Witches of Ash and Ruin

by E. Latimer

  Dayna watched this exchange, a bitter, ashy sort of taste growing in her mouth. He’d pulled her away so quickly, and the way he was looking at Fiona now…it was strange.

  The entire thing was strange, actually. For years she’d snuck into the guest room and stared at the pictures on the wall, wondering what Fiona had been like before she’d grown sick and left. And now here she was in the flesh, and she was nothing like Dayna had imagined. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but she didn’t feel anything when she looked at her. Maybe a faint sense of trepidation.

  Suddenly she was quite certain she didn’t want to be here. Not with the reverend, and certainly not with this strange woman she didn’t recognize.

  She turned, stepping into the hallway. “I think I need a minute.”

  The reverend frowned. Stepping forward, he took her arm and bent close, dropping his voice low. “Listen, Dayna, she’s here because she’s better. We can finally be a family again.”

  She clamped her lips shut, even though she wanted to tell him she knew what he was trying to do, and that it wasn’t going to work. It was too late. He couldn’t absolve himself of guilt or make things better by trying to make them a family again. He had irreversibly screwed that up three months ago.

  Besides, she already had a family, and he wasn’t a part of it.

  Dayna turned on her heel, blood thundering in her ears. “I’m sorry, I can’t do this. I’m going back to Reagan’s.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t—”

  There was a soft shuffle from the kitchen, and Fiona’s voice drifted from the doorway. “Anthony?”

  The reverend paused, clearly torn. Then he shook his head. “Be home by ten.”

  Dayna drove aimlessly. Down the highway and onto the back roads. She had no idea where she was going, but it felt good to be heading…away. Out of the village and into the green plains of the countryside. The wind blew her hair back and filled her lungs, and she breathed in, the turmoil of her emotions starting to dissolve bit by bit, her hands becoming steadier on the wheel. A bend in the road revealed the open skyline, and just above the rolling fields was the quarter moon.

  Dayna frowned. Seeing the moon during the day wasn’t that unusual, but it seemed so much larger than it should have been, as if it had moved closer to the earth in the last few hours. And it was red, a deep crimson that, Dayna noted uneasily, was precisely the color of blood.

  She pulled up to a stop sign, letting the car idle.

  She couldn’t help remembering what Bronagh and Grandma King had both said: Something dark is coming.

  She wanted to keep driving, to pretend it was nothing. It was campfires and smoke in the air, or a season thing…a blood moon. You could google it and pull up charts about when the moon waned and waxed, what was a wolf moon and what was a blood moon.

  But she knew what a bad omen looked like. Ravens, dead cows, blood moons. Serious juju, wasn’t that what Reagan called it?

  Her concentration was broken a second later by movement in her rearview mirror, and Dayna jumped. There was a sleek black car behind her, waiting to turn at the stop sign. She’d been sitting there staring at the sky like an idiot. She jammed the gearshift, and the hatchback jerked forward with a wheezy cough.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  DUBH

  “Do you see this?” The car in front of him, a red hatchback with black doors, lurched forward. Dubh kept his gaze fixed on it, waiting while the car turned and began to head back into Carman.

  There was no way he was about to lose her gawking at the moon.

  “Yeah.” His brother’s voice on the phone was a low growl. “We knew that was coming. Just get here already. Where are you?”

  He tapped the gas, jetting through the stop sign before slowing. The witch seemed to be driving aimlessly, even recklessly. “This witch is on the list—”

  “I told you,” Calma said sternly. “The book first. We need to confirm she’s one. We can’t keep going on animal instinct, as much as that might appeal to you.”

  There was a distant cackle in the background, and a muscle in Dubh’s jaw twitched as Olc said, “Tell him he’s not the Butcher of Manchester, scourge of the countryside, any longer.”

  Anger flashed through him. He’d told them not to call him that. It conjured images of savagery, when he was in fact, precise. Not surgical exactly, but he was getting better.

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Just get here,” Calma said. “And, Dubh, don’t touch her until I give you the go-ahead.”

