The Cruel Coven

by Isla Jones

  The sun had moved in the sky above when she broke the thick silence between them. “I hate you, you know.”

  “I don’t care,” he replied and helped her to her feet. “I couldn’t let you pretend you knew nothing. You’re a part of this.”

  “I don’t want to be,” she said into the mucus-slimed rag. “I just want to go home.”

  “It’s too late for that. The thing is, this has been going on for ages. Since before my time and yours.”

  Blake wiped the snot from her nostrils and handed the rag back to him. He made a face of disgust at the cloth. She shrugged and threw it on the grass.

  “C’mon,” he said and led her up the path to the porch. Blake plodded behind him, hiccups and snivels escaping her damp lips. “We use this place,” he said. “The Wolves. It’s a good hideout when things get too hot. Cops won’t find anyone here.” Hunter stopped at the door that dangled from the hinges. He tapped his finger against the panel beside it. “Recognise it?”

  Blake rubbed her blood-shot eyes to clear the tears away. Etched into the wood were symbols, carved in a straight line from top to bottom. A ghoulish memory sprung to mind and Blake shuddered. “They’re like the symbols I saw on Zeke’s body.”

  “They’re from the same coven magic, but not the same spells.” Hunter ran his fingertip down the carved wood. “You see, witches aren’t like they tell us in the movies. Every witch has power, but they’re stronger together.”

  Blake looked up at him and studied his stoic expression. “What kind of power?”

  “Depends on the witch,” he said. “That’s why they join in covens. Mostly, it’s just blood magic, alchemy, conjuring, voodoo, illusions—”

  “Those sound bad,” she interrupted.

  “They can be,” he agreed, nodding. “Blood magic ties people together. That can be dangerous. It all depends on the witch and why they’ve used their magic. The coven from the settlement—the ones that came here, to the cabin—weren’t using their magic for good. They killed kids, and one of the witches had a rare power. One that shouldn’t be used. He brought the kids back from the dead.”

  “Necromancy,” she whispered.

  Hunter nodded and turned his face to the side, meeting her weary gaze. “That witch was Hugh Prescott.”

  Blake swallowed. “As in…”

  “Bethany and Zeke Prescott,” finished Hunter. “I don’t care what the Sheriff says. Zeke’s dead, and so is his grandma. What you told me is proof.”

  “The symbols?”

  “All of it. The symbols, the thing without eyes and black blood,” he said, combing his fingers through his curls. “You saw what that thing really is. Something that doesn’t belong in our world. But the Sheriff? He’d look right at the creature, and see what the magic shows him—a plain old grandmother. Same goes for Zeke. He sees what the head witch wants him to.”

  “So, Zeke really is dead,” said Blake. Of course, she’d known it. But saying it out loud, hearing it from someone who believed her, was an entirely different matter. It made it real. And when one learned that monsters existed, they could never pretend again.

  “He’s dead,” said Hunter. “He’s been dead since that night. He’s one of them now.”

  “One of who?”

  Hunter pushed the rotten door. It creaked open and revealed the dusty, dark room within. Mattresses littered the grimy floor and the stink of urine wafted over to them.

  “When a witch has the power to do necromancy, that’s how it starts,” explained Hunter. Blake followed him inside, resisting the urge to hold onto his t-shirt. “They kill family first. Like Hugh Prescott, the minister, killed his own son. It makes them stronger,” he continued. “If a witch kills another witch in their bloodline, they get that magic. It transfers. But Hugh Prescott left his daughter alive. He wanted the Prescott bloodline to continue. And when your friend Bethany killed her parents, she got stronger, too.”

  Blake’s eyes widened as she gaped at the back of Hunter’s head. He walked over to what had once been a fireplace, but was now a home for rats and field mice. They scratched and scurried in the walls.

  Blake shook her head. “No. Bethany … Bethany wouldn’t … couldn’t do that. She couldn’t kill her own parents.”

