At eight-hundred and twelve years old, the mortal equivalent of thirty, she’d never missed a single one. Especially since, as the oldest Rose sister, she’d been responsible for making certain her younger siblings were dressed and ready for the event.
With the girls all grown up now, it gave her the opportunity to relax. Nevertheless, a pang of sadness radiated through her chest. The silly six, as she used to refer to her little sisters, could take care of themselves now.
Maybe that’s why you’ve been arriving late to events, Lizzie. You no longer feel needed.
“Nonsense,” she told herself. “That couldn’t be the reason.”
“What?” Wren asked.
“Never mind.” Dismissing her sudden melancholy, she clutched Wren and hustled inside the arena entrance. A quick glance at the arching stone entrance made her gasp in awe. In contrast to the gray stone, the sky vaulted overhead like a vivid blue quilt dotted with fluffy white clouds. Activity caught her eye, so she perused the seating area. Clothes rustling, witches and warlocks, dressed in colorful silken capes and hats, made their way down stone staircases.
Among them were her parents, Aunt Aggie, her sister Miranda, and her husband, Max, who carried their baby daughter, Aurora. Her other sisters, Cassie, Morgan, Brigid, Tara, and Samantha followed along behind them. Once they reached the Earthen pageant grounds, they clustered together as a family, speaking occasionally to other coven members standing nearby. Lizzie’s love for her family, and pride for her coven, swelled within her chest.
The presiding member of the Supreme Witch’s Council, Mistress Constance Hawkthorne, stood in the center of the amphitheater. A large black cauldron, filled with sanctified water that would be sprinkled on the brooms, sat on the hard-packed ground beside her. As she began to speak, a hushed reverence descended.
“Witches and warlocks, welcome to the annual Blessing of the Brooms ceremony.” Mistress Hawkthorne’s gauzy white robes rustled as she dipped her finger in a vial of oil and anointed herself in a pentagram pattern.
“Blessed be,” the crowd chanted.
“Let’s get you to the inner sanctum and put you in your alcove,” Lizzie whispered to Wren. “The coven attendants will do a bristle count when they collect the brooms, and we don’t want them to come up short.”
“Good idea, devochka.”
Lizzie frowned, dreading the heated stares she’d receive when she finally joined the ceremony participants. Merciful ancestors, she simply had to start being more punctual. The stress of arriving late really wasn’t worth it. Maybe that would be her New Year’s resolution—to get her act together. Since the Wiccan New Year began on October 31, a few weeks away, she would soon have an opportunity to work on her goal.
Curing habitual tardiness might prove challenging, but she had to try. Rounding a corner, she headed down a corridor toward the inner sanctum. The hallway and the rooms outside the arena had been tunneled through rock and flickering torches illuminated the dimness. Considering the brilliant sun shining in the arena, Lizzie’s eyes had to adjust. Whispering magical words to unlock a closet door, she placed Wren inside with the other brooms and patted her smooth handle.
“See you in bit, sweetie.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Wren responded.
Lizzie sealed the compartment and stepped back. A sound like that of a freight train erupted. A whirlwind swept across the cobbled stone floor and sent her cape flapping like a wild bird.
High-pitched screeches and wails echoed through the hall, as though a million souls cried for release. She slapped her palms against her ears to try and muffle the hideous cacophony. It didn’t help.
I’ve got to get out of here.
She’d nearly escaped through a back door when the whirlwind slammed against her, knocking the air from her lungs. Throat gritty with dust, she coughed and fell against a wall. Her head made impact with the stone, radiating with pain. Pinpricks of light danced before her eyes.
Gasping for breath, she managed to slip inside a small preparation room and closed the door. When dizziness overpowered her, her knees buckled and she dropped to the hard floor. Stone walls rose up around her like thick curtains and she began to lose consciousness.
Wren’s scream, joined by those of the coven’s flying companions, sliced through the air. Lizzie whimpered, worried for her friend. Unable to move, she couldn’t do a thing to help.
“Oh, no,” one of the brooms shouted.
