The Witch's Wrath: Supernatural Suspense Thriller with Ghosts (Jigsaw of Souls Series Book 2)

by Ian Fortey

  Dezzy moved quickly past the house and up the street a little further. There was another house with a large tree in the yard. He ducked behind it quickly and peered around the edge, eating his fries as the two women came closer.

  As he suspected, they headed up the walkway into the house with the primal stink on it. If Vincent was in there, then he had at least two witches to deal with. Probably more, at this point.

  Vincent wasn’t convinced that Selena was evil, but she had been working with Bogdan Dalca. And she could probably also control Vincent’s body. The whole thing smelled bad to Dezzy. Bad in a metaphorical way, as opposed to the literal bad magic smells. He wished his uncle had come with them. Uncle Stan was a man who knew what to do all the time. Well, most of the time. Plus, he had some powerful mojo of his own. Dezzy did not have any mojo.

  “I can do this,” Dezzy said around a mouthful of poutine. Him versus three or four witches. He could think of worse things. Maybe.

  Dezzy turned around and leaned back against the tree. He had to be serious about this. There were cosmically immense forces at work in Burnham and beyond. Vincent was in the middle of something dangerous and potentially cataclysmic. Dezzy needed to come through. He needed to be the hero. He could do that. All he needed to do was come up with a plan.

  He sat down against the tree and looked into the half bucket of poutine. He had never made a plan before. This was going to be harder than he thought.

  ***

  “Is she here?” Charlotte asked, entering the house. She sounded both excited and nervous. Sandra closed the door behind them.

  Abigail’s house looked like a quaint little bungalow from the outside. Inside, a series of interlaced enchantments had transformed it into a malleable oasis. Wherever and whenever Abigail wanted her home to be, so it was. At the moment, it was mid-day in spring and they were on a shaded patio by a babbling brook with a small waterfall. The kitchen simply faded into the wilderness, and the house beyond was easily accessible.

  Abigail and Mary-Ann sat on Victorian-style chaise loungers, a table of iced tea between them. Two more chairs appeared as Charlotte and Sandra entered.

  “Sisters,” Abigail said, inviting them to sit.

  “What happened?” Sandra asked.

  “He is in the cellar,” Mary-Ann said.

  “In the Nightmare?” Sandra asked. Mary-Ann nodded.

  “What about Selena?” Sandra asked, taking her seat. Songbirds chirped in the surrounding trees. The sun was warm but not hot.

  “He has... absorbed her,” Abigail said. She took a sip of her drink.

  “What do you mean?” Charlotte asked.

  “He has her power. All of it. I do not understand how, but he has taken everything that was our sister and made it his own.”

  Sandra looked disgusted. Charlotte’s skin flushed red. Abigail could feel the anger within them.

  “So, he really is the one who killed her,” Charlotte said.

  “Of course,” Abigail confirmed. “He took her power and came here to do the same to us. But he will not deceive us the way he did Selena. We will take back what was stolen.”

  “How can that be done?” Sandra asked. “Taking power from another witch is forbidden.”

  Abigail slammed her glass down on the table, startling the other women.

  “That man is not a witch,” Abigail said. Sandra averted her eyes and took a breath.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “I know what you meant. But the power he has is stolen. We must take it back to restore the balance. It is what our sister would have wanted.”

  “She would have wanted to be alive,” Charlotte corrected.

  “We all wanted that. But it cannot be. And so, we will exact justice in her name. We will share in the powers of our sister. And the Goddess will punish her killer.”

  “What if we could save her?” Mary-Ann said then, unsure of her own words. Abigail fixed her with a stare.

  “She is dead, Mary-Ann.”

  “I know that. But so were the twelve witches of Burnham. And Maggie Huxley. And Selena’s plan was to save them. Maybe we could find a way to save Selena.”

  Abigail shook her head. The last thing she needed was for Mary-Ann to start thinking unnecessary thoughts. She loved Selena as much as any of them. More, even. Abigail and Selena had started their coven together. But Abigail needed her power now. That was how balance would be brought to the world. How justice would come to Burnham.

