Witching Your Life Away

by Constance Barker

  Chapter 25

  The power of the Caves was still within reach, and Bailey sensed it when a sudden shudder passed through the intelligence, followed by what she could only name revulsion—a sense of wrongness with the world, very nearby.

  She didn’t even need to wonder what it was. Mr. Dove had come, just as they believed he would.

  “He’s here,” she said, for Aiden’s benefit. “Can you manage?”

  “I can,” Aiden said. “It was taxing, but I’m not entirely spent yet.”

  “What should I do?” Piper asked, clutching Riley to her.

  “Stay here,” Bailey told her.

  “But… I can feel it… the Caves, I can—”

  “No,” Bailey told her firmly. “You can’t do anything yet. We’ll sort this all out later. You have to stay out of the way, I have no idea what’s going to happen. Okay?”

  Piper looked like she might argue, that fierceness in her eyes almost lit by new magic she had no idea what to do with. How had it even happened? It must have had to do with Riley. That seed of magic in him… maybe she’d reached too deep, found the part of him that was connected to Piper by a magic far deeper and more ancient and natural than anything in the Caves.

  But she held her tongue, and gave a terse nod.

  Bailey and Aiden raced to the entrance of the caves.

  “…you’re free of my enchantment,” Mr. Dove was saying—to Bailey’s abject dismay—to the gathered crowd of Coven Grove citizens, “doesn’t mean you are safe. Far from it. Wail and despair, mortals—your end is upon you.”

  He lifted the set of pipes to his mouth and began to play. Shadows peeled out of the crowd, and from under bushes, and anywhere there was shade from the sun. They swirled as the took on solid shape, and flowed up to the faerie like sheets of lightless black velvet, coiling about on one another and gathering at his feet, his hands, and over his head until he was wreathed in them.

  The music took a turn, and the shadows became agitated, growing angular and jagged—and then they went for the crowd in a torrent of darkness.

  Chloe, Aiden, Bailey, and Frances all howled different spells at the same time. Bailey incanted a general exorcism, it being the only defensive spell she could recall on the spot. Aiden did something that made the air above the people shimmer as if a fine mist of infinitesimal diamonds floated over them.

  Chloe and Frances struck directly, unseen force punching a hole in the darkness that quickly began to fill in.

  Bailey’s spell struck, and some of the shadows jerked wildly and withdrew from the morass but only to linger around Mr. Dove and then plunge back in with the others.

  The people below should have run, but instead they cringed and cowered. Gunshots fired, but passed uselessly through the darkness. Mr. Dove flitted back and forth, easily avoiding being caught by a stray bullet.

  Without more components for the more complex ritual spells, only Frances had any kind of magic that she could strike with directly, and she did—but the cold and wind didn’t seem to affect the shadows at all, while Mr. Dove seemed unperturbed by the frost that gave his earthy costume a fine white sheen, and even made his eyes seemed to grow brighter, more icy in response to the cold.

  So Bailey reached down into the lingering connection she had. She dragged the frightened magic up, into her feet, through her spine, to her hands. She touched Chloe and Frances on their shoulders, and passed it to them and felt the connection spread, gain confidence as it drew from the witches’ strength and determination.

  Aiden saw, and must have felt something, because he held his hand out to Bailey, and she took it, and the magic passed into him as well, welcoming him into the connection that swelled and solidified between the four of them.

  Mr. Dove hissed, a sound like ripping air, and swung his staff. The earth shuddered beneath them. Above, dark clouds gathered. Thunder groaned over the sky, and lightning flashed inside the angry darkness.

  Chloe, Francis, Aiden, and Bailey all raised their hands together, and the same spell fell from all of their lips. The language of the Caves, drawing their will into a single purpose. Magic cracked through the air, snapping at Mr. Dove’s feet, lashing out at his arms and waist. The Caves felt the wrongness of him, felt his proper place, and reached out through the four practitioners to return him to it.

