the maid, holding up her phone. “Go help the others.” She bowed and left the room.

He began to dial a number – a number only he knew, a number that had previously granted him audiences and receptions with the world’s most powerful sorcerers, and a number that was now the only hope for saving his son, yes, but also his own skin.

“Enrico,” he said. “It’s me. I need you to do me a favor.”