“It can’t be possible,” another one chimed in a frightened tone. “What are they doing here?”
More screams came from the frightened brooms. Lizzie wanted desperately to provide assistance. Unfortunately, her head injury had rendered her useless. Her heart twisted with alarm for not only the brooms, but for everyone in the arena. Something terrible was out there, creating mayhem.
A thick shroud of heaviness pressed against her chest, pinning her down and stealing her consciousness.
***
When Lizzie finally came to, she opened her eyes, wincing at the ache pounding in her head. She sat up and assessed her surroundings. Everything looked fine in her hiding place, but she sensed chaos reigned beyond the door. Her blood turned to ice in her veins as she stepped out into the hallway. She saw the carved doors to the inner sanctum were ajar. Noting the empty sacred compartment, her heart sank.
Who had stolen the brooms?
Despite the throbbing in her head, she stumbled toward the arena. Whooshing sounds and eerie cackling pierced the air, so she pressed up against the stone wall. Taking a deep breath, fearful of what she might find, she leaned around the corner to peer at the sight.
Blue sky and sunlight had been obliterated by dark, billowing clouds.
A cluster of ghostly hags in ragged blue-gray clothing soared through layers of mist encircling the amphitheater’s seating area. Flowing white hair rippled across their shoulders, and an evil glow emanated from their eye sockets. Enveloped in a silken, glistening cocoon, her family, along with the other coven members, sat in their seats, frozen like statues. The brooms, including Wren, were clustered nearby, also held hostage in the awful goo.
She stuffed a knuckle in her mouth to keep from crying out. Outraged, she glanced at the center of the arena where Supreme Witch’s Council members sat in a ring of chairs. Unlike the other coven members, they weren’t coated in the ectoplasm material, but they were obviously held fast in their seats by some invisible force. It seemed they had been singled out for a specific purpose.
Council members watched the ghostly apparitions swirling above their heads, revulsion etched on their faces. None of them said a word, but the fear in their eyes told Lizzie they recognized they’d fallen victim to a dangerous foe.
Gods above, the seventh hell of the evil sorceress Circe had descended upon her coven. What were those things flying around like limp dishrags with an attitude, and what had they done to everyone?
“Who are you?” Constance Hawkthorne shouted up at the hag-like apparitions. “What in the name of the Goddess do you want?”
Cackling with laughter, three of the hags swooped down toward the mistress of ceremonies. Torn gowns rippling, they levitated in front of the council, their gazes glowing like full moons at midnight.
Licking her lips, one of them reached out with her unusually long, sharp nail and pricked Constance’s chin, drawing a drop of blood. “I am Sorcha, leader of the bean sith spirits,” she snarled in a thin, reedy voice tinged with a Scottish accent. “My children and I doo’na want much.”
“What might that be?” Constance did her best to lean away from the disgusting creature.
“We’ll be wantin’ our hearts to beat with life,” Sorcha explained. “And we’ll be wantin’ blood to run through our veins.”
“You want life?” Despite their predicament, Constance and the rest of the council members began to laugh. In response, the hags moaned and wailed, swirling even faster through the air.
“We are tired of weepin’ and wailin
’ and gnashin’ our teeth at deaths and funerals,” Sorcha cried. “We’re sick of bein’ the bearers of terrible news and washin’ the bloodstained clothing of those fated to die.”
The hags moaned louder, as though voicing their agreement.
Constance shook her head. “You are sadly mistaken if you believe we can change the fate bestowed upon you by the forces of the universe. As they are a mystery to you, they are a mystery to us.”
“If you doo’na help us, your coven and brooms will forever be imprisoned.” Sorcha pointed at them with a jagged nail. “Life will’na be so pleasant when you are doomed to spend eternity sufferin’ as we do.”
The council members exchanged glances, and it seemed some silent communication passed between them. Constance looked back at Sorcha and her two companions.
“We refuse to give credence to your demands. No threat will make us do as you ask.”
Agitated, the three hags began to wring their hands. They wailed and screeched as did the rest of the apparitions circling above like vultures. Stark skeletal features and gaping mouths replaced their wrinkled faces, and they looked even more horrifying than before.
