Everything froze and I felt horrified seeing my dad in the doorway.

He stood with a hand against the door frame terror plastered across his face. I'd seen something when he caught me stealing a cookie before dinner, but this was definitely worse.

“Dad I-,” I managed to get out as he rushed over, closed the Internet and locked the screen. My skin felt like ice. There was no denying what I had seen The closer he got, the worse I felt. My cheeks flushed and my stomach ached.

Dad rarely raised his voice to discipline, he was calm and gentle, traits people loved in their doctors, and its what I loved in my dad. Nicholas Capet, a tall man, with a decent muscular build, and wavy brown hair. A narrow jaw and rectangular glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose; one of three pairs he puts to use. For several minutes he didn’t say a word, or even look at me. But he honestly didn’t need too because the silence said so much more.

He wasn’t angry about my disobedience. He, the adult and role model in my life was genuinely scared for my safety and right now, he was letting it show.

“How long has this been going on Dad?” my voice wavered with my eyes glued to the screen, half expecting it to sprout arms, jaws and tail and jump off the desk and attack me.

He sighed, let his head hang while tapping his fist against the desk multiple times, “Too long. It’s why I stopped getting newspapers, and why we haven’t had a working TV.”

“Dad, Angela was supposed to be in my English class.” I said exasperated, “I thought her family moved away. She’s not a witch. She-”

“I know Crimson,” Dad replied gently moving my head to his shoulder and pulling me tight, my tears staining his lab coat. I shook and felt rattled. If someone in my school could be accused. My hands trembled, as I gripped dad's coat. I doubled over, my stomach felt knotted. I closed my eyes and tried to relax, but tiny noises from the hallway made me jump.

Each time I twitched, Dad hummed and pulled me tighter.

I sniffed and choked on my emotions, “They said her name dad. If she got blamed for witchcraft, what’s to stop them from catching me?”

Dads reply was quick, he let me go and looked me right in the eye, “Me for starters love. I may not be a super star, but your old man can hold his own in a fight.”

Keeping a hold of my hand, he leaned me back in the chair and knelt beside me, “Crimson, you’re a spit fire, like your mother. I didn't tell you about this, because I wanted to make sure I understood what was going on. Everyone is terrified of something. Man or woman, ghost or ghoul, dragon or werewolf, ogre or fairy, witch and wizard. It doesn’t matter the person or the power. Because none of us are truly invincible.”

He let out several short breaths which helped me relax and compose myself. He had a soft touch, and his fingers were never cold. I smiled through my tears as he spoke in soft controlled voice. “Tell me Crimson, what have I always said is the trick to survival?”

He gave me a wink which made me laugh, dad always seemed able to bring conversations around to his rolodex of advice. I sniffed wiping my nose on my sleeve before giving a reply, “Never give them a reason to fear you.”

“That’s my girl.”

Planting a soft kiss on my forehead. Straightening up, he adjusted his lab coat, swapping out his square frames for circular ones, which he promptly put on before extending his hand for me to take. It probably looked silly for me to take my daddy’s hand at my age. What teenage girl does that? Honestly, in the moment I didn’t really care, I wanted it. “With all of that in mind, would you like to help me finish a few things before we go home?”

“You bet I do.” I needed a break, and the chance to use magic certainly lightened my mood enough to steer away from the looming thought of imminent death. My fingertips shimmered with neon energy, as we left the office. With Dad in the lead we headed down a hallway towards the lab, a room separated from the hallway with swinging metal doors compared to the wooden ones used by the offices. Swiping his card, he quickly ducked inside a room labeled storage, and a minute later strode out with a small lab coat, safety glasses, a pair of purple latex gloves, unlike the typical black he liked to wear.

Once I had everything situated, Dad held out a hair tie pinched between two fingers, I eyed the gesture with a sly smile. Turning around, with one smooth motion, dad took the tie and my hair then proceeded to put my shoulder blade length red hair in place and secure it into a workable ponytail suitable for our upcoming tasks.

“Old habit thanks to your mother.” He said sarcastically. “She always said, if we have a daughter, you’ll thank me for all the feminine secrets. You ready?”

“Ready” I shot back with an affirmative, excited nod. But a bit nervous to question what he meant by saying feminine secrets.

