Witches of Ash and Ruin

by E. Latimer

  “There’s someone downstairs, a woman, I think. We’d best be on our way.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CORA

  Cora stared around the empty parking lot. In the distance she could see the sloping concrete walls of the skate park across the lawn, through the thinning forest.

  She knew the reason she’d been banished here, why she hadn’t been allowed to go with Dayna and Meiner to find the brothers. Because she’d disobeyed Grandma King; she hadn’t followed her instructions like a good little witchling.

  And the other reason. Because she was supposed to be hunting her sacrifice. She still hadn’t picked someone, and the goddess was stirring within her, restless. This was the last step before her ascension, and she was running out of time.

  The thought made her throat tighten, and she swallowed hard and stalked across the concrete lot. She’d picked this spot because it was an older skate park. No one came here anymore, and she needed to be alone to work up her nerve.

  She crossed the lawn, the strap of her duffel bag heavy on one shoulder, the silence of her surroundings filling her head. The sun had dimmed now, and fog was beginning to roll in as she passed through the forested area, but there were lights above the park. Enough light to set up an altar.

  The ritual would calm her, she told herself, help her find her center. Prepare her for what she had to do. It was almost out of habit that she started to set up the ceremony, drawing the six-sided star with chalk from her bag, dragging the knife across her wrists one more time, feeling the blood drip between her fingers. Once again, as she got to the last few words in the chant, she felt the surge of power and stumbled to a halt. For a minute she considered spitting out the last word, just…finishing the spell. Gran wouldn’t tell her what it would do, but she was sure it was the next level after her ascension. A way to get more power than the others would have. So maybe she could just skip straight to it….

  But Gran kept saying she would know when the time came. That she had to be patient. Cora drew in a deep breath and let it out, frustrated. She opened her eyes, letting the last word wither on her lips.

  The place was eerie in the evening, its concrete ramps casting long shadows into the center, her every move echoing off the grafittied walls.

  She finished the next ritual faster than usual, less carefully. Probably the crimson liquid had stained her teeth in her hurry. She didn’t care.

  Her hands were shaking.

  Give me the strength to do this, she begged.

  There was no answer, and Cora curled her fingers in the fabric of her dress, resisting the urge to smash the glass basin on the concrete. Why was the goddess always showing up at the least opportune times, but when she wanted her, she was nowhere to be found?

  A few minutes of silence and then she shot to her feet, snatching up the candles. I can’t do this.

  She’d just thrown the contents of her altar back into the bag when the heat blazed through her, making her double over, palms on her thighs. Cora gasped, blinking back tears. It felt like molten lava had been pumped through her veins, and she staggered forward, knees striking the pavement hard.

  It took longer to fade this time, and Cora was finally left on the pavement on her hands and knees, shaking and gasping for air. The anger that surged through her was almost as bad, and she ground her teeth, letting out a low growl.

  She had to do this soon.

  The echo of voices across the open space jerked Cora upright, and she blinked around at the cracked concrete walls. The nearest one had been emblazoned with Tiocfaidh ár lá. Our day will come.

  She remained completely still. In the silence, the sound came again, laughter and the clamor of deep voices. She scrambled to her feet and snatched up her bag, and then relaxed as a group emerged from the trees. Kids, nothing more. Barely out of high school.

  There were four of them, three boys and a girl. The boys were one and the same, sloppy replicas in matching wide-brimmed hats and torn jeans, passing a cigarillo back and forth as they moved across the grass, smoke leaking from lips and nostrils. The girl was in the midst of them, a sheep among wolves, tall and fine-boned in a low-cut powder-blue sundress. The boys ringed her as they walked, subconscious body language all turned in on her, honed like hunting dogs scenting blood. It made Cora’s skin crawl.

  The group was halfway across the lawn before they spotted her, and the tall girl in their midst was forgotten as their gazes refocused on Cora. She kept her expression blank, feeling their eyes trail across her body, hungry and unapologetic. Together they were brave.

