Witches of Ash and Ruin

by E. Latimer

  Olc, the one with the shaved head, was still on the floor, blood spilling out onto the slick tiles. He clutched his chest, gasping and wheezing. How was he still alive?

  More staggering still was the sight of the long-haired man standing up, clutching his throat, the blood still flowing between his fingers and down his neck, saturating his T-shirt. He was leaning over his brother, brow furrowed, but Dubh was already struggling to his feet, ignoring the gaping wound in his chest and shoulder.

  Beside Meiner her grandmother stirred slightly, wheezing, and Meiner looked up just as the old woman seized her wrist in a cold, iron grip. She jerked in surprise as Grandma King slammed her hand down onto the kitchen floor, pushing Meiner’s palm into the pool of blood spreading across the tiles. “Use it,” she rasped, nodding at the rune repeating on the far wall. “Trace that…Say your pledge to Balor…” She paused, eyelids flicking open and shut, struggling to speak. “Save them all.”

  Shocked, Meiner jerked her hand out of the blood. She stared at Grandma King’s pale face, twisted in pain, and remembered the dark shadows that skittered across the walls of their house, the faint whispers in the hallways, the heavy presence of something that seemed to suck all the air out of the room.

  Balor. The goat-headed god. The god of drought and blight.

  Grandma King wanted her to pledge herself to that.

  “Are you insane?”

  The old woman’s voice was like steel rasping on concrete. “You have no choice.”

  There was a shuffling sound from across the kitchen. The third brother had climbed to his feet, and now he stooped down to pick up his sword, blood splattering the tiles. Her grandmother’s blood, mingling with the brothers’ on the kitchen floor.

  His eyes were fixed on her. Meiner couldn’t breathe.

  They should be dead.

  The god her grandmother had pledged her soul to had slashed their throats, and yet…it still wasn’t enough.

  Her grandmother’s words came back to her now. You aren’t like me, child. You won’t do what needs to be done.

  Was this what was needed to be done? Pledging herself to one monster to stop another?

  The brother with the sword took a step forward, a smile curling the corner of his mouth. “We’re going to wipe your town off the map, witch. First you and your coven, then all of Carman.” He smiled, crooked and horrifying. “And then the whole damn country. Ireland will burn for what it’s done to her.”

  Meiner glanced around, frantic. Her gaze fell on the symbol on the wall, which seemed to be illuminated by the rays of the setting sun creeping through the window. Her hand was still wet with Gran’s blood. It would be easy to press her fingers into the tiles, to trace the simple, clean lines of the rune.

  She glanced over at her grandmother, half expecting to see her glaring up at her, only to find her slumped on the ground, unmoving.

  Die alone, or pledge herself to a dark god. Save them all.

  Lose her soul.

  Become her grandmother.

  No.

  There was nothing but a fork within reach, and Meiner snatched it up, head spinning. Dubh paused and looked at the fork, brows raised.

  He was about to move again, and Meiner braced herself—fork or no fork she was going to fight him—and then there came a distant thud from outside, the sound of a door slamming. The brothers jerked in surprise, and Dubh tilted his head, eyes wide. Then he looked back at the one with the long hair. “Too much magic,” he muttered. “Let’s go.”

  The long-haired brother looked like he was going to protest, and then he jerked suddenly, fishing into his pocket to pull out his phone. Whatever was on the screen made him smile, wide and horrible, the sight made even more macabre by the blood gushing down his front. “Fine. We’ve got to get to Newgrange before sunset anyway, and I want to make a stopover first.”

  Meiner stared at them, unable to look away from the ghastly spectacle they made. Dead men walking. She felt hollow with shock as they moved for the sliding door at the back of the kitchen. They were walking away, leaving a wide trail of glistening blood in their wake.

  The one with the sword, Dubh, stooped down to pick up the silver box, cradling it in his palm with a nasty smile. “I told you I’d be back to get this when you took it from me all those years ago.” His grin stretched wider, into a snarl, and he shoved the box into his pocket. “I win, witch.”