  Mr. Dove snarled like a wild cat caught in a net, and the shadows returned to him, coiling around the magic that held him fast and slipping between him and it until he was free. He raised his staff, and then struck the air with it.

  Lightning boomed through the air form the clouds above.

  When the flash was gone, the bolt of furious power hung, suspended, above the crowd.

  Anita and Rita stepped out from behind Bailey. She felt the power of the caves rise up in them, magic so intense it seemed to burn her skin. They spoke together, their clipped words resounding like physical objects against the world, and the lightning twisted, curled, and stretched until it poured like water into the earth.

  Mr. Dove jerked backward in the air like a leaf caught in a sudden draft. A flinch.

  From behind him, another voice cried out. Lines of crimson force appeared in the air around the faerie, boxing him in. Vines burst from the ground and snaked up through the air to tangle around Mr. Dove’s feet, avoiding the edges of Avery’s spell as they did.

  The faerie kicked and spat, and summoned his shadows to him, but they were fewer now, and some of them recoiled from the glowing edges of the cage around him. Those that slipped through weren’t enough.

  Rita and Anita chanted together, invoking the cave, invoking its duty and promise to keep the worlds apart. Bailey and the others, as one, reached out with their own portion of the magic and again grasped the struggling fairy in it. Then they pulled.

  It was a mighty battle—Mr. Dove wasn’t going easily—but he couldn’t beat them all, and his allies in the shadows were no longer numerous enough to free him. He was drawn, inexorably, toward the entrance of the Seven Caves.

  The crowd swarmed back and away as he came closer to the ground, spreading out in stunned silence as they watched the faerie thrash against his bindings, spitting curses in a flowery, lilting tongue that was almost hypnotic to hear. When he touched the ground, more vines and roots reached up to grasp him, and to pass him toward the stone floor, until, finally, he was dragged inside.

  Mr. Dove shrieked. It was a high, piercing sound. His eyes went from the icy blue of the depthless oceans to almost red, bloodshot and furious, and he anchored them on Bailey herself as the Caves opened up—that was the only way she could describe it—and swallowed him into a breach in the world that then vanished as if it had never been.

  It was as if some grip on Coven Grove had suddenly been let go. The struggle ended abruptly, and silence descended, broken only by the distant roar of the ocean, ever present as it always was.

  The gathered crowd all began cheering at once, but it didn’t last. Once their adoration was sated, they began to come forward, one mass of people—many of whom were still armed—suddenly full of questions.

  Anita spoke a word in a clear, high voice, and stretched her hand out, and petals drifted from her grip, floating on still air, out over the people of Coven Grove. One by one they quieted, and then blinked, and then yawned, and laid down to nap. It had been so subtle a spell that Bailey hadn’t even felt the magic moving—though, some part of her still buzzed with the waning presence of the magic from the Caves.

  She stared as the people fell into what appeared to be a pleasant slumber, and then turned that stare on Anita.

  Anita caught her eye, and the corner of her lip quirked up.

  Then, she slumped, and nearly fell. Rita grabbed her sister, and held her up, but Anita’s eyes were lidded, and her face was drawn, her lips pale.

  “Help me take her back,” Rita snapped. Chloe and Frances both rushed to the aid of the crones. They took Anita, and walked her toward the back of the caves, presumably to the entrance to their
home below in the eighth chamber.

  Rita stopped by Bailey and watched them go for a moment. Then she turned a baleful eye on the younger witch. “What you have done,” she said, “cannot be undone. You have forever changed this place. Joined others to it’s very essence.”

  “I had to,” Bailey said. “It was the only way.”

  “It was the only way you could conceive of,” Rita corrected. “And it has borne a terrible price.”

  “If you had helped me before,” Bailey told the old woman, “I wouldn’t have had to.”

  Rita only snorted. “That’s not the way my sister tells it.”

  Bailey didn’t know what that meant, and didn’t get an explanation, as Rita ambled off toward the direction her sister had gone with the other two witches. Piper stepped aside to let her through—Rita barely seemed to notice.