  The call cut out, and Dubh ripped the phone away from his ear, slinging it onto the passenger side, where it cracked into the door.

  How like his brothers to come into town and take over the whole operation. To take what was rightfully his. This was his mission, and his witch to kill. One of his brothers would inevitably try to take her away from him, like they always did. But this time he wasn’t going to let it happen.

  The girl in the beat-up car was something special, and he was going to have her.

  His tongue slipped over his tooth, the jagged canine on the left side. That had been a good fight. He needed another one, soon. He could feel the need burning his insides, slowly creeping into his head. When it happened, his vision began to turn, a slight blur at first, crimson around the edges.

  Again he glanced up at the skyline, at the low-hanging moon. This was not his vision. It was the cycle kicking into gear, as it always had. As it always would until his goal was accomplished.

  The judge had been boring. Easy to lure in and overcome. There had been no joy in it, but it was a catalyst. Things were finally starting.

  That afternoon, Dubh found himself standing in the center of a crumbling stone castle, watching the sun sink past the horizon. Pinpricks of orange light stabbed his eyes through the cracks in the stones.

  “There’s nothing.” He glared around at the worn castle walls. “This is too open; she’d never leave the book here.”

  Calma, who’d been examining the moss-stained stones around them as if he expected the book to magically appear, gave Dubh a narrow look. “Have you remembered anything else?”

  The question only enhanced his bad mood. Dubh’s fingers curled into fists at his sides. “No,” he hissed. “But I know we’re wasting time.”

  “You’re the one who said we should look at sacred sites.” Calma lowered his voice as a group of tourists was led past by a round-faced tour guide in a bulky vest. “And now you’ve better things to do?”

  He darted a sideways look at Olc, who appeared to be taking out his foul temper on the castle, chipping away at the wall with the blade of a rusted hunting knife. For a moment there was silence, punctuated by the patter of rain striking the stones. He looked down at the gaudy plastic flyer crumpled in his fist. Another crumbling castle full of tourists.

  That’s what this entire place was about, standing around staring at a great heap of bloody rocks.

  He could be hunting right now.

  Dubh longed for the days he did his work alone. When he’d hunted things that screamed and bled and pleaded with him. He’d hurtled through the underbrush, boughs breaking in his path, his hot breaths falling into rhythm to match his feet, Witchkiller clutched in his hand. He remembered long, wild hair in his fists and terrible screams, how they’d thrilled through his blood.

  He’d always hunted the women. The witches.

  For days he would be driven to track each of them, six at a time, always six. Sometimes one brother would be with him, sometimes both. But the best hunts were the ones he spent on his own.

  Once it was done there was the period of rest, of blackness, of void. Of this he remembered nothing. And each time he awoke, the cycle would begin again.

  This time, though, it was different. This time it was…complicated. The feeling that led him was strange, more urgent than ever before.

  And still, all he wanted to do was hunt.

  Instead, he was looking for a half-dreamed book in a crumbl
ing tourist trap.

  “Let’s go.” Olc jammed his knife back into his jacket, glancing up at the gray sky in disgust. “It’s pissing down rain again. Even the damn humans have enough sense to clear out.”

  Dubh glanced around the ruins, surprised to see Olc was right. They were the only ones left. There was only the patter of rain and the distant sound of muffled voices as people made their way back to the parking lot.

  “We sweep the place once more,” Calma said.

  The pure confidence in his voice—as if he expected, no, he knew he would be obeyed—grated on Dubh.

  “We’re wasting time. We should just go kill the witches,” Dubh said.

  “Why is murder always your answer to everything?” Olc sneered. Then he shrugged and turned to Calma. “But he’s right. This is fucking useless. Let’s go get food.”

  “You’re thinking with your gut again,” Calma grumbled. “We’re staying.”

  “How about you blow me,” Olc said, but he made no move to leave. This was the way it was. Olc was chaos. Calma was order. They fought constantly, but Calma put up with the insults as long as Olc did as he was told. And Dubh…Dubh was simply the youngest, always the bottom rung. Expected to go along with whatever his brothers said. To let his brothers take over his mission and make the decisions, to let them take the glory.

