The Witch Haven

by Sasha Peyton Smith

  I take a step to follow as the largest man I’ve ever seen steps into the gleaming marble ring. He’s not clad in a tuxedo like most of the other men; he’s shirtless, the muscles of his expansive chest and arms on display. He’s barefoot, too, pacing around the golden perimeter like a caged animal.

  “Vlad the Impaler,” the Hungarian Diplomat announces with unbridled glee. Whoops and hollers ripple through the crowd. “Versus…” He pauses for dramatic effect.

  Finn is warm beside me, but I scan the room for the quickest path to the stairs. This whole thing is a dangerous waste of time.

  “Frances Hallowell!” The room goes quiet. Every head turns toward me. I blink, certain I’ve misheard.

  “Excuse me?” I turn to Finn.

  Two men appear from the crowd behind me and grab me by my upper arms. They half shove, half carry me toward the center of the wretched ring.

  Finn grabs on to my hand and holds it like a vise. I throw my shoulder into the man on my right, and Finn pulls and pulls on my other arm to no avail.

  “Get your hands off her!” Oliver cries. He reaches for me but is thrown back by the crowd.

  “Don’t touch her!” Finn shouts. He’s silenced by a punch to the face from the man on my left. His hand slips from mine.

  “No, no, please—” I beg. “Finn! Finn!” In a moment of stillness in the rollicking chaos, our eyes lock.

  The men shove, and I dig my heels in. My boots cut a line through the still-wet blood. I kick my legs, whipping my head wildly from side to side, searching desperately for a savior I know isn’t coming.

  I try to use the magic to call for something, anything to come flying off the back shelf again, but it doesn’t obey.

  I’m sorry, Finn mouths. Oliver is silent and horror-struck.

  The men’s faces blur into one. The marble ring in the center of the room is the eye in a hurricane of sharp-toothed laughs and wadded-up cash.

  In it, Vlad paces. He smiles. The grin reminds me of the look on Mr. Hues’s face minutes before I killed him.

  I am a fool. And I am going to pay for it.

  Vlad circles me.

  I tremble like a prey animal. I am terrified. But more than that, I am so goddamn mad at myself.

  A single bottle of whiskey will not take him down. It seems silly to have gotten this far only to be killed in a magical boxing match by a grown man who goes by the name Vlad the Impaler. It’s unclear if the sound that escapes my lips is a hysterical peal of laughter or a sob.

  There’s a joke in here somewhere about wanting to see my brother again.

  Vlad lunges.

  I sidestep him. Shards of glass crunch under my boots.

  Vlad lunges again.

  A crystal from the chandelier above us flies at my eye. I dodge it at the last second with a duck to my right. I bite my tongue, and my mouth floods with blood. I’m sure the Sons are screaming, but I hear only the rush of blood in my ears.

  I try to call the magic again, try to really focus, but it sends the whole shelf of alcohol on the back wall crashing down. The men in the audience shout as bottles rain down on them, but it does nothing to stop Vlad.

  Every magic lesson I’ve ever had feels so far away. Everything I ever learned in a classroom or the woods is drowned out by the buzzing terror in my head.

  Vlad steps toward me, I stumble back. I search for an exit, but the crowd is a writhing blur, so chaotic, I can no longer see Finn or Oliver.

  There is no one coming to help me. I’m bobbing alone, lost at sea, and my lifeboat is the part of me that scares me most.

  A shard of glass flies up from the floor and slashes at my exposed collarbone. I swat it away like a wasp. It leaves only a surface wound, but it stings like hell.

  Vlad keeps coming at me, pushing me to the very edge of the circle. Someone presses their hands to my lower back and shoves me back in.

  No.

  No.

  It’s the sensation of a stranger’s hands on me that does it. A switch flips, and all at once my fear is replaced with rage. It burns through my body like a spark on a fuse.

  I will not suffer for their entertainment. They don’t get to touch me.

  Not now. Not anymore. Not ever again.

  This time the magic doesn’t spark to life under my skin. It explodes like a wildfire.

  There is a deafening crack as every last glass in the room shatters.