  Cora hitched her bag higher on her shoulder. She kept walking, meeting the tallest one’s gaze. His smile was sharp-edged and a little horrible if you looked past the boyish features and down to the truth of him.

  Cora did not correct course. She did not look away. The magic pulsed inside her, and she could turn him to ashes if she pleased.

  They passed one another, and the conversation died. The tall girl glared at Cora as they moved by. She did not like her dogs baying after another fox, Cora thought. Her mouth tasted sour.

  The tallest boy paused, still smiling that smile. Smoke trailed from his nostrils as he flicked the stump of the cigarillo into the grass between them. “Smile, beautiful. Your face is too perfect to scowl at a bloke like that.”

  Cora’s mouth was still filled with the copper-and-rust taste of blood. Her teeth felt coated in it, as if the gore had stuck in the cracks.

  She smiled.

  The boy’s smirk faltered. His skateboard hit the grass soundlessly at his feet and he froze on the spot. His friends didn’t seem to notice the way he was staring; maybe the dim light hid his expression. They barked with laughter and elbowed one another.

  “Pete, you dog.”

  “Get her number, yeah?”

  She could do this, couldn’t she? The final step to ascension.

  The others kept walking, leaving their friend frozen, blinking in shock, his eyes wide and white in the dim light. His gaze was locked on Cora’s face. He looked somehow paralyzed. His fingers twitched at his sides, as if he were desperately trying to move his body. Cora frowned at him.

  For one beat, two, she didn’t understand.

  And then the voice in her head came, like the rasp of scales against silk.

  Give him to me. He is perfect.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  DUBH

  It had been too long since he’d last killed a witch.

  The urge was back, and as they sat outside the house of threes, he almost trembled with anticipation. He had a score to settle with this one.

  “I want the final blow,” he said. Again, his tongue went back to his chipped tooth, probing the sharp, uneven edges. He wasn’t particularly happy the other two were coming with him. He did his best work alone, and this was personal, but they’d insisted.

  “If you can even get close enough.” Olc twisted in his seat to sneer at him. “I’ll wager she breaks your jaw and sends you squealing again.”

  That wasn’t what happened. He remembered it all too well, the farm on the Isle of Man, the red barn. The burning pain as she’d turned and lashed out at him.

  Dubh sat back, stretching his legs the length of the seat, running his fingers along the raised symbols along Witchkiller’s sheath.

  Olc may have been a brutish oaf, but he was right about one thing: This witch wouldn’t go down easily.

  “I’m done waiting.” Olc pushed the driver-side door open, boots hitting the gravel. “The others are gone. It’s clear.”

  “The blond one,” Calma said. “I didn’t see her leave.”

  “She’s gone.” Dubh shoved the door open with one foot and slid across the seat, balancing Witchkiller’s sheath over his shoulder. The weight was comfortingly familiar. “I can feel it. It’s just her.” Greedily he eyed the house, the narrow, peaked windows that ran along the top of the second floor. She was in there; he could feel the stench of power. She was old now. Slower. But still deadly.<
br />
  “Let’s go.”

  Calma grunted bad-temperedly, but he said nothing, only followed Dubh up the winding driveway. The evening had turned to fog and drizzle, and the second half of the driveway wound up and vanished into the mist, obscuring the gates at the top.

  For once, Dubh welcomed the rain. It felt right. Like the night itself was preparing for what was to come.

  Halfway up Dubh felt the witch’s power move. She’d been sedentary until now, and for some reason it made him nervous. Her magic felt suddenly restless.

  “I think she knows we’re coming.”

  “Let her know. It makes no difference,” Olc said.

  They paused at the first gate. Oak trees rose above it, ringing the house, and Dubh breathed in deeply, feeling the fire flicker and brighten in his veins as he neared. They always fed him, the oak trees.

