Water Witch

by R. J. Blain

  Seven

  Of Consequence

  A Dustin Walker Story

  Warning: this story contains difficult subject matter, including attempted suicide.

  * * *

  Everyone had a breaking point. I’d seen it time and time again. I’d seen it in Laurel even as I’d killed her.

  Three weeks following her death at my hands, I found mine. I found it, looked over the edge into an abyss of self-loathing and regret, and I listed. I listened, too, through the walls to the beating of human hearts, incapable of escaping their drumming.

  Everyone in the apartment building had a beating heart, some younger and healthier than others. I could count them: sixteen on my floor alone. Fifty-seven lives burned bright to my senses. When I couldn’t dodge leaving home, my situation worsened. Instead of just feeling them, the heat wafting from their bodies appeared, ranging in color from white to red. No matter where I went, I couldn’t escape.

  I’d believed feeling had been bad enough on its own, but my eye’s betrayal broke me. Emotions hurt, the cold of another’s sorrow stabbing deep within my chest while icy blue contaminated their body’s warmth. Darkness cloaked those who suffered in other ways. Joy warmed, and the joyful lit the room to my second sight, easing some of my discomfort.

  I learned the most painful of lessons from them.

  Few in our world were genuinely joyful, and everyone struggled somehow.

  We couldn’t see their struggles behind their smiles, but my betraying eyes revealed all.

  So few shined to my sight, but the truth served as the last brutal blow.

  All I brought to my family and their pack was sorrow, misery, and worry. I understood my parents’ worries, for I was the reason for them.

  The pack worried only because their Alpha worried.

  None of them realized I felt their resentment as though it were my own. With the magic they feared, I had killed six of them. They recognized a monster lurked among them, and I’d proven I could kill when needed.

  Not even the sharks understood me anymore, and I avoided the water to avoid them. In their world, they hunted for survival, ate when they hungered, and sought mates—mates they’d abandon long before any pups were born.

  They would come at my call, but I couldn’t bring myself to go to the water and call them. It went beyond their inability to understand what I’d become. I didn’t want to ruin them with my magic, magic I couldn’t control.

  In his way, Dad tried to help, but the witches he kept calling in feared me, too.

  They couldn’t kill with a thought.

  I could.

  The real problem with my breaking point wasn’t its existence. It would always be there, no matter which direction I fell. No, I had no idea what to do. No matter where I turned, the dark waters of my magic threatened to drown me.

  I’d lost so much and gained nothing for it. Sleep evaded me. When I closed my eyes, the rush of my blood kept me awake along with the thumping heartbeats of those sleeping in other nearby apartments. All meditating or counting did was heighten my awareness of my own body.

  Like the devil, my heart strained, weakened, and began its slow decline into failure. The syndrome had a name, a suitable one for what would kill me in time. Without medical intervention, I would die, but I couldn’t bring myself to go to a hospital.

  I couldn’t handle life in my own apartment, dodging everyone I could in my effort to avoid the incessant beating of hearts. Hospitals, with their collections of drugs and hundreds of people in close quarters, would hurt far more than they helped.

  I wondered what my parents would do when a coroner told them I’d died from a broken heart. For most, grief triggered the stress responsible for the syndrome. Grief played a role in mine, too. Witchcraft had been a burden I could almost bear when the water had called my name and the sharks had shared theirs with me. I could accept the flow of water in the pipes, the thrill of an incoming storm, and the ocean’s relentless currents.

  But since killing Laurel and her rogue pack, my witchcraft had grown until I could no longer find peace anywhere, not even in the water.

  I wanted to be rid of my magic, but all witchbane did was strengthen it when it returned. I’d stolen part of Dad’s stash, enough to burn it out of me forever. It waited for me under my bed, and I questioned why I hadn’t used it already.

  I feared what I would become if I survived.

  I wondered if it would matter if I didn’t.