  The door banged shut and then the brothers were gone.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  DAYNA

  The moment she walked through the door, she knew things weren’t going to go well. Fiona was waiting for her in the hallway, arms crossed over her chest. The woman had on a bathrobe and her hair looked tangled, as though she hadn’t washed or brushed it in days. The back of her neck was already prickling as she stepped in and eyed Fiona warily.

  “Where is he?”

  “There you are.” Fiona’s dark eyes were wider than they should have been, her pupils dilated, like she’d ingested large amounts of caffeine. Dayna took a step back toward the door, clutching her bag beneath her arm. The edge of the leather book dug into the top of her rib cage. She regretted saying she’d hold on to it.

  “Where’s Dad?” She edged around Fiona and moved down the hall into the kitchen. Empty. “He sent me a text.”

  “I’m afraid he didn’t.” Fiona’s voice from behind her was a hiss, and alarm sparked along the surface of Dayna’s skin, raising the fine hairs on her arms. The woman’s cheeks were flushed, eyes wide and feverish.

  A split-second decision was all it took. Her father wasn’t here, he hadn’t texted her, and she wasn’t going to stay here. Fiona wasn’t safe right now.

  She was turning for the door when Fiona lunged.

  Dayna gasped, scrambling back into the cupboards. Her mother’s hands were claws, wildly grasping for her hair and clothes, scratching her face.

  “Stop! What the hell are you doing?” Dayna’s arms shot out, the heels of her hands connecting with her mother’s shoulders, sending the woman stumbling.

  “I know you’ve got it!” With a savage scream Fiona regained her balance and barreled forward. Dayna felt her book bag wrestled from under her arm and Fiona shrieked, hands swiping through the air as she grabbed for it.

  “You stole it. You’re monsters, all of you!”

  Dayna watched in horror as Fiona pulled the leather book from the bag, holding it out triumphantly. “Give me that!” Dayna lunged for the book, and Fiona jumped back, eyes glittering. One of Dayna’s hands closed over the cover, and Fiona yanked it away. There was a tearing sound as the book was wrenched open, and several pages floated to the ground.

  Fiona gathered the book in her arms, cradling it against her chest. “I know what you are.”

  Dayna was no longer paying attention. She had gone still, frozen.

  One of the papers had landed faceup on the floor, revealing a colorful illustration. The top was inscribed with The Morrigan, and underneath were three women in black robes.

  The one on the right was stooped with age, her face lined, her eyes glittering black. She held a delicate, twisting hourglass made of crystal. To her left stood a dark-haired woman, laugh lines at her eyes, a smile on her lips. There was a large, hook-beaked bird on her shoulder, a raven. Standing on her other side was the youngest woman. Her gaze was faraway, fixed on something in the distance, crimson lips set in a firm line. In her hands she held a long, slender sword, the point tipped toward the earth.

  The picture was striking, but it was not the artwork that made Dayna stare in shock. Ignoring her mother’s frenzied muttering, she stooped to pick the paper up.

  She knew the picture, or at least, what it represented. The mother, the maiden, and the crone. But what made her heart stop in her chest were their faces, so finely detailed, so artfully painted. So familiar.

  It felt like a bolt of lightning had pierced her core, had lit her up from the inside out and crystallized her bones like sand. This wasn’t possibl
e.

  The mother, the maiden, and the crone. Her mentors. Her coven members. Her family, staring up at her from the page.

  The Callighans.

  She remembered the way the black scrawled writing had looked against the wallpaper. The name that had been next. Morrigan. The Morrigan.

  The Callighans were next on the list.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  DAYNA

  She had to tell them. Had to let them know they were in danger.

  Reagan was still waiting for her in the driveway, Dayna thought. She would run out and they’d drive straight to the coven house. Dayna turned on her heel, blood pounding in her ears, and then stopped, shocked.

  There was a man in the doorway. He was short, slender but muscular, dressed in a gray cotton T-shirt splattered with blood. Wavy blond hair framed his face, where a thin red scar ran down his cheek.