  The jeers stop for a fraction of a second.

  But Vlad doesn’t hesitate. He raises his hands and sends the shards flying at me in a torrent.

  I call the power. I don’t know what I say to it, only that we speak the same language.

  A candle falls from the chandelier and sets a loose lock of my hair alight. I wink it out before it does any real damage and, in the same moment, magick a wooden chair from the corner hurtling at Vlad’s head. He doesn’t see it coming, and it splinters apart as it cracks over his skull.

  The lessons in the woods with Finn return to me like day breaking.

  Vlad is so huge, it doesn’t stop him, but something shifts in his eyes. He’s no longer doing this for the sake of the fight. He hates me. He wants to beat me.

  I want to beat him more.

  I don’t hear the crowd anymore, but I feel their voices vibrating in my bones. My singular focus is on the man stalking me.

  Vlad lunges his massive body toward me, and I send another shard of glass in his direction; it slices his forearm, but still he doesn’t stop.

  He’s inches away now and burning with rage.

  He lunges.

  I dodge and spit out the blood filling my mouth.

  He raises a fist, and I duck in the wrong direction. He blow lands squarely across my cheekbone.

  A hiss goes through the crowd. Oliver screams my name, his voice breaking through the noise.

  My eyes water fiercely. The punch burns more than I thought it would, though I’m probably in too much shock to feel the real pain of it yet. The blow only makes me angrier, only makes me want to fight harder.

  He pulls his elbow back, preparing to land another blow.

  I stare him down and command the tendrils of my soul to reach out and grab hold of his body.

  He freezes, arm cocked back, eyes wide and terrified.

  Again the crowd goes silent.

  “Don’t. Touch. Me,” I whisper.

  The same magic I felt two nights ago with Finn roars. It’s alarming how similar fear and desire feel when it all comes down to it.

  Vlad’s ragged breathing hisses out of his nostrils, but the rest of his body is frozen. I can feel my hold on him. It is harder to channel this power, the power over his body, than it was to control the objects I sent flying at him. I’m beginning to learn how this different kind of magic feels in my body, how it burns in the back of my throat. Taking control of Vlad tastes like sucking on pennies, or maybe that’s the blood in my mouth. I don’t know how long I can hold him, but I don’t let go.

  My pulse radiates across my cheek. I can feel my eye swelling, but I refuse to cry in front of these men.

  Boss Olan’s hyena cackle breaks the silence of the room, and my hold on Vlad. I’m briefly afraid he’ll take the opportunity to lunge at me again, but he stands still, just looking at me, his chest rising and falling.

  “Wonderful!” Boss Olan cries. “Oh, how wonderful!”

  I’ve ripped the delicate sleeve of Maxine’s dress in the fight.

  Boss Olan strides over to the ring and hoists my hand over my head in victory.

  His hand is cold and clammy. I snatch mine away, and it sends a ripple of pain through my whole, aching body.

  He leans over and whispers in my ear, “You and I are going to do great things together, Frances.”

  “Because you did such great things for my brother?” I hiss through clenched teeth.

  I don’t wait for his reply. I step out of the ring, arms in front of me, prepared to barrel through the wall of bodies enclosing me. But I don’t have to figh
t my way out. The men part for me like the Red Sea.

  How comfortable it is to be a thing that is feared.

  I’m almost to the back staircase, far away from the crowd, when Finn catches up to me. “Frances, stop!”

  I turn around, fury and sadness sluicing hot in my throat. “Looks like we can’t protect each other, huh?”

  “Frances, please.” He takes two more steps toward me.

  I back up until the cold of the basement wall bites into my exposed shoulder blades. He’s so quick, I don’t realize he’s cornered me until it is too late.

  Finn leans down, and the world goes a little quieter. He whispers, close, too close, “You were incredible.”

  I‘m annoyed by his awe. “Did you find the dagger? I don’t have much time.”

  From his pocket Finn pulls an ancient-looking blade, perhaps four inches long, with a pearl-encrusted handle.

  I reach out to touch it. “Will it work?”

