The Cruel Coven

by Isla Jones

  His hooded gaze leaked tears that rolled down his blood-stained cheeks. Wyatt walked over, the leader of the Wolves. The sympathetic gaze he offered him had Hunter bowing his head and averting his stare to the pebbles. He had lost everyone. His father in the village, Spud in the reservoir, and Blake in sacrifice.

  Wyatt dropped to one knee beside him. “Hunter,” he said gently; as gently as his rough voice could soften. “We need to take them back to the village. They need their proper burials.”

  Hunter looked down at the gaping hole in Spud’s torso. Wyatt’s words were cruel to him, even if spoken out of respect. A burial. One for a young boy, desperate only to prove himself.

  “Oi!” It was Nolan, hollering from the golem pile. Wolves heaved the corpses into a heap to burn them. Nolan waved his arm above his head. “One’s alive! The feeder!”

  Wyatt patted Hunter on the back. Hunter didn’t know it if was a reassuring gesture, or a comforting one. Either way, it didn’t help in the slightest. It was empty—all of it. The pitiful glances, the sympathetic silences, the condolences offered by distance.

  Delicately, Hunter lowered Spud to the pebbles. He cupped his brother’s cheek before gently tugging down his eyelids. They stayed shut.

  He and Wyatt went over to the monger mound.

  Nolan nudged the feeder with his boot and loosely held his pistol in his hand. Hunter crouched beside the corpse. Theodore’s eyelids opened. There were eyeballs within the sockets. His arms and legs had grown back, and filled out the tattered clothes he wore.

  “He’s regenerating,” grumbled Wyatt. A shotgun cocking followed his voice.

  Hunter snapped his head and narrowed his eyes at him. “You aren’t killing him,” he growled. “Not after what he did.”

  “What he did?” barked Nolan. “You mean killing our people? Helping the witch? He was the one that took out your dad, Hunter.”

  “He only fell under the witch’s power because he helped us,” he gruffed. “If it wasn’t for him, Blake and I … We wouldn’t have made it to the village to warn you. The witch killed my dad. Not the feeder.”

  Theodore cleared his throat. All gazes swerved to him.

  “As much as I find your deliberations amusing, I truly do not require your permission to live.” He smiled an eerie gesture and suddenly stood. Hunter pushed himself up, too. Theodore added, “Now, where is my little waitress?”

  Hunter’s throat dipped. He swallowed and jerked his head to the water. Theodore quirked his brow and peered over Hunter’s shoulder.

  “Don’t see how you’ll get home now,” said Hunter bitterly. He kicked the stones beneath his feet.

  “Travelling home is not a problem,” replied Theodore. Hunter followed his stare to the lake. A whirlpool suctioned in the centre, spiralling downwards. “It is there, I shall go.” He glanced around expectantly. “The elemental—where is she?”

  Hunter turned and pointed at the blackened bodies by the foamy tide. Theodore’s amused eyes hardened to stone, and his expression morphed into one of shock. Hunter gave him a once-over. Theodore’s shoulders deflated, losing their posture, and his hands curled into fists.

  Theodore disappeared. Hunter turned and saw that he stood beside the charred bodies. Hunter trekked over to him, just as Theodore dropped to one knee. His pale hand reached out and tenderly removed the top corpse. Blake’s body. He then placed her gently on the shore, next to the witch. Hunter watched as Theodore gingerly took Blake’s hand and raised it to his lips. A soft kiss touched the blood-clotted skin.

  Hunter sat down beside him.

  “She is alive,” said Theodore. A troubled tone tinged his words. “In enormous agony. More than a human like yourself could ever imagine.” Hunter stiffened and gaped at the feeder. His forehead creased as he glanced at Blake—or what was left of her. Theodore caressed her charred fingers, and added, “Alive and dead. On the brink of both, yet neither.”

  “How?” The back of his hand wiped away the dampness on his cheeks. “How is that possible?”

  “The diadem,” he replied. “It is supporting her, but it is failing. The power will soon be gone, and she will perish along with it.”

  Hunter rubbed his hands over his face. He spoke into his palms, “Can she hear us?”

  “I believe she can,” he said, and ran his index finger over the diadem, entwined in her hair.