  When she was gone, though, Piper came to Bailey, Riley draped against her shoulder, asleep. “Was that Rita Hope?” She asked. “What’s she doing?”

  “She lives in the Caves,” Bailey said. “It’s… a long story. Listen, Piper I didn’t mean to—”

  But Piper pulled Bailey into a tight one armed hug. “All that matters for now is that we’re safe. My children are safe. And the whole town. If this was the price we paid, then I—what happened?” She let Bailey go, and stared at the mass of sleeping people outside the caves.

  “Anita happened,” Bailey said. “Some kind of sleeping spell.”

  “Oh,” Piper breathed. “Wow… I mean, it is impressive, right?”

  “It is considerably difficult to achieve an effect like this so effortlessly,” Aiden said. “Yes. It is impressive.”

  Piper blinked wide eyes, and swallowed. Then she frowned, “Um… what do we do with them?”

  Bailey glanced at Aiden, and then groaned. “We take them home,” she sighed. “One at a time. We’d better get to work.”

  Epilogue

  It was no mean task. But they managed, with elbow grease, and care, and magic. That, and around eighty or so car trips.

  The population of Coven Grove was six or seven thousand; it wasn’t a large town. Only about eighty something citizens had been close enough to see anything and be affected by Anita’s spell. The rest, who had likely been on their way to the caves, milled around town in some confusion, or on the roads.

  They may not have actually seen anything themselves, but they were going to be questioning things, wondering, and eventually they would most likely start coming to conclusions. It was impossible to tell whether Anita’s spell had any kind of memory component to it—Aiden insisted that it was exceedingly unlikely, while Chloe told him not to underestimate the old Crone.

  During the rounds, Bailey delivered Piper and her sleeping children to their own home, with promises that she would be there for both of them as they navigated whatever came next. She was at least fairly certain that Riley’s magic was not only specific but back in a dormant state. Piper was a different story, but one that they would sort out.

  It was late by the time everyone was back in their homes; almost midnight. None had woken up, so it was hard to say how long they would sleep. Likely until sunrise, Aria thought—that was often the nature of sleeping spells.

  In the end, Chloe and Bailey ended up at the Bakery, nursing mugs of hot chocolate while Aiden and Avery debriefed outside after Bailey insisted that she couldn’t stand another syllable of wizardly transdimensional math.

  “So,” Bailey said softly, both hands wrapped around the warm ceramic. “Another crisis averted. Mostly.”

  “I’ll have to talk with the Sheriff soon,” Chloe said. “Probably tomorrow. I don’t know if Dale, Michael, or Candi should be freed—they all did commit terrible crimes—but we know they couldn’t have helped themselves.”

  “It’s complicated,” Bailey agreed. “Maybe you should ask the Sheriff. Fill him in. It would certainly help.”

  “You may be right,” Chloe said.

  They were quiet a moment.

  Bailey took a slow breath. “So… my father. You said that you’d tell me more about him. Now is as good a time as any.”

  Chloe tapped her finger against her mug. “Alright,” she said. “I suppose I did.”

  “And the Throne of Medea,” Bailey pressed. “I need to know about them both.”

  “They go together,” Chloe murmured. She sighed. “When I knew your father, his name… was Leander Swift. Irish, one generation removed in the states. You got your red hair from him. And his eyes…” She stared at Bailey for a moment and then dropped her eyes to her mug. “Many, many years ago—well before the gregorian calendar—there was a witch named Medea. The same as from the myths, but some… liberty was taken.”

  “The Medea who married Jason? Jason and the Argonauts?”

  “The same,” Chloe confirmed, grimacing. “Though, I don’t believe she actually married him, or had any children with him. She married a wizard—a sorcerer named Lucius Quintos. He was Roman, and at the time it was an unpopular choice.”

  “Imagine that,” Bailey said, raising an eyebrow.

  “It runs in the family, I suppose,” Chloe sighed.