  “There’s only one way to find out.” He brings his hand to his breast pocket. “But that’s not all I found.”

  He pulls a folded-up bundle of yellowing pages from his coat pocket and unrolls it. It’s a list of names.

  “Membership rolls,” Finn explains. “I wanted to see if the boys on Sheepshead Bay were related to the Sons. Perhaps another connection with your brother.”

  In the dark of the basement, it takes me a moment to scan down the list. Frank Garza, Samuel Gantt, Theodore George, Vincenzo Gianetti, Lorenzo Gianetti, Matthew O’Farrell.

  My blood runs cold. “Two Gianettis, but not a Mario. There’s an O’Farrell here too.” The last names match those of the dead boys who washed up on the same beach where William was found. This is the definitive proof we need that the Sons, or those related to them, may be the target of a murderer.

  Finn nods in agreement. “It’s still something. They could be targeting relatives. Or maybe this list is out of date.”

  “So, what do we do next?” I whisper.

  “We find out who killed William, who killed the others. Show them what a fearsome witch his sister is.”

  The room smells like a lightning storm, crackling hot with magic.

  “I have to go.” I want him to think I’m strong, but tears are pricking at my eyes. I’m shaky and angry, on the verge of crying. My eye hurts, and I need to be somewhere that isn’t here.

  “I’ll come to you tonight. I want to make sure you’re all right,” Finn says.

  I duck under the arm he has pressed to the wall and turn to leave. The basement feels like a hothouse filled with sweat, smoke, and men I don’t want looking at me.

  I have a foot on the stairs, ready to flee, when Oliver approaches from behind and tentatively lays a hand on my shoulder. I shake it off, and he snatches it away and curls it into a fist at his side.

  “What on earth was that?” he asks me. He’s breathing heavily, and his eyes dart around the basement. I remember how I felt as if my whole world shifted the moment I was told magic was real. I wish I had some way to explain it to him in a way that made any sense. I settle on “The world is strange.”

  “That was more than strange, Frances.” At the sight of Finn, he blinks in surprise. “It’s been a long time. Finn, right?”

  “Nice to see you again,” Finn replies through a strained smile.

  I feel very small, standing between my brother’s friends in this world he inhabited without me. Oliver breaks his stare from Finn and shifts his glance toward me. His eyes are still as kind as I’ve always remembered them to be. It’s this familiarity that makes my shoulders release, my hands go limp. He nods up the stairs. “Let me walk with you?”

  And I do. I follow him up the stairs but can still feel Finn’s gaze boring through me as I climb the narrow passage. He doesn’t follow.

  My pounding heart slows with each step away from the basement. Oliver and I are almost to the front door when the sound of someone clearing their throat makes me turn.

  Boss Olan rises from an armchair in front of a massive roaring fireplace.

  I hadn’t seen him leave the basement.

  “Leaving so soon, Miss Hallowell?” He strokes the eagle head of his cane as he takes in Oliver at my side. “Oh, and you’ve found a friend.”

  “We’re going,” I say.

  “A shame.”

  Magic hums under the surface of my skin. “You know you can’t stop me.”

  “I don’t wish to. You are here as our guest.”

  “And this is how you treat your guests?” I laugh bitterly. I can barely see through my swollen eye. A twin bruise blooms around Oliver’s.

  “You are an extraordinary creature, Frances. We want to help you. And, Oliver, dear boy, I am sorry if all that came as a shock. We were hoping you’d be… talented. It appears, like your father, you’ll have to serve us in other ways.”

  Oliver clenches his jaw.

  The windows are dark. The rain beats against the pavement in a torrent as the storm finally fractures from promise to reality. Still, I’d rather be outside standing in the river of sludge pouring down the street than here. From downstairs I can still hear sickening cracks, followed by elated cheers.

  “What do you mean ‘talented’?” Oliver sounds as angry as I’ve ever heard him. “Did my father know you were going to throw me into that ring? What sort of operation is this? What sort of tricks are you pulling?”

