You can call it Hocus Pocus, you can call it Magic, but when the sorcery of ages past calls forth a spell woven through the sisterhood, it is difficult for the forces of nature to ignore. That spell will be granted. A spell of black magic had been cast. The call came unexpectedly, but at the necessary time. Our sorceress, her great psychic ability challenged, called up a spell for the sake of love...a Love Spell, perchance. That particular night, the words were woven, the die was cast. The witch chanted...carefully, the words she had conjured up. This was important...someone was in need. The spell of love rose up over the skyscrapers. The sultry glowing red mist was seen for hundreds of miles away. Weaving in and around the tall buildings it lent to the fun and mystery of the city. Some people looked at it as something odd, but in a city like this nothing was beyond the norm. Magic was everywhere. One might have thought someone was filming. The networks were always captivating their audiences. It was just another ordinary day in the "Big Apple." If one thought it to be unusual, it was never reported. Pilots did comment on the strange red glow. Captains in the harbor guided their ships through the mist. Only Miss Liberty noticed the workings of a sister, a witch, but then, of course, she had nothing to say. Susanna and Jayden swam there in the water off the coast of Brittany, France. They made love there in the crested waves. He held her...he kissed her...but most of all he loved her. His touch as always set her on fire. Her blood began to boil...bubble bubble...oh, what trouble? He guided her hands down. And then she touched his source...his magnificent power. They held each other...clung to each other. This was their great love. And then she found herself back in the castle...Croix's castle. She was trying to escape...somehow her magic did not work anymore. She was in love! That love was her downfall. She could not conjure up any more magic. She was captivated...under his spell. His eyes were dark and diabolic. They flashed with the very fire from the depths of Hell. He looked at her and just his glance burned a hole through her flesh and into her soul. He was her master. His hand tightened and they surged forward. There was no escape. He had fought, even killed for her. He had sought out the dark side. She was his...she had always been his. She would never belong to anyone else, be they man or devil. All the hatred, locked away for two hundred years, had been loosed by his sword. His brother, his mirror image, had been sent to Purgatory. He would burn there forever but never be consumed. Her hand trembled, and she seemed to falter. He grabbed her...this was no time for innocence. Their destiny lay up those stairs...in the Bridal Chamber. And she would, most certainly, without any doubt, be his bride! But then, again, exactly whose bride would she be?