  “She can,” he argued. “And she did. My bet? She found out what she was, and learnt that she can steal power from the other witches in her family. Her dad carried the Prescott name, so he was the witch. Her mum probably got in the way. Wrong place, wrong time. And Bethany got more power when she killed her grandma, too.”

  “And Zeke,” added Blake. “His power, too?”

  Hunter perched himself on a dust-coated table and thinned his lips. He looked up at her with a smidgen of sympathy and nodded. “That’s right. Whatever Zeke’s power was, Bethany’s got it now. Her dad’s, and her grandma’s, too. She’s powerful, too powerful for us to charge straight in and take her on. Though, we know some things about her.”

  “Like what?”

  “Her powers weren’t necromancy. If they were, she would’ve brought her parents back from the dead. It would’ve saved her a load of bother.” Hunter folded his hands between his spread thighs and leaned forward. “It isn’t a coincidence that her darkness grows while her family drop dead around her. And it isn’t sorrow, I can tell you that. You see, some witches aren’t bad. Her dad, for example. We watched him, us Wolves. He did nothing with his power. He just carried on with his life. Probably never told his wife what he was. Some witches don’t crave the power. But, Bethany? She’s killing people, Harper. Killed those two Wolves. And she’s after something.”

  Blake fell back onto a stale armchair. Dust flew up at her, choking her as she coughed. Hunter quirked his brow and smirked.

  “You all right there?” he asked.

  “Dandy,” she coughed. “What’s she after?”

  “The diadem,” he said. “And she wants it bad.”

  Blake snorted. “Well, she’s got it. I told you—I found it in her house.”

  “You found the fake. The one from Town Hall isn’t the original. It’s a replica. The real one’s been missing for centuries.”

  “So, the one in Town Hall, that’s the one Bethany stole?”

  Hunter nodded.

  “Why did she kill those two Wolves? They were killed before the diadem went missing, so they can’t be connected.”

  “She paid them to kill someone else,” he explained. “Word got back to me, and I stopped it. When they gave her the money back, she killed them. That’s my guess, at least.”

  “Who were they meant to kill?”

  Hunter sighed and rose from the table before striding over to the moulded cabinet beside the fireplace-turned-dumpster. As Hunter grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet, he said, “She paid them to kill you.”

  “Me?” she repeated.

  Hunter found two broken mugs in the cabinet and blew gusts of breath at them. Dirt flittered out and sprinkled in the air. He handed her a mug and popped the lid off the bottle.

  “Why would she want to kill me?” she asked as he filled her mug.

  Hunter shrugged and dropped down onto the table again, facing her. He took a swig from the bottle before filling his own mug. “I didn’t know why when I found out,” he said between hefty gulps of his whiskey. “I thought maybe it was some psycho-teen revenge crap. But I kept an eye on you, anyway.” He smiled to himself and waved his glass in her direction. “That’s why I went to the diner more often, and turned up to school. But I didn’t figure it out until you came down to the bayous, talking about weird things happening in Belle-Vue. I think you were snooping around too much, and Bethany caught on.”

  “She figured out I have the sight.” Blake struggled not to laugh at herself. ‘The sight’. It sounded so fantasy-esque. A term that a psychic would use. The phrase lost impact with her, and decreased in authenticity. She didn’t like it.

  Hunter swirled the mug of whiskey. “See, the thing is,” he hesitated. “Norm
al people don’t have the sight. It’s not possible.”

  “Ok,” said Blake. “So, what does that mean?”

  “It could mean that you’re a witch,” he suggested. “But we both know you aren’t. If you were, you’d know by now. You’d have powers, you’d feel a connection to Bethany, and, let’s not forget, she’d want to kill you herself to steal your power. She wouldn’t hire a couple of Wolves to do it.”

  “Whiskey was a good idea,” said Blake before she tossed back a hefty swig of the putrid drink. As the hot burn raked down her throat, she shuddered and extended her mug, demanding a refill. Hunter grinned and filled her cup halfway.

  “You aren’t one of us,” he added. “Us Wolves, we’re more than a gang. I mean, yeah, we do some crime around town. We have to pay for stuff, too. But, we aren’t just a gang.”