  Boss Olan booms a laugh, leaning back with the force of it. The flickering fire has made this room too hot. “My dear boy, you’ll understand in time. The Cath Draíochta isn’t elegant, but it does have its purposes. I’m sorry you’re sore you lost.”

  “I didn’t lose. I’m not sore about anything. I simply wish to know what kind of organization it is you’re running here. I was led to believe this was a social club.” Oliver juts out his chin, defiant, like using a thousand words to ask a question when he could use only a few makes him sound grown-up.

  “We are the ancient order of the Sons of Saint Druon, the kings of New York City, magicians of the highest order, general bon vivants, et cetera. We can be social. We can be many things.”

  “I doubt I’m the first person to tell you that’s not a helpful description,” I snipe.

  Each of his fingers is encircled with a thick gold ring. The maroon of his silk jacket shines like the blood we left in puddles in the marble boxing ring. “Oh you are delightful, young Frances! Your brother was a delight too. I cannot wait for the things we’ll do together.”

  I’m biting my lip so hard, it stings. I lick away the blood before asking, “What things?”

  “You are stifled at your little school. They’re teaching you small magic. You, my dear, were not meant to be a practitioner of small magic.”

  Are these my choices for magic, then? Housework or bare-knuckle boxing? It’s too depressing a thought to accept.

  I gesture to my swelling eye. “I’m not sure I find magical fights a more appealing venture than magical sewing.”

  Boss Olan laughs once more. “Real magic is power, and these parlor tricks help us hold on to that power. You leave those witches of yours, and we’ll show you what we can really do.”

  It’s absolutely terrifying, the part of me that wants what he’s saying to be true. But my eye socket throbs, and I’m terrified Maxine and Lena have already left the city, and my mother taught me never to take the word of men in shiny shoes.

  “I’m leaving now.”

  Boss Olan doesn’t rise from his chair. He lazily lifts his pointer and middle fingers from the armrest, and instantly the fire in the hearth triples in size. Without pause, a cold wind whips through the room from nowhere, the grandfather clock in the hall gongs, a stack of mail rises from a side table in a perfect, swirling tornado, and then, most terrifyingly, my own feet begin to move, completely against my will. In jerking steps, Boss Olan brings me across the room to his side. It is not lost on me that he could force me to kneel at his feet if he wanted to. He doesn’t. He looks up at me with the co
nfidence of a man who believes he is untouchable.

  Oliver shouts in protest, but I whip my head to him. “I can handle this, Oliver.” I don’t like Boss Olan, but I also don’t fear him. At least not in this moment. He’s just trying to make a point. I’m so desperate for any information, I’ll let him make it. It’s better to let men like Boss Olan think they’ve won.

  Boss Olan stares up at me from where he sits; the flickering of the fireplace illuminates his face in ghoulish shadows. “The streets of this city run with blood from a war that’s been going on since it was called New Amsterdam. Those witches will tell you pretty stories about duty, and sisterhood.” He screws up his face like the word disgusts him. “But we alone can help you get everything you wish.”

  He releases his hold on me, and I lash out in return, manipulating his fingers back down onto the chair. He smiles at the force of it. I don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

  I can’t get out quickly enough. I don’t look back as I tug Oliver with me.

  Boss Olan calls after me from where he still sits in front of the roaring fire, “When you return to your little school and your little magic, remember what you did here, tonight. Remember, and come find us.”

  The blast of cold air as I throw open the front door is a relief. In the second before I slam it behind me, I hear one last chuckle from in front of the fireplace.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Oliver and I step out on the rain-soaked street. The air is heavy with the smell of sewage and damp garbage.

  Maxine’s delicate dress sticks heavily to my skin as it becomes laden with rain.

  My whole body still feels electric. For the first time in a very long time, I was brave. It’s hard to be brave when you’re sad, and I’ve been so sad for such a long time.

  “Are you all right?” Oliver asks, but the thunderstorm carries his question down the gutter, where it washes away with all the other useless things.

  I don’t answer, so he tries another question.

  “Why aren’t you at the sanitarium?”

  Ah yes, my cover story. How quickly I forgot that I’m supposed to be laid up with tuberculosis.