Simon groaned. “Oh, crap. Not him …”

“Yes, Cousin,” came a voice from the shadows. “I have returned!”

From the darkness appeared a boy of about twelve, looking like he had just wandered away from a Thanksgiving Parade. He wore a stiff, white collar over a black doublet with black knee-length breeches, white stockings and shiny black shoes with big, silver buckles. The boy’s inky-black hair was cut short and straight across his forehead, but it curled upward above his ears, giving the impression of horns. He was pale with features sharp and sinister; lips twisted into a permanent contemptuous sneer.

“My, the look of shock upon your face is simply priceless, Cousin!” the boy cackled, clapping his hands together in childish glee. “You and that hag thought you had rid yourselves of me for good, did you? But you should have known that my power is limitless and my vengeance knows no bounds… for I am Klarion… The Witchboy!”

Simon rolled his eyes. “You are SO lame. And I am not your frakkin’ Cousin.”