  Blake gasped. “You’re werewolves!”

  Hunter crinkled his nose. “Don’t be daft. Werewolves aren’t real.”

  “Oh.” Blake pursed her lips and kicked the corner of a mattress. “It would be cool if they were.”

  Giving her a wolfish grin, Hunter brought the rim of the mug to his lips and sipped. “You’re taking this pretty well, you know. Other than that hissy fit outside. Are you always that dramatic?”

  Blake glowered as she swallowed a gulp of fiery hot whiskey. “I’m an only child,” she rasped, struggling not to cough. Clearing her throat, she added, “What’re the Wolves, then? Shifters, wizards, vampires?”

  “There isn’t a name for us, I don’t think,” he said. “We didn’t exist until that coven was killed. Not that we know of, at least.”

  Blake cocked her head to the side.

  “The hunter,” he explained. “He led the search for the coven. Organised the whole thing. After they were killed, the hunter noticed certain changes.”

  “What kind of changes?”

  “Well, he never lost prey after that. Not once. He was faster, stronger, could see in the dark without a torch or fire. Every night, he went out hunting, and never failed to bring back bounty.”

  “You’re hunters, then?” Blake arched her eyebrows. “That explains your name.”

  Hunter nodded, his lips quirking at the corners. “I suppose it does. But when the hunter, the first one, went home after his hunts, he felt different. Like, he needed to be in the swamps. He found this place. He hadn’t seen it before the coven was destroyed, of course. But when he found it, he moved in. The hunter lived away from the town, out here with his wife and kids. Eventually, more came.” Hunter lifted his hands and looked around. “And we’re still here.”

  “Why call yourselves Wolves, then?”

  “That’s what the townsfolk called the ones who moved out here. Said they were like a pack of wolves living in the woods. The name stuck.”

  “The hunter got magic, then,” she said. “Because he killed the coven.”

  “I don’t know if he got magic. But he saw things he didn’t see before.”

  “And the others? You said others came out here.”

  “Them too,” he agreed. “All of them were in the hunt. The ones who burned the witches and killed them with their own hands, they all got the sight, and the urge to be out here, living off the land.”

  “You choose to live out here,” she realised. “I always thought—”

  “We know what the townsfolk think,” he cut in with a wry smirk. “They think we’re scum. But we choose this. It feels right to us. It’s home.”

  The smirk faltered on his lips. The rim of the mug, hovering beneath his chin, stilled. Hunter’s eyes suddenly hardened as he dragged his gaze from Blake to the front door.

  “What?” whispered Blake. “What is it?”

  Hunter muttered under his breath as he stood and slammed the mug down on the rickety table.

  “Is it bad? Should we go?”

  “I knew it,” he growled.

  “Knew what?” Blake scurried to keep up with him as he stormed toward the front door. “Knew what, Hunter?”

  Hunter wrenched open the door, blocking the view for Blake. She crouched down and peered around his waist.

  Theodore stood on the porch, hands in his pockets, smiling down at her.

  12

  The Bloody Canvas

  Hunter’s muscles tensed as he traced Theodore’s gaze to Blake, who was crouched down beside him. Blake looked between the two, her brows knitted together and her lips parted.

  “Um,” she began, “Do you know each other?”

  “I know his scent,” spat Hunter. He remained glued in the doorway, one hand holding the door, the other pressed flat against the wall. Blake wondered if he was blocking her path, or Theodore’s path.

  “His scent,” repeated Blake. Both Hunter and Theodore had mentioned her scent before. ‘You smell like them’; ‘I can smell them on you. Blake straightened out her legs to stand at Hunter’s shoulder. “Can you smell each other? On me?”

  Theodore flashed her a terrifying grin. “We can.”

  She tucked herself closer to Hunter’s back.

  “And the other one,” added Theodore. “Bethany Prescott. Although, I cannot smell her on you now.”

  Blake glowered at him over Hunter’s shoulder. “Thought she was your family?”