  If the abyss stared back as so many believed, did it fear my darkness, too? Even my mother hated the monster I’d become. She hid it better than most, clamping down on her doubts and terror before they could color her tone. I couldn’t hear her thoughts, but I didn’t want to feel her fear or anguish—or her relief when I made it through another day without killing someone.

  The truth she hid from the world burrowed into my chest.

  She liked me best when I was safely gone so I wouldn’t hurt her or dad.

  I kept her secret. My father wouldn’t understand why my mother feared me so much she could no longer love me.

  Dad handled things better than Mom; he masked his fear with anger, which I could live with. No one accused me of being a good son. My tendency to mouth off factored into so much general distrust. The truth still hurt.

  In a year or two, I’d no longer count as a puppy even in my father’s eyes, and it would be time to move on, especially if his pack couldn’t accept what I’d become. It didn’t even matter if I could accept what I’d become.

  If no one else could, what was the point?

  With great power came greater responsibility, but I didn’t want the power or the responsibility. I wanted the weight of six lives off my shoulders, and I longed for the illusion of security that was broken when my witchcraft had awakened.

  I wanted to walk in a crowd without their emotions overwriting my own, without dark shrouds cloaking others blurring my vision, and to listen without the quiet rush of blood pumping through countless veins.

  Above all, I loathed death’s presence enveloping the dying, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

  In eight hours, my parents would expect me to visit them for dinner, but in two, the morgue would call my father and notify him I hadn’t arrived for my shift. In three, someone would check my apartment.

  I tired of death’s cold hand touching every final part of my life.

  When someone came, they would find a sterile apartment devoid of life, my cell plugged into my charger, and no evidence I’d experimented with witchbane. I’d take most of it with me, and the rest would be flushed away where no one would find it. From top to bottom, I’d purified the place of my presence.

  Even my father’s nose would discover nothing of me.

  Scents derived from liquids, and with a few thoughts, I swept the evidence of my life down the drain along with the excess witchbane and a few straggling hairs. The exercise exhausted me, but most things did nowadays. The smaller the source I sensed, the more effort and concentration it took to work my cursed magic.

  When I reached my destination, several hours away, I would repeat the process with my car, leaving it sterile. From the oils in my fingerprints to the tiniest hair, I’d erase it all. No one would think to check my gas tank, not that it would matter; I meant to leave the vehicle running so the evidence would be incinerated.

  My footprints would betray me, but I didn’t care. In the desert, the wind would wipe them away, given time. Assuming I didn’t get lost finding the place, I’d abandon my car off the road north of Death Valley and hike to the hottest, driest part of the desert, a fire witch’s heaven and a water witch’s hell.

  Maybe then, baking under the unforgiving sun, my magic would fall silent for a while. If it didn’t, the witchbane in my pocket would do the job long enough for my strained heart to finish failing.

  I would hope for peace, but I’d learned to expect the worst.

  While roads surrounded Death Valley, and a few ventured into its dep
ths, the whole region consisted of wasteland too extreme for most life. I’d waited for a scorcher of a day before implementing my plans, the type of day when the park service warned of conditions hostile enough to kill and they closed the main roads. Few would brave the park, especially with the main access roads shut down, and the sane hikers would wait for a better day.

  The extra miles didn’t bother me. I’d go as far as I could, and then I’d stop. It would take several hours at a minimum to descend into the heart of Death Valley, and I had no intention of making the hike out. I had no intention of not making the hike out, either.

  It all depended on whether I could discover some secret little trick to quiet my relentless witchcraft. Unless I could, my mother was right to fear, my father was right to be angry, and everyone else was justified in disliking my presence.

  Nothing I’d tried had worked, and I was tired of trying.

  I hoped if I escaped to somewhere with no humans or life, things wouldn’t seem so bad.

  It took some driving around, but I found a secluded spot off the road not far from one of the barred entries into Death Valley to hide my car. It took half an hour to purge it of my presence. When I finished, I left the engine running with the keys locked inside.

