"Animam remito!" says WitchLana. It may be that she's talking about my cousin, Anibal Benito. We pan from the page of the now-soiled book to the small of WitchLana's back, where the familiar tattoo we've come to grow weary of recently is suddenly burned into her back. Sybolism! Literally. "Demon!" the magistrate says. WitchLana just starts cackling. It's not a bad cackle as cackles go. It's actually pretty cacktacular. WitchLana's homegirls aren't cackling. They're thinking about what it'll be like to smell like mesquite-smoked barbecue in about five minutes. The two of them are whining and begging for their lives. The magistrate calls each of them by name, and I forget them as soon as they're out of his mouth, except for Countess Theroux. He says the three of them are accused of practicing the darkest arts. Producing The Swan? "Witchcraft." Oh. He says it's an affront to God, and that they're condemned to burn in the fires of Hell. It's nice of Satan to rent out his fires to France. You really don't want to skimp when you're subcontracted fires of Hell. There's a guy in Budapest, but what you get in discounts you lose in quality brimstone. "...of which you so eagerly seek communion," the magistrate finishes. Like John Kerry at the churches in Florida? WitchLana smiles her witchy smile.
The magistrate nods at his right-hand fire guy. The fire guy, eager to step up to The Show, lights their pyre while singing under his breath, "Come on baby, light my pyre..." "You think this ends with a lick of flame?" WitchLana asks. You mean it doesn't? I guess we could let boars digest your ashes or scatter you into the henhouse or something. We really weren't prepared with a post-witch exit strategy, to be honest. WitchLana says she sleeps but a while, and that her hair will awaken her. Yeah, I imagine it would get pretty tangled and in her face in the morning and...oh, her heir. Heir. Hmm. "And I will have VENGEANCE!" she cries. No, no, haven't you seen Braveheart? You want "FREEDOM!" Or am I thinking of that Al Pacino movie? "ATTICA!" Maybe you should settle for ATTICA!, because I'm not sure you're gonna get VENGEANCE! anytime soon. She cackles some more. The magistrate thinks, "Man, this is one seriously fucked-up chick." More cackling. We zoom out and get an overhead view of the CGI flames engulfing the three French chicks. Nice lighter fluid they had back then.
As the sad "poor crispy witches" music plays, we transition to the flames of a fireplace. The camera goes out of focus for a moment and settles on a now-all-too-familiar tattoo on the small of a very annoying girl's back. Ah yes. The how-you-say? Lana Lang. Jason and Lana Lang are sitting by a very fashionable and decidedly un-Kansan pipe fireplace in her apartment. Jason is asking about a package she's opening that she bought on eBay. Lana says it's from some old guy auctioning it off from Nice. Well that's nice. Lana tells Jason that she had to max out her credit card to get it, but that she couldn't help it because it was calling to her. Jason, who just got fired, is thrilled that his underage girlfriend just spent all her credit on some dumb-ass book. Lana pulls out an aged spellbook from the too-neat bubble wrap. It's the same book Isabelle Theroux spat on earlier. Mmm, I wonder what happens to a bloody loogie after four hundred years. There are symbols on the outside of the book. Jason notes that they look similar to the ones in the cave. Just once I'd like for something on this show to be in Sanskrit or Hebrew or something. Lana says maybe it'll explain what happened when she touched the symbol on the Countess's tomb in Paris. Yes, Lana, the book was written just for you to get some closure on your museum visits. That's surely what the French were thinking about foremost in the seventeenth century.