Together we headed into the morgue, every time dad allowed me to come inside the lab deep down in my heart; I had always found it surprisingly exciting. Unlike Dad’s office and hallways all furnished with standard carpet and chairs, with wood trim along the bottom edge of the walls, a few paintings depicting city skylines and nature scenes hung near the door and in the corner, next to a row of filing cabinets. Dad’s lab had the hard-core sci-fi appeal. Each surgical bay as he referred to them, had an extensive tool display equipped with HD video monitors, virtual X-rays, and uplinks to local and federal agency databases to provide each individual case a detailed analysis and case notes within a few hours, rather than a few days or a month as it used to happen.

Dad held out a hand to stop me from going forward, “Wait right here Crimson.”

Before us, beyond an archway dividing the examination bays from the cold storage crypt, or the long lines of polished sliver doors where corpses were kept during ongoing investigations. “I need to figure out where Doctor Barnes put the latest case.”

Whistling an upbeat tune, Dad began his search, starting to sway and tap his feet as he scanned each door’s label. Now, some people would be concerned about dad bring me in here, and the first time he’d done so had certainly been nerve-racking. Seriously, there are reasons things are hidden beneath the skin. Yet, those first few visits were the days where I got to know my dad and who he really was, and he taught me how to use magic.

Turning on his heels he smiled warmly and motioned for to come to him. His smile and friendly bearing, Dad usually had people refer to him as hopelessly optimistic, contagiously encouraging. He wasn’t just an odd doctor and a wacky parent. He rightly deserved the title, maybe even a reward for the most respected and brilliant American wizard. He worked as a doctor by profession, a coroner by circumstance, and whenever a supernatural entity required medical help, they’d call him, and regardless of the hour he would come to their aid.

“Just in case,”

Dad reached into pocket, and with a clenched fist he waved a hand in an arched motion, red energy drifting from the gaps between his fingers. Like dust on a breeze, the energy flew to several direction rippling like waves on water as it vanished from view.

“Now we talk freely.” Dad snapped his fingers and smiled, “Ah here she is, another poor soul.”

Another poor soul, dad never really came off as particular religious, but he always conducted his examinations with a priestly reverence. When I started helping him several months earlier, he always said the same thing, I never knew anything about the body, not even a name. Nevertheless, no matter who his subject had been, and what they looked like, healthy, or sickly. Rich or poor. Local for foreigner, he must have felt the phrase poor soul was like a mantra or a motto; something to keep his thoughts in order and to treat the body respectfully because he always believed people never deserved to die. I often wondered why he was so thoughtful, but when I’d asked he’d changed the subject. He never seemed upset when I asked. However, his personality always changed, like a coping skill or defense mechanism. Either way, the memory and experience left a lingering mystery in the back of my mind.

Clickclickclickclick, went the drawer on its tracks as dad pulled the body out. Catching a glimpse of nail polish visible on the exposed feet, a tag dangling from her toe tied with a piece of plain string. A white sheet covered her face, partially obscuring her features. Yet the material under the labs light appeared strikingly translucent almost like a wedding veil. I shivered but quickly composed myself as dad pulled a tray over, complete with his tools and a leather journal. With an all too familiar look he rubbed his hands together, the sign he was ready to begin.

“Alright Crimson, before we get started, let’s have a pop quiz,” he shot me a sly smile as he positioned his journal on a plastic stand sitting on a second tray elevated slightly higher than the first. Settling on a blank page, dad chewed on his lip and flexed his fingers and he prepared his first question. This was a usual habit, predictable and expected. I raised my eyes and kept my eyes fixed on him, ready to offer one of a dozen possible answers.

“Crimson what is the source of our power?”

I smiled widely. Dad liked to quiz me while we worked through together. He did it often enough, this time the answer came almost at once. “Magic comes from an aura or mystic energy thriving on what you’ve described as another plane or dimension that exists outside of our own.”

“Pretty much,” Dad said with a satisfied shrug, “However it’s a fairly strong dictionary definition. We need to bear in mind, for instance I’ve always like to think along with others who believe magic exists in another dimension, and they zealously search for a gateway. Though, I’m skeptically about the gateway part. While that is possible, and interesting, I believe our magic thrives right here.”