  Bailey blinked. “In the family?”

  Chloe settled back in her chair, sipping her hot cocoa. After a moment, she nodded. “Yes, Bailey. I can’t say for certain, but there is a chance that Leander sought me out intentionally. Medea created the Throne as a means to secure the power of our kind throughout the world—to connect us, and magnify us. She took a husband who helped her to create it but she feared his… ambitious nature. So when she executed the spell, she left him out of it. He was furious, but no match for her at that point. He left her, and many, many years later his descendant was the one that deceived Liliana Morgase, broke the Throne, and stole the spell to recreate it.”

  Bailey’s fingers trembled, and she clutched the mug tighter to keep them still. “So… we’re descended from Medea herself?”

  Chloe nodded.

  “And… my father…”

  “The descendant of Lucius Quintos,” Chloe said. “With the blood of both of them in your veins, however distant, if you remake the Throne of Medea… you won’t be able to cut the wizards out of it. It’s old magic, deep. Blood magic, tied to Medea herself, and tied to Lucius Quintos the betrayed.”

  “So I’m just a plan,” Bailey said, her voice as hollow as her chest. “The whole reason I was born… was just to be a pawn?”

  “I don’t know, my love,” Chloe said, but sadly. “I hope not. But… I don’t know.”

  Bailey swallowed hard around a lump in her throat. “I should go,” she said. “I need to talk to Aiden, still.”

  “If you want me to find your father,” Chloe said. “If you really think that’s what needs to be done… I’ll trust your instinct. I just want to know, when it comes to that, that you trust it, too.”

  Bailey nodded, and then kissed her mother goodnight, and left. Aiden and Avery had already finished their conversation, and had simply been waiting for her before Avery headed home. “Tomorrow,” he said, “we strategize. Get ahead of this. I’m tired of being on the defensive.”

  “Agreed,” Bailey told him, and hugged him close.

  When he was gone, she and Aiden walked together toward the Tour Office, where Aiden’s car was parked still.

  “I hope your mother and her Coven won’t mind,” Aiden said carefully, “but I took the liberty of inviting my old professor to town. Gideon Tull. He’s a remarkable adept, old, old blood. I think we can use some additional insight.”

  “I’m sure they’ll deal,” Bailey said. “It can’t be any more alarming than half the town witnessing a witch versus faerie showdown in real time.”

  “Witch and wizard versus faerie,” Aiden corrected. “True enough. If they have contacts outside of the coven… it might be prudent to draw as many trusted allies here as possible.”

  “Maybe more than you’re imagining,” Bailey said. She cleared her throat. “You know about the Thron
e of Medea?”

  “I do,” Aiden said quietly. “What are you proposing?”

  “I’m proposing to remake it,” Bailey said. “And I think my father may know how.”

  Aiden stopped, and Bailey took a few more steps before she realized it and turned to face him. He stood with his hands in his pockets, eyes wide.

  “What?” Bailey said.

  “My… dreams. My vision, of this place…”

  She bristled a little bit, but calmed. “Look, about that… I’m sorry about before. I talked with my mom, and she had some perspective to share, and I know that you trust me, Aiden, especially after tonight, but at the time—”

  “No,” Aiden said, waving a hand, “I… appreciate you saying that but it’s not that.”

  “What is it then?”

  He licked his lips. “Perhaps… it has to be this way. But… of the images from my dream that I am able to recall, or at least that I’ve been able to write down… among them is an image of you and I… seated on a chair of stone, and vines. Ancient, and powerful.”

  “So, maybe I’m supposed to do this?” Bailey asked.

  Avery shook his head. “I don’t know if you’re supposed to or not—just that… according to my vision, you will. Or, we will—it isn’t clear. More important are the other images immediately after.”

  “And what are those?” Bailey asked, her voice a whisper. Aiden’s expression was not that of a man about to tell her it was an image of their happy ending.

  “Death, Bailey,” he said quietly. “A great deal of death.”

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