  “It is a nice thought,” Abigail agreed. “But even Selena did not have the power to do that on her own. And in her efforts to find it... well, I do not think it can be done, to be honest.”

  “Selena thought it could,” Charlotte said. Abigail nodded.

  “And she is dead for it. Deceived by the man who devoured her essence. We waste time discussing impossibilities. Instead, we should focus on a plan. Together we can take what was stolen. We can each have Selena’s legacy live on in us. And be stronger for it. I feel it is the best plan,” Abigail declared. She looked at each of her sisters in turn.

  “I agree,” Sandra said. Abigail nodded.

  “Yes. I think it’s best,” Mary-Ann said. They all looked at Charlotte. The older woman sighed.

  “I know we cannot unmake the past. I know we cannot undo Death. But I am still sad for our loss. I agree, sisters. Let us take what remains of our sister back from her killer.”

  “I am glad you agree with me,” Abigail said. “Together there is nothing that can stand against us. No power that—”

  The words died on her lips. The babbling brook vanished with a sound like tearing leather. The entire outdoor tableau shattered like glass, and the women found themselves sitting in a small living room on functional furniture. It was Abigail’s true house.

  “What’s happening?” Sandra asked, standing up. Spikes of primal magic rose from the basement, shattering the illusions cast throughout the house.

  “Someone is casting,” Abigail said.

  “It’s Selena,” Charlotte said, holding her hands up as though feeling the air.

  “It is not,” Abigail said. “It’s him.”

  “He can use her power,” Mary-Ann said. “How is that possible?”

  “Because whoever he is—whatever he is—he is stronger than we think,” Abigail said. She sat cross-legged on the floor and began an incantation. The others listened to her words and understood what she was doing. Sandra and Mary-Ann sat down as well, repeating the words. Only Charlotte held out.

  “In your own home, Abigail?” she said. Abigail did not break the incantation, only stared back at Sandra. “Such a conjuring—”

  Abigail spoke loudly. The others looked at Charlotte. Finally, their sister sat and completed the circle. Her voice joined theirs. The conjuring began.

  A fifth voice joined the women, though none but Abigail heard it. A fifth voice that melded the primal magic of Abigail Salter with her own blood magic, to give it force and structure. To give it unbridled power.

  “Summon it forth,” Maggie Huxley said. Her voice was the sound of embers snapping in a dying fire. It echoed from the deep recesses of Abigail’s own consciousness, like a half-remembered whisper.

  She chanted the incantation with Abigail. What Abigail knew, Maggie knew. And what Maggie knew, Abigail knew. Their powers shared; their knowledge bolstered by one another.

  Maggie Huxley had never truly been a witch. But in death, her spirit did not pass beyond the Veil. The anger she felt, the hatred, kept her rooted to the cave where she had died. Her need for vengeance transcended death and grew to something more powerful than Abigail had ever seen before. Natural-born blood magic. It was raw and emotional and it danced with her own primal magic, like the two had been made for each other.

  Abigail’s sisters were blind to Maggie’s blood magic. Hidden in the flows of her primal energy, to them it looked like Abigail was alone casting her spells. She felt it was best to keep such things
hidden, lest her sisters lose their nerve.

  Maggie uttered the words with Abigail. The conjuring was one all the sisters knew. A summoning spell for a familiar.

  “Lupus ad umbrarum in lucem,” Maggie whispered, twisting her blood magic into the primal. Abigail directed the flow of primal forces and the hidden bursts of blood magic toward the cellar. The walls of the Nightmare still stood. Vincent Donnelly was not so strong as to fully destroy such a curse. Not from the inside, anyway.

  A crack between realities split as the women spoke their conjuring incantation. They called the name of the Wolf of Shadows, the one-time familiar of an old and powerful witch, long since dead. They called the name Marchosias. And it answered their call.