  But not this time.

  This was his time. His mission. And the freckle-faced witch was his.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CORA

  “If we joined covens, we could do the ascension,” Meiner said.

  Cora glared at her. Meiner had been pacing the floor of Cora’s guest bedroom for the past fifteen minutes.

  Cora wanted to ascend, probably more than Meiner. Knowing the other witchlings would have a head start on them, that their power would shift from a trickle to a flood and they would leave her behind in the minor leagues, well, it rankled. She’d been practicing actual spells for years, preparing for when she’d have the power, leaving simple crap like scrying and tarot behind. Card tricks and staring into bowls of water no longer held her interest, and praying to the gods in hopes that one of them cared enough to lend a trickle of power was demeaning. But it didn’t mean she wanted Reagan and Dayna in the coven.

  “We’re not joining,” Cora snapped. “We don’t need them.” Especially not the stupid tea girl. This she didn’t add, because she could already see the anger on Meiner’s face as she swung around to stare at her.

  “It’s the only way we could do our ascension.”

  “Who exactly are you trying to convince? It’s not like either of us is calling the shots here.” She knew her voice sounded sullen; she couldn’t help it. The coven should be hers when Grandma King died, not Meiner’s. For multiple reasons, number one being that it was her birthright. Her mother had been the leader when Cora was very young. She’d died suddenly, and without warning, and Grandma King had stepped into the role and never left. But that meant she, Cora, should be the next in line when the old woman was gone. It was only fair.

  Besides, she knew Meiner better than she knew herself, and Meiner didn’t actually want the coven. She dreaded the thought of following in her grandmother’s footsteps. Cora could see the conflict on her face whenever the subject came up.

  Meiner turned away, falling silent, and Cora picked at the flower-print bedspread. Meiner had been pissed off since the meeting. Cora was, too, of course, but a part of her was at least happy about Meiner’s reaction to the whole thing. How she’d snapped at Dayna.

  Now there was no way anything would happen between them.

  Cora hated Meiner. But mostly, she hated the way Meiner made her feel. Full of spite and rage and hurt. But worst of all was the confusion. Cora was nearly always certain of what she wanted, except when it came to Meiner.

  She wanted to be Meiner, or she wanted to be with Meiner. Or…It was too much to even think about. It made the rage in the pit of her stomach reignite all over again.

  But as much as she hated to admit it, Dayna was exactly to Meiner’s taste: the splash of freckles over her cheeks, the delicate hoop of her nose ring, the curve of her lips. When she’d come around the corner at Sage Widow and turned her full attention on Cora, it’d been almost startling. Something about her eyes was terribly haunted. Of course Meiner was fascinated by her; she was probably painting some contrived picture of sweeping in to rescue her from something.

  Meiner could be annoyingly noble like that.

  Cora huffed a sigh and collapsed onto the bed. They were holed up in her guest room until suppertime, since neither of them was comfortable hanging around the kitchen with Reagan and her mother. She could hear them out there now. Apparently Reagan had grown too enthusiastic while gesturing with a wooden spoon, and flicked the contents

  of her mixing bowl all over the tapestry on the wall—“That took Bronagh hours to make. Gods, girl, you’ve got butter all over Lugh!”—and Cora didn’t feel like dealing with their annoyingly high levels of energy.

  They were in Cora’s room less out of choice and more out of habit. Cora was used to having the other girl around. They were cut from the same cloth, she and Meiner, ambitious and driven, burning with want.

  There was a shuffle and thump from outside in the hall, and both girls stiffened as Grandma King’s low muttering drifted past outside the door. Cora relaxed as the noise trailed off, and the thud of footfalls on the stairs followed.

  She darted a look at Meiner, who had relaxed back against the window frame.

  You had to be a special kind of fucked up to survive being raised by Harriet King.

  Man-eater, the rumors called her.