  “What do we do?” Hunter’s cheeks dipped as he bit the insides. His curls wobbled in the breeze as he looked to his left. Bethany’s burnt body was sprawled out on the shore. “The heart of the witch,” said Hunter. “That’s what you told me—feed Blake the witch’s heart, and she’ll live.”

  Theodore looked at the lake where the whirlpool slowed in its downward spirals.

  “No.” Hunter’s voice was firm, and demanded Theodore’s gaze. “You’re not taking her with you. She belongs here, in this world.”

  “In my world, she can be healed.”

  “And in this one, too.” Hunter yanked a swiss army knife from his boot and stood. “Blake stays, and she’s going to live. I’ll make sure of it.”

  In two strides, Hunter reached Bethany’s body and crouched beside her. He winced, preparing himself, before he plunged the knife into her chest. Bits of crackled skin snapped. Hunter grimaced and cut. Not much made him squeamish, but cutting out hearts seemed to have that effect. The blade was crimson when he pulled it out, and more blood had smeared across his hand. Hunter stuck his hand into the hole and yanked out the organ.

  Before he could take it over to Blake, Theodore stood beside him and tore it from his grasp. The feeder ripped a chunk from the heart with his teeth and swept back to Blake’s side. Theodore plucked the chewed meat from his mouth and dropped it into hers. Hunter sat down on the pebbles. Blake remained still, charred and broken. He waited, but nothing happened.

  Theodore reached into her mouth and shoved the meat down her throat with his fingers. He must have read Hunter’s mind. “Give it time,” he said and rose to his feet. He looked back at the dying whirlpool. “I must leave. The diadem is withering, and if Blake does not survive, my way home will be gone.”

  “Go.” Hunter’s hoarse voice was muffled by his palms. He covered his face and waited, holding his breath, for a gasp of life to shoot through Blake. “No one is keeping you here.”

  Theodore’s shoes crunched against the shore, growing quieter, until the sound morphed into the swoosh of water. He was leaving.

  Hunter dropped his hands from his face. “Wait!”

  Theodore paused, knee-deep in the lake. He kept his back to Hunter.

  Hunter looked back at the shore. The Wolves carried their own fallen soldiers to a second pile. Spud’s small arm draped over the side of Wyatt’s burly body. Hunter clenched his eyes before he returned his stare to the feeder.

  “I want you to know,” said Hunter, “that if she dies, it’s on your head. Not because of the fight, but because you walked away when she needed you most. After she did so much to help you—to help all of us—you abandoned her.”

  Theodore titled his head and stared at the water. He seemed to consider for a moment before he looked back at Blake. Blood cracked in her eyelids as a whispered groan seeped through her bloodied lips. “I can take her with me, where she will live, but you sentence her to a slow and painful death for your own selfish heart.” Theodore returned his gaze to the water. “What can you do for her that I cannot?

  “Everything,” said Hunter. “A human bond. A real friendship. More, if it happens. A constant familiar face in a world that flipped around. Things she can’t have with you, which is just about everything.” He stepped forward. “I don’t trust you, feeder. I won’t hand her over to you because of what you are, not for what I feel.”

  Theodore listened to the soft breeze of moans that came from Blake’s lips. His glassy eyes watched the whirlpool begin to close in on itself. Inch by inch, it receded.

  “Take her to the cabin,” said Theodore. “Feed her a piece of the hear
t every hour. And be there when she wakes up.”

  Theodore dove into the water and swam. Hunter shouted after him—‘What if she doesn’t?’—but his words were carried away in the winds as Theodore was wrenched down into the lake. The whirlpool spiralled, and spread, and gurgled. Stones and boulders erupted from the vortex, followed by an explosion of water that flew up into the air.

  The water crashed back down into the reservoir. The whirlpool softened into a glistening, calm bath.

  The feeder was gone.

  17

  The Swamp Witch

  The song of nature played through the lush land—crickets croaked, toads burped, and birds twittered. A frog hopped onto a boulder to rest, its beady eyes on the motorbike that rolled up the grass. Hunter Jackson gripped onto the handles and pushed the bike toward the building ahead. The panels, once rotten, had taken him months to sand and paint. Some of the wooden boards had had to be removed. Hunter replaced them with uneven grey stones. Behind the cottage, buried in the overgrown grass, were tombstones he’d carved himself. It was the final resting place for Peggy Prescott, the Sheriff, the Deputy, and those lost in the battle at the reservoir. Though, not all golems had been buried.