  They passed through the second gate, and Dubh’s skin burned unpleasantly as some spell of protection skimmed over him, kept off by the barrier he’d cast around himself that morning, though just barely. Walking beside him, both his brothers made noises of distaste deep in their throats, twin growls as they pushed forward.

  Witchkiller felt heavy in his hands, as if it could sense her, and pins and needles rushed over his arms, raising the hairs on the back of his neck, making him shudder. Again, the magic did not touch them, and they passed through the second sanctuary unharmed.

  The third gate nearly threw them, because it was not all there.

  The high, arched rails of the gate flickered in and out, and the gap in the hedge vanished and reappeared. If the magic hadn’t broken on the brothers’ skin and spilled around them, they wouldn’t have seen the true location of the third gate at all.

  But if they squinted just right, it stayed put as they passed through, Dubh’s skin tickled and stung fiercely, as if every exposed inch was being brushed all over by nettles.

  They moved through the third gate, through the last enchantment and into the inner sanctuary, and Dubh’s blood sang to him, to his sword, to the need burning in his chest.

  In the garden beyond the last gate, between the wind-rustled lilac bushes and the ivy-covered trestles of the archway leading to the house, stood the King Witch. Waiting.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  SAMUEL

  It took him nearly thirty minutes to bike across town to the Etomi farm, even pedaling as fast as he could. He wobbled the last few feet up the driveway, completely winded. But he forced himself to keep going. Dayna wouldn’t pick up her phone, and he didn’t have anyone else’s number. He was sure the Butcher was coming for Harriet King next.

  Margery is dead.

  Margery, whom he’d talked to only hours before the attack.

  He leaned his bike against one of the oak trees overhanging the driveway. He noted with some relief that the drive was empty—Dayna wasn’t there—and turned for the house.

  Sam stopped, breath freezing in his throat.

  There was someone there already. Three someones, actually, standing at the entrance to the garden. The middle figure was shorter than the others and dressed in a collared shirt and jacket. In his right hand, glittering in the light of the evening sun, was a sword.

  Sam was rooted to the spot beneath the tree, terror paralyzing his muscles and bones.

  He’d pictured himself charging in, triumphant, warning Harriet King before the killer arrived, maybe getting her to admit she was the final victim from the Isle of Man before whisking her away to the station. Maybe telling the others about it at Bible study tomorrow. Sam the serial killer catcher. Sam the hero.

  He’d never dreamed of arriving after the killers.

  Killers. Plural. The Butcher was a triad, a team.

  He’d thought he’d solved this thing, that he knew all about the Butcher, but he’d been so wrong.

  His entire body twitched as he tried to convince himself to move.

  Finally, just as his hand was beginning to drift to his pocket, to his phone, there was movement from the farmhouse. He hadn’t noticed the fourth figure in the center of the garden, she’d been standing so still.

  It was an old woman. She had wild, iron-gray hair, and her face, though lined with age, was like steel. There was something about her that made a chill drop down his spine, and he suddenly remembered what Margery had said: You go looking for Harriet King, you go looking for trouble.

  The old woman raised a hand, palm facing the men, as if she were telling them to stop. Then she twisted her wrist, moving her fingers in the air, and the front of the house seemed to…ripple. It was the only way Sam could think to describe it. Something passed through the air directly in front of the door and traveled up and out. Suddenly there were strange markings all across the front, traced over windowpanes and doors. Swirls and pentacles and complicated knot work, all done in what looked like a thick rust-red liquid.

  A moment later the lines faded, and Samuel blinked rapidly, shaking his head. He told himself he’d imagined it. The shock of the situation was making him see things. Or…it had been a trick of the light.

  The men moved forward, and the one at the front spoke, his voice a guttural snarl that echoed across the open space. “King Witch.”

  Samuel shuddered, but to his surprise the old woman put her hands on her hips and faced the first man straight on. “About damn time.”

  Sam crept forward, clutching the side of the nearest car. What the hell was she doing? Why wasn’t she running for the house?

