Paul knelt on the floor, cradling Nicola in his arms. His head was bowed, and I heard a shrill keening coming from him.

Blood pooled around him, and I stepped closer. That’s when I saw the deep slash on her throat. Ominously, I noticed that blood wasn’t flowing, just dripping from the wound. As I watched in horror, one droplet hung, falling in slow motion to land with a tiny splash in the pool beneath her.

I’d watched enough TV crime shows to know what it means when the blood is no longer spurting. Nicola was dead. We hadn’t been in time.

I had an idea and shifted my vision to the magical spectrum, trying to “read” the scene the way the witch had. Colors overwhelmed me, and I took a step back from the red, black and green t...

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