Chapter 3 — Three Laws, One Destiny (Lara)

A light rain fell over the city like a gray veil as I got off the bus in the old part of town. I held Agnes’s diary against my chest like a shield while searching for the address I had found on the final pages of the book.

The shop hid itself in a dark alley, its facade painted black, with only a discreet symbol of an eye inside a triangle painted on the door. The sign above simply read: “The Den of Shadows.”

The bell above the door tinkled softly as I entered. The interior was as dark as I had expected, smelling of incense, dried herbs, and something metallic — blood, perhaps? — which sent a shiver down my spine.

Crowded shelves displayed jars with ingredients named things like “Moon Powder” and “Siren Tears.” A black cat watched me intently from atop the counter, its yellow eyes following my every move.

“Looking for something specific, child?” A hoarse voice, sweet like poisoned honey, echoed from the depths of the shop.

The witch emerged from the shadows, as old as time itself, with silver hair that fell to her feet and eyes that seemed to know every secret in the universe. She wore a black dress that whispered against the wooden floor as she approached.

“Yes,” I answered, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “I need a voodoo doll.”

Her eyes narrowed, examining me as if she were reading my soul.

“For what purpose?”

“For…” I swallowed hard, my hands sweating. “For a binding spell.”

She let out a low, scornful laugh.

“Twenty years old and you think you’re ready to handle ancestral forces? The university doesn’t teach you about consequences, girl.”

“I know what I’m doing,” I lied, gripping the diary tighter.

The witch moved gracefully to a high shelf and picked up a small black cloth figure sewn with red threads.

“This is not an academic experiment. Once blood is spilled, the bond is eternal.”

“I understand the implications,” I said, reaching for my wallet.

“I doubt it,” she retorted, holding the doll out of my reach. “Blood spells are not one-way. They create a cycle. What you send out will return to you three times stronger. The obsession you invoke will consume the target… and then it will consume you.”

“I’m aware of the risks,” I declared, my heart pounding. “I still need it.”

She sighed, as if she had already had this conversation with many arrogant young people before.

“Very well. But remember the three laws: first, the doll must contain something from the target. Second, every needle you drive into it will also pierce your own soul. Third…” Her eyes darkened. “Once the spell is initiated, it can only be broken by death or madness.”

I paid with more than half of my allowance. When her bony hands delivered the doll, a strange energy ran through my fingers.

“It is yours now,” the witch whispered, her fingers wrapping around my wrists with surprising strength. “But reflect: do you really want to be loved by someone who has no free will?”

I left the shop with the doll hidden under my coat, the witch’s question echoing in my mind. The rain had stopped, but the sky remained gray.

When I got home, my parents didn’t even notice my arrival. I ran upstairs to my room, locked the door, and placed the doll on my bed. It looked harmless, just a cloth doll, but I could feel the power pulsing within it.

I opened Agnes’s diary to the right page. The instructions were clear: I would need a personal object from Dorian, a strand of his hair… and my own blood.

The next day in the literature department, I couldn’t pay attention to anything but him. When he leaned over my desk to discuss my assignment, my heart raced. His hair smelled of mint shampoo and old books.

“Professor…” I said, my voice coming out softer than I intended. “You have a strand of hair… here.”

He touched his own hair, distracted, while I reached out and, with quick movements, took a silver strand that glistened at his temple.

“Thank you, Lara,” he said, unsuspecting, as I closed my fingers around my treasure.

That night, with the full moon shining through my window, I prepared the ritual. I placed the strand of hair inside the doll, sewing it with red thread exactly as the diary instructed.

I took my ritual knife — a sixteenth birthday gift from Grandma Agnes — and made a shallow cut in my palm. The blood flowed hot and alive, and I let it drip onto the cloth heart of the doll.

“May he want me…” I whispered, and drove the first needle into the doll’s chest. “As I want him.”

A sharp pain pierced my own chest, but I smiled through the tears. The witch had been right — the spell was already affecting me. But I didn’t care. For the first time in my life, I felt like I had control over something.

And in that moment, control was worth any price.