  The house shook as the way between worlds became soft and allowed the familiar to cross over. Abigail could not see it, but she did not need to. Like her sisters, they could all feel its presence. It would find Vincent Donnelly in the Nightmare and ensure he remained silent until they needed him.

  ***

  The house grew quiet. The four women shared a look between them as they sat in the circle.

  “This feels unusual,” Charlotte said.

  “Are we sure it worked?” Sandra asked.

  “It worked. Something worked,” Mary-Ann said. They all looked at Abigail.

  “Of course, it worked. Can’t you feel its presence?”

  “Yeah, but it feels wrong, Abby,” Charlotte said. “It feels like we summoned something we weren’t supposed to.”

  “Charlotte, listen to yourself. It’s trapped in the Nightmare with Donnelly. It follows our commands. Nothing will go wrong. Have faith in your powers, sisters. We are in control here. We are going to right the wrongs of the past,” she said.

  A howl sounded then, from deep within the bowels of the house. It was frenzied and hungry, the sound of a wolf letting all who heard it know that this was its territory. Marchosias was staking its claim.

  “We have some planning to do. In the meantime, business as usual, right?” Abigail said.

  “Right,” Sandra said. Mary-Ann nodded. Charlotte sighed and nodded as well.

  “Are we sure he doesn’t have any power to get out of there?” she asked.

  “He has what he stole from Selena, but even she couldn’t get out of the Nightmare. Don’t worry so much, Charlotte. It’s making you sour.”

  “I’m sour, am I?” Charlotte said, trying to hold back a smile.

  “Sour like those pies you keep trying to bake.”

  Charlotte’s expression was of mock offense as she threw a pillow from the nearby sofa at Abigail. The girls laughed and Abigail laughed along with them, throwing the pillow back. She liked these moments when they could just be themselves again. The moments when it seemed like they could be carefree. It hadn’t been this way in such a long time.

  If Selena had never left, things would probably be the same as they ever were. In some ways, Abigail wished it could be that again. She would have less power. She would have less responsibility. But having her friend back would be worth it. Though that was nothing but a silly dream now. There was no way to bring Selena back. No mortal had that power to wield, at least not in the way that could restore her whole and true and not as a monster. So the only choice was to go forward.

  Abigail and Maggie would work together, and they would succeed. It was the only option. It was for the good of everyone.

  “Come on, then. Tourists need their cupcakes in the morning,” Sandra said, offering Abigail a hand.

  “We wouldn’t want to leave anyone hungry,” Abigail agreed.

  ***

  The field had shattered like it was made from glass. The world just slipped away, and Vincent’s perceptions of time and space were unable to help him orient where or even when he might be. There was no up or down. He tried to walk and fell over, then fell up, then rolled to the side. It was like some kind of circus funhouse.

  He had just been sitting still, his back still searing from the burn he had received, hoping for some kind of relief. Selena had assured him that something would happen sooner rather than later, but he was in no position to do anything, one way or the other.

  “What’s happening?” he croaked, his throat sore and his back still aching.

  “I don’t know,” Selena said. “Something changed the enchantment.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Vincent tried to sit up, to balance himself, but the world kept bobbing and weaving. He felt like he was going to throw up.

  “It means something changed the enchantment, Vincent. What am I, a Frommer’s Guide?”

  “I hate it in here,” he said. Selena chuckled at that.

  “Good. That’s the point.”

  The ground rose and hit Vincent in the face. Or maybe he fell into it. He wasn’t sure. In any event, it was cold, wet cobblestone. The spin faded away. His sense of up and down returned. He sat up on his knees.

  “I don’t know this place,” he said, looking around. He was in a hallway. There were lanterns along the walls for a distance, in both directions. Thick, wooden doors were set into the stone walls. The air smelled damp and musty.

  “No?” Selena asked. She stood next to him, wearing the same robes as before.

  “You know it?”

  “It’s your head,” she said.