  “You.” The sight of him sent a shock of cold through her, and she was too stunned to move. She realized suddenly that she’d seen him before, twice now, at Sage Widow. He’d bumped into her in the doorway the first time, and then she’d seen him on the porch weeks later, before finding Margery. Finding the body must have wiped it completely from her mind; she hadn’t remembered that until now.

  She recognized the boyish face and blue eyes. The blond curls and the charming grin.

  Fiona edged toward him, her smile wide, eyes glittering with that mad light.

  She’d been lured here.

  “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? These men—” She broke off, frozen. Her mother’s face was changing again, but this time it was accompanied by a strange, low chuckle, a laugh that seemed to build and get louder, that made all the hairs on the backs of her arms stand up. Dayna flinched, panic cutting through her anger. What the hell was this?

  When the woman spoke, it sounded nothing like her. Her voice was a low, raspy growl. “Idiot child. I saw through you, but you never saw me. You and your father are fools.”

  Dayna stared at her, mouth open, panic crawling slowly through her. “Who are you? What are you?” Her voice was shaky.

  “I’ve waited so long,” the thing that was not Fiona whispered, and the woman stroked one pale, spidery hand over the cover of the book. She flicked her wide-eyed gaze to Dubh. “I did well, didn’t I? I knew who the Butcher truly was. I followed your pattern and knew I had to return when you came to Carman.” She darted a sideways look at Dayna, her smile crooked and too wide. “I knew it was her, look.” She tucked one hand into her pocket and came out with a tattered scrap of paper. It was covered in Fiona’s wild handwriting, the same thing repeated over and over.

  Dayna, Dayna, Dayna.

  And at the bottom, where her not-mother was indicating:

  Dayna, Dayna, Dayna, Daya, Daya, Daga, Dagda, Dagda. The Dagda.

  The Dagda. One of the gods who’d locked Carman away.

  This was insane. They couldn’t possibly believe this.

  “I’m not a god, I’m a witch.” Dayna turned back to the blue-eyed man. “And my coven knows where I am. They’re just outside—”

  Her words ended with a scream as he struck her across the face, sending her staggering back. Her cell phone cracked onto the tiles and skittered underneath the kitchen table, where the light on the screen flickered weakly.

  She braced herself on the kitchen counter, head spinning. For a few seconds she could only blink frantically, trying to clear her vision, her ears ringing. She’d never been struck before. It was shocking, but the adrenaline was enough to drive her back up, fingers curled into fists. The man was moving toward her again, only this time he took slow, leisurely steps. He was still smiling, face lit with ugly enjoyment.

  To her horror there were others in the kitchen now. A taller man whose face was a mask of blood, his blond hair long and tangled, held a dish towel across his throat, and another man with a short, bristling buzz cut and heavy black brows. The man with the buzz cut had a thick scarlet line across his neck that was gushing blood all down his already soaked T-shirt. While she watched, he snatched a tea towel off the kitchen counter, knotting it around his throat like a handkerchief.

  Three brothers, she had time to think, and then the shortest man was nearly on top of her. She turned for the drawer, throwing her hands up, gasping the spell out. There was one beat, two, when nothing happened, and she felt the emptiness in her stomach twist and thought she might be sick.

  Yemi’s warning rang in her head, about not burning through the magic too fast. But she’d used it all to fight the shadow.

  She had no magic left.

  A second later the scar-faced brother crashed into her, shoving her back into the edge of the counter. The wind left her lungs in a rush, and Dayna wheezed.

  She turned, just as fingers tangled in her hair and her head was wrenched painfully back. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, but it was all she could do to draw breath. The sound of her not-mother’s feverish mutterings filled the kitchen, as one of the brothers tried to get the book from her.

  “I’m holding it for her,” Fiona protested. “She’ll want to see me.”

  The brother with the shaved head laughed unkindly. “Angus Og, you sad bastard. Still running around after her like a kicked puppy centuries later.” He snorted. “God of love, my pockmarked left ass-cheek.”