  Hunter parked his bike beside the boulder, and looked down at the frog. A smile tugged at his lips as he drifted his gaze back to the house. The pale cottage hid beneath the branches of leafy green trees, and the sloped stone roof was sprinkled with pink blossoming flowers. A ribbon of smoke slithered up from the wonky chimney and disappeared into the clouds above.

  Ribbet.

  Hunter nodded at the frog’s croak. “I know,” he said to the frog. “I’m a master.”

  The frog hopped off the boulder and disappeared into the tufts of grass. Hunter shrugged and lifted open the seat of his motorbike. A compartment was revealed. He dug out two brown paper bags from inside before he trudged up to the cottage. The porch still needed work. Strips of grey poked out from the white boards. If she had noticed the poor paintjob yet, she hadn’t mentioned it to Hunter.

  The porch groaned as he jumped onto it, and he raised his fist to rap on the white door. It swung open before his knuckles could connect. His hand dropped to his side as a sheepish grin swept over his face.

  Blake Harper leaned against the door frame, her arms folded over her chest. “That,” she said, gesturing to the bags, “better be good.”

  “If it is, will you forgive me?”

  Blake snatched one of the bags and stormed inside. Hunter kicked the door shut behind him and followed her stamping footsteps through the living room—the white fireplace flooded warmth over the plush floral couches, and the cream panelled windows reflected midday sunlight—to the kitchen. Hunter had worked on the kitchen first, at Blake’s demand for hygiene, and fixed it up with a granite-top island, a porcelain sink, and a round dining table with four seats. The plumbing was still a little rusty. And before he’d gotten around to screwing on the cupboard doors, Blake decided she preferred the little curtains instead.

  Hunter perched himself on a stool at the island bench. Opposite him, Blake rummaged through the brown bag.

  “I can’t believe you just left me like that.” Blake tried to hide the strain in her tone as she slammed a can of soup on the bench. “Five days without any news. The milk went off, I’m out of bread, and…” Her voice trailed off as she pulled a loaf of bread out of the bag. “I was worried you wouldn’t come back,” she finished in a whisper.

  Hunter smiled and reached for her hand. His fingertips grazed over her knuckles. “I was pulled in for questioning.” At Blake’s startled look, he added, “Again, I know. But it wasn’t the local cops this time. It was those damn agents from Baton Rouge.”

  “Why didn’t anyone come by?” she asked, slumping over the counter. “I should know these things.”

  “Most of us were up there. Wyatt, Nolan, Clay—The ones who weren’t didn’t think it was safe to visit you.”

  “Even if they were followed, the cops wouldn’t find me. Normal people can’t see this place, remember?”

  Hunter hummed as she used his own words against him. He unpacked the second bag, filled with fresh fruits from the market, strong coffee beans, and toilet roll. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “The search dogs might’ve found you, and what happens if someone with the sight is on the force? It could get messy.” Blake bit her lip and nodded, but her gaze fixed down at their entwined fingers. “Hey,” said Hunter. “I wouldn’t ever abandon you like that. You have to have a little faith, Blake.”

  “Faith.” As the word rolled off her tongue, a wry smirk twisted at her lips. “I don’t even know what that means anymore.” She dragged her gaze over the spread in front of her. Everything she needed was there, and, as if he’d read her mind, she looked at the boxes of pads and tampons. “I’m glad you’re back,” she said. “The others? Are they still in the city?”

  Hunter unwrapped a chocolate bar and shook his head. “The agents couldn’t keep us without evidence. Mind you, they’re not allowed to hold us for as long as they did. I doubt we’ve seen the last of them.” His teeth tore into the chocolate bar and ripped off a chunk. “They think we’re hiding you,” he said through a mouthful. “And they’re right, obviously, but they haven’t gotten any closer to finding you.” He gave her a steady look with his tired coffee eyes. “And they won’t find you.”

  “Promise?”

  Hunter held up his hand to imitate the scout’s honour. Blake swatted him with a tea towel.