  The first time Meiner had told her was when Cora had just moved in. They’d been thirteen and fourteen, getting adjusted to staying in the same bedroom. She remembered how Meiner had looked leaning over the side of her bunk, her long white hair ghostly in the half darkness, telling horror stories about the old woman.

  She ate men to fuel her magic. She’d pledged herself to the devil. She had a freezer full of body parts in the basement.

  If asked straight out, both Cora and Meiner would tell you that, of course, they were just ridiculous rumors. But sometimes Cora would catch a certain look on the old woman’s face, a kind of dark glitter in her eyes. And neither girl ever ventured out of their bedroom at night.

  It was easier to brush things off that way. Like the shadows that lurked in the corners of the old house a little too long after sunrise, or the scrape and bump in the basement after everyone was in bed. If you didn’t look or listen too hard, it didn’t exist.

  They’d survived together.

  She kicked the side of the mattress with her heels, watching Meiner as she leaned forward to look out the window, white hair obscuring her face.

  “We should be the ones ascending tonight. We’ll be stronger than they will,” Cora said. “They haven’t had to struggle to survive. They’re not like us.”

  Meiner glanced back over her shoulder, frowning. “There is no us. Don’t try to pretend we’re some kind of team.”

  Cora narrowed her eyes at Meiner. Being disagreeable was Meiner’s way of dealing with her hurt, though she’d never admit it. She’d seen the look on her face when Grandma King had sided with the other witchlings. Cora wasn’t sure why Meiner had expected the old woman to back them up; she wasn’t that sort of person.

  Their coven was not like the Carman coven. She’d seen the pictures on the wall and nearly pulled a muscle rolling her eyes. A gathering of witches did not automatically equal a family. You did not go on picnics and pose for portraits. It was completely ridiculous. But of course Meiner was reacting badly to seeing the way they were. Like it was something she was missing out on.

  It shouldn’t surprise her. Again and again, she’d seen some small part of Meiner that hadn’t frozen over yet. Hadn’t hardened.

  That part made her weak. Would get her killed if she wasn’t careful.

  She closed the distance bet
ween them, leaning one shoulder against the window frame so Meiner was forced to look at her. “Don’t try to pretend. There’ll always be an us, whether you like it or not.”

  It hadn’t been Dayna who’d been there for Meiner so many times after her grandmother had screamed at her, or put her through some ridiculous ordeal for “training.” She distinctly remembered one incident before Gran had started turning senile. Cora hadn’t been sure of the details, but she’d heard Gran screaming, and Meiner had retreated to their bedroom with a bloody gash down her cheek. She’d refused to talk about it, but Cora knew the mark was from the raven skull ring the old woman wore.

  She still wasn’t sure who’d initiated the kiss, if it had been her or Meiner, but she knew what followed. They’d gone from roommates to more.

  Of course, that had ended as abruptly as it began once Gran poisoned Meiner’s mind, telling her Cora only wanted the coven. That she’d use anything to get power.

  It wasn’t a lie. Cora would do anything to get what she wanted. The fact that Meiner was incredibly hot was only a bonus.

  But of course, Meiner had played the saint, acting disgusted, as if she hadn’t been using Cora as much as Cora was trying to use her.

  That had been almost a year ago, and Meiner liked to pretend it hadn’t happened.

  Meiner’s face went dark. “If you’re referring to us being together, that’s never happening again.”

  Cora rolled her eyes and leaned closer. “Are you telling me you never think about it? Not once?”

  “Back off, Cora.” Meiner pushed herself away from the windowsill. Cora could see the tightness in her shoulders, the tic in her jaw, and the flush in her pale cheeks. She knew she shouldn’t poke the bear, but Meiner made it so easy.

  She stepped into Meiner’s path. “You know it will end up happening again. You can only take so much of your gran before you do something a little reckless. And you’ve got to admit—”

  Cora flinched when Meiner reached out and grasped her shoulders, expression full of unveiled fury. “You were a mistake, Cora. Get that into your head.” Meiner’s face was an inch away from hers, her voice a low, furious growl. “A moment of bad judgment and a personal low point for me. It’s never happening again.”