  “Our mother entertained herself with you.” The brother with the bloody face curled his lip at Fiona. “You were a plaything, nothing more. Now give us the book.”

  “It’s mine. You said I could come. I want to see Carman again—”

  “Olc,” the man holding Dayna’s hair growled from somewhere above her head. “Do us all a favor and shut that bitch up.”

  There was a sharp crack, followed by the sound of a body crashing to the floor. Dayna jumped, then tried to twist around in the man’s grasp, but the motion sent pain blazing through her scalp. He caught her arm and pulled it behind her back, and she gasped. Her skin crawled as his breath tickled her neck.

  Her left hand was still free, and she reached out blindly for the open drawer, but he dragged her backward. “No knives, no iron,” he rasped, and then sharply, “Leave her, Olc. There’s no time. Get the book and wait in the car. And find something to bandage your damn face.”

  The one with the bloody face grunted, a noise of disappointment.

  “Get that thing around her neck.”

  The brother with the bloody face, Calma, came forward. He scowled at Dayna, who flinched back as he reached for her throat. His face looked murderous, but his fingers only closed around the leather cord around her neck. He jerked it hard enough that she gasped in pain as the leather broke, and then threw the bone pendant to the ground, face twisted with disgust.

  Dayna’s mind was racing, and horror sent a sick chill through her. Her body was completely drained, so she had no way to protect herself.

  What good was a witch without magic?

  There weren’t many spells she could do without raw power, but there were oaths, prayers of protection. As soon as Calma turned away she began mumbling under her breath, all the invocations she knew: for protection, for revenge on her enemies, for strength. She got through the third one as the scarred brother dragged her down the hall toward the door, and then he jerked her against his chest, releasing her hair, and a hand pressed over her mouth. Her nose filled with the overpowering scent of smoke, and a wave of repulsion and terror washed through her.

  Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe.

  Panic rippled over her skin, constant, unending. There was no logic, only animal terror.

  “No spells from you, witchling.” He sounded almost amused, and unexpectedly a trickle of anger mixed with the fear pulsing through her, burning in her chest like a brand. It grew hotter the more she focused on it, until it blazed through her. Rage.

  She wasn’t a witchling. She was a full-fledged witch.

  Dayna dragged air in through her nose. Fuck this. She was going to survive. She was going to s
top them. She was going to call the cops on her weird, possessed mother and get on medication once she got out of this.

  The one with the bloody face met them in the kitchen doorway. “Her friends are waiting in the driveway. We go out the back.” He glanced down at Dayna. “Don’t we just need a piece of her for the ceremony? Why don’t we just cut off a bit and go?” He grinned at the horrified look on Dayna’s face. Apparently he’d found bandages somewhere and had done a sloppy job of binding his wound, winding them around his face and neck so that he looked like a half-wrapped mummy. When his brother snorted at the sight of him he scowled.

  “Shut up.”

  “We’re not cutting off any bits yet,” the one called Dubh said. “We need her alive to bait the last ones on the list. Now get her in the car.”

  The Callighans. She wasn’t the only one in danger.

  Dayna stopped struggling, allowing herself to be dragged out the back door, toward a shiny black car parked on the narrow backstreet. Her mind was racing again, fear making her pulse flutter frantically in her throat.

  Reagan and Yemi would only wait so long before bursting in. They would see Fiona Walsh on the floor, the open drawer, the spilled knives. They would know something had happened.

  And it didn’t matter that they wouldn’t know where the men were taking her. Witches had ways of finding out. With Grandma King and the Callighans, there had to be a way to trace her.

  Her coven would find her. They would tear these men apart to get to her.

  She held on to this thought as the man shoved her into the car, forcing her to sit between him and the shaved-headed Olc, who told her in no uncertain terms what would happen if she tried to reach for the door. Dayna didn’t reply. She shut her eyes and breathed in deeply. In and out. Long and even.

  She could wait.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  MEINER

  Meiner’s phone rang again and she ignored it.

  It was an easy thing to do, since the sound seemed to be distant and echoing. Nothing felt real. This was all some fucked-up dream.