  “You weren’t a boy scout,” she said.

  “Ah,” he said, hopping off the stool. “But you knew what I meant, didn’t you?”

  Blake rolled her eyes and pushed herself from the counter.

  “Come on.” Hunter tossed his Wolf jacket at her. She caught it mid-air and pulled it on. “It’s cold out there,” he said.

  Blake draped herself over the hammock—taken from Hunter’s house at the village—and tugged the leather jacket around herself. The days were inching into winter. Yellow rays poured down on them from the sun, but the warmth never quite touched the earth. Soon, the rain would come to raise the swamps and flood the town.

  Hunter crouched beside the toolbox. It had been his dad’s. He didn’t mention his dad much, at least not compared to how much he talked about Spud.

  Blake sometimes wondered if she should have brought Spud back. Not in the way that would fill the void within Hunter, but enough to stick a plaster over it. As if he’d sensed her thoughts—and maybe he had—Abe came lurching up the field. Hunter heard his groans and looked over his shoulder at the golem.

  “Bloody hell,” said Hunter. He turned back around to sieve through his tools. “Those things give me the creeps, Blake. We should’ve gotten rid of them that night.”

  Blake pursed her lips and watched Abe stagger in circles. When Bethany had died, the golems fell with her. The Wolves collected the bodies and drove them to the biggest gator-infested swamp in town. It was then that Blake had woken up. Hunter had taken her to the cabin and fed her pieces of Bethany’s soul—thinking of it as a soul instead of a heart lessened the nausea it caused Blake—until she’d healed. No one had expected the golems to wake up, too, and find their way to the cabin. But they were docile, unlike when Bethany had controlled them. They moved, now, on their own accord, and Blake let them.

  Blake rolled around to face Hunter. “I like having them around.”

  “I don’t.” Hunter shook his head and dropped a hammer. “The whole time I was in that holding cell, I couldn’t stop wondering if those things had turned on you. And then what? I wouldn’t be here to help you—”

  “I don’t need you to help me.” She wiggled her sock-covered toes as a breeze raked over them. “I control them. I have her powers now, and the golems answer to me. Besides, it’s good to know that when I’m alone, I have bodyguards roaming around.”

  “Thought you didn’t need help?”

  Blake shrugged. “From gators, I do. I found Rachel eating one b
y the willow tree. It must’ve wandered too far from the swamps, poor thing.”

  Hunter rubbed the back of his hand over his forehead. Before he could speak, tires rolled over dirt ahead. Hunter stood as Blake clambered off the hammock. It was a grey pickup truck. Blake waved and Hunter dropped his tools back into the box. Blake doubted he’d get much work done that day, not that she minded. The car parked behind the motorbike, and two Wolves jumped out—Clay and Cheyanne. In the months since the battle, Blake had gotten to know Cheyanne better. They weren’t friends, not yet, but Blake hoped they would be some day. All her other friends were dead. Except from Hunter, of course. Blake bit her lip, and wondered if they were friends. Sometimes, when she caught him staring at her, she suspected that they might be more.

  Clay grabbed plastic bags from the backseat and carried them up the porch. As Cheyanne plonked herself on the hammock, Clay emptied the bags onto the porch floor. Blake licked her lips. It was takeaway containers from the diner, cups of coffee, and a newspaper.

  Hunter slid down the bannister and sat in front of the containers. “You gotten any rest, yet?” He grabbed the closest one—a cheeseburger—and bit into it. Blake picked at his fries. Even though she’d eaten human organs, and technically that made her a cannibal, she maintained her vegetarian lifestyle.

  “Not a wink of sleep.” Cheyenne stretched out on the hammock. “I’m knackered.”

  Clay took a hamburger from a container. “Nolan got in a bit of bother at the clubhouse,” he said. “Sent us to see if you had anything he could trade to pay off a cop.”

  Blake glowered up at him, chips sticking out of her lips. She chewed and said, “I’ve given him enough already. He owes me loads of money.”

  “We’re family,” said Clay with a shrug. “And it’s the witch’s stuff we’re using, not yours.”

  Hunter nudged her on the arm. “He’s right,” he said. “You’re a Wolf, now. We look out for our own.”