  If anyone found it, they would wonder. It would take someone a while.

  Asshole me had found the tracker my father had helpfully added to my new used car, and I’d tossed the damned thing into a passing truck bed on my way out. We’d been going opposite directions, and it would throw the wolves off for a little while. I’d decided on that when I’d decided to listen to my heart, which told a sad truth.

  If only things had been a little different, I would’ve been willing to figure out a way, but stress-induced cardiomyopathy put an end to the long game. The swelling created relentless chest pain and shortness of breath, which made my difficulties even harder to bear.

  I pitied any abyss foolish enough to stare into my soul, certain it wouldn’t like what it saw there.

  Chances were, my heart would give out long before I made it far into Death Valley. It bothered me how many problems such an end would solve.

  Until the day I could control my witchcraft, I’d be nothing more than a risk to everyone around me. I’d wanted to become a lawyer to preserve life and liberty, not take it. Maybe the devil could live with people fearing him, but all he had to do to escape was pinch his nose closed or go home.

  Wendy loved him.

  Nobody loved me, not anymore. Anyone who knew of my magic hated or feared me, leaving no room for other emotions.

  I needed the illusions my witchcraft denied me.

  What I didn’t know was how much of a ripple my loss would make, and my uncertainties held me back. My witchcraft told one story, but I couldn’t read minds. The real solution eluded me, but the questions the solution raised haunted me.

  What would change if I could somehow learn to control my magic?

  I abandoned my car and headed into Death Valley, skirting the access road until I found the trail of landmarks a few reckless hikers claimed led to interesting, uncharted parts of the area. It amazed me how accurate the enthusiasts were in their descriptions.

  Every rock, every ravine, and even the more distinctive cacti served as a guide, each leading to the next. The real hiking portion of my expedition began with an incline over weathered stone before the descent began, and a dried-out stream bed led me into the depths of the valley. As I hoped, little lived the farther I walked from civilization, although the number of insects startled me, bright and warm flares of life brushing against my witchcraft.

  I liked the insects; they existed without the weight of their lives hammering away at me.

  I could understand why fire witches liked the desert. Without the pressure of humanity crashing down around me, the wasteland seemed vibrant and oddly alive. The sun beat on me, and when it peaked, I rested in the cooler shadows of a stone outcropping, waiting for the minutes to slip into hours.

  The symptoms of dehydration started early, and I ignored them while I waited. What I waited for, I wasn’t certain. In my plans, I had meant to walk until I couldn’t anymore, but with nothing of substance waking my unwanted powers, I stayed put and enjoyed the respite.

  There was no point in moving on deeper into the valley after finding the seclusion and quiet I needed. With only my heartbeat, beleaguered as it was, for company, I could afford to wait.

  All roads ended, and new roads sprouted from the ruins of the lost. I fit the description of lost well. Once the source of their anger and fear disappeared, they would mourn, for guilt lurked within them because they loved me when they forgot to fear or hate what I’d become. My uncle wouldn’t understand.

  The devil would.

  Maybe if others—even if one other—had accepted the monster I’d become, I wouldn’t have needed to venture to where water simply couldn’t thrive. How could anyone expect me to embrace what I’d become when no one else would?

  So I waited, and when night fell, I admired the starry sky in all of its glory.

  I liked the desert at night, but I could’ve lived without the pack of distant werewolves disturbing my solitude and revealing my mistake.

  While I had locked my computer with a password, I hadn’t covered my tracks in it—or erased my browsing history. Given a few hours, and my father could’ve gotten someone to hack into it for information. Damned asshats. Why couldn’t they just leave well enough alone?

  I wanted to enjoy the dark and cold quiet of the night without them stirring my witchcraft. It wasn’t long after I’d heard the first howl that my magic detected a heartbeat. My range had grown yet again. They had a long way to go before they found me. Another heartbeat joined the first, and I resented their presence.

  I kept my witchcraft to myself, however.