  Theodore’s pearly white teeth glinted. “I have been caught,” he admitted without shame. “A liar, I am.”

  Blake rolled her eyes. “What do you want, Theo?”

  “Theo?” echoed Hunter, looking over his shoulder at her. “You’re friends?”

  “No,” she spat, scowling. “We’re not friends. I’ve met him, is all.”

  “How you wound me,” said Theodore, placing his hand on his heart.

  Hunter moved his stare back to the man on the porch. “He wants you,” said Hunter.

  Blake crinkled her nose. “Excuse me?”

  Theo explained, “He said, little waitress, that I want you.”

  “Yeah, I got that, thanks,” she hissed. “But why?”

  “Because,” said Hunter, “you’ll lead him to the diadem.”

  A glint sparked in her eyes as she smiled at Theodore. “Sure,” she said. “It’s at the Prescott manor. Last time I saw it, it was stuck in a zombie’s shoulder. Happy hunting.”

  Theodore tilted his head and smiled sweetly at her. “Adorable,” he remarked. “Unfortunately, that one is a copy. I want the real one.”

  “Go find it, then.”

  “You heard her,” said Hunter. “Get lost.”

  Theodore looked between Hunter and Blake, that sweet smile stuck onto his pink lips. His blue eyes, however, gave away his anger—they swarmed, molten, smouldering beneath the glassy surface. “Oh, I don’t think I’ll be going anywhere.” A darkness clutched his voice. “Not without her.”

  Blake whacked Hunter’s arm out the way and marched toward him. “Don’t talk about me like I’m not here.”

  His cold smile spread into a menacing grin. “Forgive me,” he apologised. “Will you please come with me, Blake Harper?”

  Blake raised her nose in the air and sniffed. “No, I will not.”

  “I wonder what I have done to deserve such hostility. After all, I did save your life, did I not?”

  Blake frowned, recalling the night at the Prescott manor. As that horrible night ended, her memories blurred, but she remembered his face, coated in black murk. “Why? Why did you help me?”

  Theodore raised his hands and cupped the air. “Why not?” He dropped his hands to his sides and stepped closer to the doorway.

  Hunter slinked in front of Blake, shielding her. “Back off, feeder.”

  The grin slipped from Theo’s lips, and darkness took root in his cold eyes.

  “What’s a feeder?” she asked.

  “A parasite,” spat Hunter. “A creature that feeds off death.”

  Blake gaped at Theodore, unnerved by the cruelty radiating from his solid stance. That cruelty, though, seemed to be reserved for Hunter and not her. “You’re a vampire?”


  Theodore’s molten gaze swerved to her. Blake flinched.

  “Do not insult me.” Theodore’s voice came out in a whisper, but it was laced with such danger that Blake inched closed to Hunter’s back. “Or,” said Theodore, “I will have no choice but to tear out your tongue, waitress.”

  Hunter rolled his shoulders, as if readying himself for a fight. “Feeders,” said Hunter, “aren’t vampires. They don’t feed off blood, they suck the souls from their victims and consume them. The souls are lost forever.”

  Theodore’s smile crept back onto his face. He looked at Blake and said, “I am a baobhan sith. A being from another world.”

  “That is why he wants you,” said Hunter. “It’s why he wants the diadem. He wants to go home.”

  Theodore eyes flashed, gaze locked onto Blake’s. “Do you have it?”

  She shook her head. “No, I don’t. But if I did, I wouldn’t give it to you.”

  “You’d wish me trapped in this dull world? After I healed your wounds, and saved you from death? It’s not often I use my weakened powers to save humans. I expected a smidgen of gratitude.”

  “You only saved me so you could get the diadem,” she said. “And you just threatened to rip out my tongue. Besides, I can’t help you. I don’t know where it is.”

  Theodore’s lip curled. “You do know. It’s in there.” He waved in the direction of her head. “Somewhere, buried deep.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” snapped Blake. “I don’t know a goddamn thing about the diadem! Why would I? I’m not special, I’m just—”

  “Oh, but you are,” purred Theodore. “Very special.”