Council members closed their eyes and began to mutter prayers, which seemed to infuriate the hags even more. Desperate to save her coven, but realizing she couldn’t go up against these lunatics alone, Lizzie plugged her index fingers in her ears to ward off the awful sound.
I’ve got to do something.
Recalling the grimoire full of magical spells her father kept in his study at the Rose mansion, she slipped out of the arena and hurried toward the dirt parking area located next to the highway. Fright made her quake like a leaf in the wind, and her heart hammered in her chest. Yet she knew if she could only make it home and fetch the book of enchantments, she should be able to look up a charm or fetish that she could use to ward off these dreadful creatures.
A wry thought occurred to her. If she’d been on time to the ceremony, she would have suffered the same misfortune as the others. Because she’d arrived late and managed to hide in the preparation room, she’d avoided being taken hostage by Sorcha and her hooligans.
Please, she prayed to the Goddess, hoping things would work in her favor so she could return soon and release everyone. The thought of them being tortured by those loathsome hags made her stomach twist.
A breeze blew tumbleweeds across the vacant lot, bouncing them along at a slow pace. Noting how tangled weeds choked the dry ground, a strange feeling came over her. The last time she’d been out here, dirt and hard-packed gravel filled the place. Now it looked as though no one had been here in ages.
She spun around and stared at the arena. Individual clans in the coven took turns keeping the place in good repair, cementing loose stones back into nooks and crannies and maintaining the arena’s general upkeep. Now the coven’s sacred worship spot had fallen into complete disrepair, chock-full of deteriorating rock and snarled undergrowth.
Heart hammering with disbelief, she realized the hags’ arrival had begun to destroy the Royal Witch Arena. Their presence was toxic. If she didn’t rescue the coven soon, who knew how bad things would get?
An intense ache riveted through her temples, and dizziness claimed her senses. Her legs crumpled and she fell on the ground. Dirt and gravel ground into her knees, but she barely felt it as she pressed her fingers against her pounding forehead.
Sweet nature spirits, what am I going to do?
With the disappearance of Wren, her means of broom travel had disappeared. She could walk back to the mansion, but that would take far too long. Using magic to accelerate her pace would not be wise. No doubt the banshees would sense her activities and come screaming after her.
Teleportation would be instant, but attempting it would be far too risky. Witches who had done it wound up blasted into smithereens by gravitational forces, becoming like popcorn in a blender. No way did she want to turn into tiny particles floating around in the atmosphere.
Hitch a ride, a small voice told her. It was hardly the optimum choice to involve mortals in her escape; yet what else could she do?
Pushing up to her feet, she stumbled toward the highway and hailed the first vehicle that passed by—a truck with a load of furniture in the back. When it pulled over on the shoulder, she swallowed her pride and approached it. A boy with a goofy grin opened the door, so she crawled in the cab and squeezed next to the pimply-faced teen. The driver, another young teen who looked barely old enough to get a driver’s license, spread his lips to reveal braced teeth.
“Merry meet,” she said to them, realizing that was a stupid thing to say to mortals. Why hadn’t she simply said hello? She hoped they didn’t think she was some sort of weirdo.
The boys merely chuckled and stared overlong at her breasts, which she realized were emphasized by her tight black dress. Ah, ha. The outfit had been her ticket to ride. Horny teenage boys came in handy for something. And her skin was soaked with love potion from the spilled casserole.
Oh, boy.
Treating her to an appreciative glance, the driver took a long toke on his cigarette, probably swiped from his parents, and chuckled. “Where to, lady?”
“A house right outside of town. Will that be all right?”
“No problem-o,” he said as he pulled the vehicle back on the blacktop and headed east.
Lizzie glanced out of the window and took one last look at the crumbling arena, her stomach clenching. It made her literally ill to see it like that. In her mind, she chanted a prayer of protection for her coven.
Blessed spirits send peace into the hearts of those held captive and keep everyone safe until my return.