  Tentatively, Vincent reached his hand behind and touched his back. The burn was gone. The memory of the pain was there, but it was fading away. He stood up straight in the stone hallway. Somewhere, a steady drip of water echoed. It was the only sound.

  “If I knew where we were, I’d suggest a direction,” he said. Selena shrugged.

  “It doesn’t matter. There isn’t a right way to go. Whatever you do will lead to some new form of torture to keep us occupied. That’s what happens here.”

  “You’re terrible at pep talks,” Vincent said. He looked up and down the halls. Neither direction seemed any different.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Vincent. Let me get right on cheering my murderer along with his quest to escape justice.”

  “I’m not—” He stopped himself short with a shake of his head. “You said we need help from the outside to get out of here. Then we have to do something, right?”

  Selena drew a long, deep breath. She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose.

  “There is no one to find was my point. We need outside help but we can’t find outside help. This situation is hopeless, and we are doomed. Are we clear now? Are we on the same page?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I guess we are,” Vincent said. He started walking. His shoes clicked oddly on the cobblestone floor as he went. There was a door made of thick red wood on his left. An iron emblem that looked like a stylized wolf’s head was set into it. The handle was a bulky iron ring. It made Vincent think of an old castle dungeon.

  The iron ring was warm in his hand, despite how cool the hallway seemed to be. He pushed and pulled on the door but it didn’t budge at all.

  “You’re leaving?” Selena asked from behind him. He let the iron ring go and kept walking.

  “You don’t need to keep talking to me. I get it. You hate me. We’re trapped. I’m dumb. I don’t know what else to say, so I’m just going to go this way. You can stay there, or leave, or whatever you like,” he said. He paused long enough to inspect the lantern that was set into the wall. It looked like brass, and someone had embedded the gas line that kept it fueled into the stones, then sealed it tight. He tried to move it, but the metal was too hot.

  “I don’t know you well enough to hate you, Vincent. I just don’t like you,” she said.

  Vincent kept walking. The next door was sealed tight as well, and so was the next one. Selena eventually relented and started down the hallway behind him. Her shoes clicked more loudly than his on the stone.

  “You don’t need to—” he began, turning to face her. He lost track of how he planned on finishing the sentence as his gaze strayed past Se
lena to the hallway beyond.

  Crouched low to the ground and stalking forward with slow, silent steps was the largest dog Vincent had ever seen. Its back rose up high behind it, almost like a hunch between its shoulder blades. The face was long, with an extended muzzle like that of a massive wolf. Its fur was black offset with flashes of silvery grey around the eyes and nose, with more down its forelegs. Golden yellow eyes were fixed on Vincent. It looked like it was smiling.

  Its body took up the whole of the hallway. It was larger than a man, and its front paws were not canine at all, but long-fingered human hands covered in fur.

  Selena followed Vincent’s gaze, turning to look down the hall behind her.

  “Unbelievable,” she said, backing away from the wolf, towards Vincent.

  “What is it?” Vincent asked. The wolf continued padding closer. He could have sworn the thing was smiling at him.

  “It’s Marchosias. We need to get out of this hallway now,” Selena said. She tried the door Vincent had just tried, having as little luck as he had.

  “What’s—”

  “Marchosias is a marquis of Hell and one-time familiar of Cullodena Wallace,” she said.

  “What?”

  “It’s a werewolf, Vincent. It’s the first ever werewolf, the creator of all werewolves.”

  “Oh,” Vincent said. He definitely did not remember meeting that before. But if it was in his head, then he must have. Except that didn’t make sense, either.

  “If this is my memory, why do you know what it is?” Vincent asked.

  “I don’t think it is... it’s not your memory, it’s real.” She tried another door and pushed him forward so he’d keep moving.

  “It’s real? It’s a real werewolf? What does that mean? What the hell is a real werewolf?”

  Selena stopped what she was doing and pointed down the hall.

  “It’s that! It’s a giant demon dog. It’s a hell-born familiar that my sisters summoned because they really don’t like you,” she said. She moved to the next door.