  The man lifted his sword, pointing the blade at the woman. “The moment I came here, I knew you’d follow. I’ve let this game carry on long enough.”

  I knew you’d follow?

  That couldn’t be right. Sam’s head was spinning now, and he took a staggering step backward before freezing in place. Here he’d thought the Butcher had been following Harriet King from town to town, trying to get to her. To finish what he’d started on the Isle of Man all those years ago. But…she was the one following him?

  Why?

  Without warning, the old woman’s arm snapped out. The first man was picked up and hurled abruptly back, landing with a crash on the fence, chunks of wood scattering around him.

  Sam yelped and then clapped a hand over his mouth. The old woman hadn’t touched him. Hadn’t even gone near him.

  The paint on the front of the house had flared bright again, glowing with sick red light. It looked almost radioactive.

  What the hell?

  This wasn’t possible. It didn’t make sense.

  His pulse was galloping, and he felt slightly faint, but even through his shock, he realized the sigils on the house looked familiar. In fact, some of them looked exactly like the one from the photo of the barn.

  It all seemed impossible. And yet…it made a horrible kind of sense. It was one of the only explanations that fit….

  There was a reason the Butcher hadn’t been able to kill the woman all those years ago. A reason she’d survived the horrible wound.

  Harriet King was a witch.

  Witchcraft was real. Magic was real.

  There was another crash from the garden, and a blast of the same sickly red light, but Sam was already scrambling backward, heart in his throat, searching blindly for his bike handlebars in panic.

  He managed to get onto the seat and get his feet on the pedals, nearly tipping over twice before he kicked off, starting down the driveway, sending up clouds of dust as he pedaled frantically away.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  DAYNA

  The Callighans stayed to talk to the hotel owner, and Bronagh sent the rest of them home.

  Dayna rode back with Reagan and Yemi. She said it was because she needed to talk to them, but judging by the look Meiner gave her, she knew it was a lie. Their argument was on the back burner, but that didn’t mean it was resolved.

  Reagan seemed to pick up on it after several seconds of driving in silence. She pursed her lips and gave Dayna a look in the rearview mirror. “Out with it, woman. What
’s going on with you and Meiner?”

  Dayna hesitated, then shrugged. “Meiner is acting weird, like…standoffish. She won’t say why. I think it’s something to do with Cora.”

  Reagan’s brows shot up. “What, you think there’s…like, something there?”

  “Not like that. At least I don’t think so.” She told them about the argument, how Meiner had acted when she’d said they were leaving.

  “Wow,” Reagan said. “Sounds like some shit went down with her coven.”

  Yemi sucked her teeth. “Mmm-hmm, what did I tell you? That coven is trouble.”

  “You said no such thing,” Reagan retorted. “You were all, Invite them in for tea, I’m sure they’re lovely.”

  Dayna grinned, and then her phone buzzed in her jacket pocket. She fished it out and read the text out loud.

  Reverend: Come get the rest of your things. Your mother is going through them.

  “Shit.” She fumbled her phone and nearly dropped it, the sudden rush of anger making her hands shake. “Oh my god, why is he letting her do that?” She squeaked in surprise as the van took a sudden turn, tires squealing. “Whoa, what are you doing?”

  Reagan looked grim. “We’re going to your house, obviously.”

  “Slow down, Reagan,” Yemi said, but she didn’t contradict her daughter. “I’ve half a mind to come in and have a word with your father, Dayna.”

  Normally she would have protested. She didn’t want her coven involved, and the thought of dealing with her parents right now was exhausting. All she wanted to do was go to Reagan’s house and pore over the book in her bag. She hadn’t even got a chance to open it yet, with everything going on.

  And maybe if they just went back to the coven house, she could talk to Meiner, see if she could get her to confess what was wrong.

  But the memory of the symbol scratched into Fiona’s arm was still fresh, and if she was involved in this somehow…Dayna’s fists were clenched, nails biting into her palms. What would happen if she discovered the box under the bed, discovered her altar?