He tapped his heart several times, “Magic comes from within. Somehow, we are linked to it and we can use it for a variety of reasons. Beyond that, I guess you can pick the theory you like the best.”

I considered my words before speaking. “Dad, do you not agree with these theories?”

Dad gave a head wobble as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his wrist, “Magic isn’t an exact science, so yes and no. I’m inclined to think magic is more like a craft. With practice we can create amazing illusions and protect ourselves with the elements and manipulations of energy. One of the reasons why we have it, is to be able to explore and protect ourselves in the process. Which brings me to my next question, how many, and what are the anchors of magic?”

Sporting a cocked eyebrow and a cheeky grim I replied with confidence, “Nurturing, concealment, offensive, defensive and experimentation.”

Dad nodded his approval, “Why do we use the Anchor theory when it would probably be easier to focus on one talisman, like a staff or wand?”

This question caused me to shiver taking me back to the news report from earlier, and more so how it directly connected to the Salem history. “After the first witch trials, our ancestors hoped to avoid a second. They created a system to allow us the ability to practice magic with a minimal risk of discovery. A plausible way to blend in.”

“Keep going,” Dad said.

I took a deep breath and cleared my throat, “the traditional mythology of things like pointy hats, brooms, black cats, warts, wands and love potions became stereotypical as a marketing stunt and distraction. It worked at first, but it became tricky when the image became so well connected to Halloween and the modern gothic and occult subcultures. The theory encourages a change to more generic and traditional instruments to obscure the use of magical abilities.”

“Well done,” Dad replied pulling out a gold pocket watch. “Anything a witch or wizard wants to use, especially something personal with a serious emotional connection, can be employed as an anchor. I wouldn’t risk having multiple anchors with you at one time especially while in public, you may never know who is watching. Now watch closely and you’ll do it on the next corpse, alright?”

“I’m ready,” I said turning my attention to the corpse. He hadn’t removed the sheet, but I knew exactly what he was about to do.

Dad closed his eyes and suspended his pocket watch over the corpse, with the chain coiled around his pointer finger. The watch case looked like a dragon twisting its body around a large red ruby that sparkled in the overhead lights. With slight movements in his wrist, the watch swung back and forth and with several steady beats the gem started to glow.

“Galmas,” he murmured in a soft musical tone that carried from his lips in a cloud of energy. It hung in the air like a mist then rained down onto the body and the sheet covering it. He had a rich baritone voice, soothing and warm. Keeping my eyes on the sheet as the watch swung back and forth like a pendulum dissolving the glamour—a magic charm that visually and audibly concealed ones true nature from the magically uneducated. The white sheet rippled and popped like being blown by a fan. Satisfied, the watch chain jingled as dad slipped it into his pocket and with an inquisitive expression, he moved around the table and pulled the sheet back revealing the body of a young woman, she had gentle features, like the happy preschool teacher every kid would want or a hair dresser.

Energy traced every line of every feature. Her brown hair and high cheekbones vanished and were replaced with curved horns protruding from her forehead. Her skin stiffened, the magic rolling over her extremities revealing layered scales covering her arms, legs, neck and face.

In awe I gasped as the scales shimmered with technicolored membranes before setting on a soft lavender tone. The woman’s nose angled and lengthened with two long slits at the end. Her fingers curved and became long black rock-like claws about two inches in length.

Taking his journal in hand, he started to circle the examination table. He moved his glasses, filled through his journal, before he leaned closer and started to take notes while doing a few illustrations.

“Have you ever seen a dragal before?”

I shook my head, “You’ve talked about them before. She is basically a dragon, right?”

Dad shook his head, “Only in appearance, ah I’m getting old and forgetful. I left my magnifying glass on my desk. Would you go get it?”

“Of course.” I said, taking his keycard and hurrying back down the hallway and into the office. Hastily I replaced the chair then pulled out the top drawer shuffling through the papers. Dad always kept things neat and organized. I loved his office, and I loved the time I got to spend with him. As I withdrew the magnifying glass, however my eyes fell on a newspaper wedged between his computer monitor and a stack of files. Even with a crease, I knew exactly what the headline said: GREEN SKY, WHO KNOWS WHY?