Chapter Three
After ogling her boobs for miles, the pimply teenage boys dropped Lizzie a short distance from the mansion. Once they drove out of sight, she ran the rest of the way, heart hammering. As she approached the large Victorian home, she slowed her pace. Anger mounted as she scrutinized broken shutters, pitted shingles, and cracked columns. More shingles covered the lawn along with broken glass. Shredded plants and trees speckled the torn-up lawn.
The majestic old home had been flayed, as though someone had ripped it apart—the same way vultures have their way with an animal’s carcass.
For the love of all that is unholy, those repulsive hags have been here, too!
After stepping cautiously onto the dilapidated porch, glass crunching beneath her feet, she scowled at the thorny vines climbing up the paint-flaked facade. Ancient floor boards creaked beneath her weight, the missing wood slats giving it the appearance of a gap-toothed grin. Like slithering green snakes, strangling weeds draped across every window. Her nostrils flared as the foul stench of abandonment assaulted them.
Barely able to control her outrage, she cleared away the overgrowth and managed to open the screen, then the door. Aunt Aggie and her mother’s comfortable couches, chairs, and Oriental carpets no longer existed. In their place were dusty, broken-down pieces of rubbish. Cobwebs draped the room. Dust and dinginess blotted out sun, as if she stood inside a tomb.
“Sons of Methuselah,” she said in a hoarse voice, her heart twisting. The idea of those wicked beings ransacking her home sent outrage spiraling through her soul. Her mouth filled with the bitter tonic of revenge.
Fists clutched at her side, she started down the hallway toward her father’s den where she knew the magical grimoire was hidden in a cupboard. It was always locked up, but she’d find a way to open it. By the Goddess, she would find a spell to banish these hellish creatures and release her family and the coven. As the only member who remained free, it was her duty. She wouldn’t rest until the task was complete.
Hideous screeching—the type she’d heard at the Royal Witch Arena—exploded. Her muscles froze, the fine hair on her neck prickled, and she looked up to see the walls ooze with ghostly images. Swirling and swooping around the room and between the staircase railings, the hideous women flew. Circling around her, their blue-gray images stared at her with gl
owing white eyes.
When one of them stuck out a forked tongue at her, she did the same.
“Another witch,” it yelled in a shrill tone, pointing a bony finger at her. “Quick, we can’t allow her to escape!”
Lizzie stumbled backward, realizing she’d made a grave mistake coming here. As the screeching grew louder, the house rattled and what glass still existed in the window frames blew apart. Sharp slivers pelted her, and she held up her hands to protect her eyes. Like burning rain, the shards stabbed her skin. Dodging the hags’ clutching hands, she raced toward the entrance.
Sorcha, the hag who claimed to be the leader of this unholy pack, stopped her. Lizzie muttered a spell and a flashing ball of fire appeared in her hand. When she thrust it toward Sorcha, the old hag’s face became skull-like and she moved back.
“Release my coven.” A muscle twitched in Lizzie’s cheek, and fury infused every fiber of her being. “Or I’ll roast you all like pigs on a spit.”
Sorcha gave a boastful laugh. “You think your puny fireball will stop us?”
Lizzie glared at her.
“Imagine yourself reduced to a pile of scorched bones, girl. And we will do the same to your coven. Unless you cast a spell that will make us human.”
Moaning arose from the other hags as they agreed with Sorcha’s declaration.
The ball of fire’s powerful warmth sizzled in Lizzie’s hand, but she hesitated. Though she wished she could fry the whole lot of them, she feared her magic alone might not be enough. Escaping them was her only option, giving her time to find a permanent way to quash them.
“Even if I knew how to make you human, I wouldn’t do it,” she said between clenched teeth. “It would break universal laws to change your fate. Now leave Wysteria before I send you to the Neverlands for a worse punishment than the one you now suffer.”
Sorcha narrowed her gaze and snarled, “How dare you defy us?”
Rage exploded in Lizzie’s chest. She thought about the Supreme Witch’s Council. She thought about her parents, Aunt Aggie, her sisters, her little niece Aurora, and all of their cherished brooms.
Witch Tease Page 2