  I wouldn’t take another needlessly to the grave with me when I went.

  I hadn’t taken Laurel needlessly to her grave, either. I hated the truth, but I’d accepted the necessity of what I’d done. I still regretted her death, but of my burdens, her loss was one I could carry with me.

  The consequences of what I’d done would forever haunt me, and I hadn’t anticipated so many hating me due to their fears and uncertainties.

  As my witchcraft refused to be controlled, as it refused to bend enough to offer me even a sliver of hope, I’d play my last card. The witchbane in my pocket would make the heartbeats go away for a little while. As the drug kicked in, maybe I could rest. I took it all and waited for my awareness of the world around me to fade. When I was left alone in a body I could no longer sense down to the last drop of my blood, the relief eased some of the tension in my chest.

  I hadn’t even noticed the pain had started again.

  I’d grown too used to pain’s constant companionship.

  I waited for something—anything—to happen, and while worn, weary, and drugged mostly into submission, my magic didn’t abandon me completely.

  The last time I’d seen a ghost, Laurel’s wolf hadn’t judged me for freeing her. A blue-white wolf flowed over the hard, cracked desert, and shimmering frost covered his insubstantial coat. Every other wolf I’d seen had golden eyes, but his were a dark, flinty sapphire.

  His beauty would forever haunt me, an echo of the ocean’s vast depth and icy regard.

  He watched me with one ear twisted back, his head tilted to the side.

  The judgment I expected didn’t come, and through the haze clouding my vision, his curiosity was tempered with what I liked to believe was concern but probably wasn’t. Apparitions had nothing to fear from me, nor did they have any reason to care. I envied his disconnect. Ghosts couldn’t feel pain, could they?

  No, they could. Or Laurel’s wolf had. She’d been bent and broken from her misery.

  Fenerec rarely spoke of the ritual that transformed them from man to beast. Had my father once met a spirit wolf, too? Was my father’s wolf chained like Laurel’s had been? I hoped not. If becoming a Fen
erec meant enslaving the wolf, I no longer wanted it.

  I’d rather die so the wolf might run free. Then again, my life held little value to me anymore. All I’d do was drag the poor beast down with me.

  The Inquisition’s rules forbade any Fenerec from knowingly performing the ritual on a witch. But the wolf and the witch-wolf were dealt with harshly, if the witch had known of their powers.

  I didn’t know what became of the accidental witch-wolves created. It no longer mattered to me. Unless the witchbane had burned out all of my magic, I knew about the monster I harbored within me. All becoming a Fenerec would do was sign my death warrant. Running rogue might spare me for a while, but I believed it would end the same way, despite my efforts to escape the world of the supernatural. Those who feared and resented what I was as a witch alone would hunt for me, and they would show no mercy when they found me.

  Death waited for me at every turn, confirming what I’d understood from the start. A quick end would be best for everyone. Some would grieve, but most would feel nothing but relief that there was one less monster in the world.

  The wolf drew closer, and he brushed his nose to my throat and scraped me with his insubstantial teeth. Then he vanished, a memory of warm breath against my skin the only evidence I hadn’t been alone.

  My chest hurt.

  Pain had been the first noticeable sign my heart still faltered under the barrage of witchcraft I couldn’t restrain or control. Disappointment the witchbane hadn’t helped accompanied my resentment. I lived. Once dead, the physical world would fall away. Into what, I wasn’t certain. I didn’t care. I’d find out eventually.

  Death stalked on silent feet, arriving in stealth to do its work. I’d opened the door, held it, and ushered six Fenerec to their final breaths. For a moment, I’d died with them.

  That part of me remained dead, far beyond my reach.

  Yet, despite my best efforts, I lived. I deserved the pain, and I hated myself for the thought. My chest ached when I breathed, and my heart labored to keep up with my lungs, which struggled to oxygenate my blood. The rest of my organs faltered, too, slowing their work and shutting down in a last-ditch effort to preserve my brain.