The Claiming

by Glenn Williams

  There wasn't much he'd wanted to take with him.

  “Gwydion,” the younger me said again, “Please wait. Listen to me, this is a mistake.”

  “Is it?” The younger Gwydion asked with a bitter laugh, “I can't stay here anymore.”

  “Why? Why are you doing this?” The younger me was verging on hysterical. “Please just tell me why.”

  I fought the urge to look away. Living through it once was enough, I didn't particularly need to see it again. Except, perhaps, I did. This memory was obviously important.

  “Every time they look at me,” Gwydion said, “I know what they see. I know what you see.”

  “Gwydion,” The other me said, tears in her voice, “That's not true. Please, please, just go back to bed. Let's pretend like this never happened. I won’t tell them, I swear.”

  Gwydion hesitated, and for the briefest instant, it looked like he might cave.

  “I can't, Ken. I can't do it,” He said, and his voice cracked. “I have blood on my hands, and that's all they see when they look at me. It's all anyone sees here. I just want to go somewhere where no one knows me.”

  “I get that,” The younger me said, her grip tightening on Gwydion's arm. “And we'll be graduating soon. A year isn't that long. It isn't. Then we can move away, to somewhere that no one has ever even heard of us.”

  “You're not going to deny it, then?” Gwydion asked, looking stung. “That all anyone sees when they look at me is a murderer?”

  “What?” Younger me said, horrified. “Gwydion, no. That's not what I meant!”

  Gwydion nodded, then swallowed hard.

  “I'm leaving,” He said, scooping up his backpack. He cradled it in front of himself, like a shield. “Don't try to stop me.”

  With that, he turned and exited the room.

  “Well then,” Emily said in a stage whisper, “That wasn't so bad.”

  “For you,” I muttered, staring at the doorway that led out into the hallway from the dining room. Even though I knew it wasn't going to happen, a part of me was still waiting for Gwydion to come back. A part of me had always been waiting. This had been the last time I’d seen my brother before he’d started using.

  The younger version of me sank to her knees against the dining room wall, hugging her knees close to her body. Her tears were heavy but silent.

  Unwillingly, I looked at her. The person I was. I felt her sadness as keenly as though it were my own. Other than that, I felt no connection to her.

  Then, quite suddenly, Gwydion was back in the room. The younger me was holding his wrist. The look on her face was imploring.

  “Gwydion,” the younger me said, “Please wait. Listen to me, this is a mistake.”

  “Is it?” The younger Gwydion asked with a bitter laugh, “I can't stay here anymore.”

  “Why? Why are you doing this?” The younger me was verging on hysterical. “Please just tell me why.”

  I turned away from the memory. I could hear it unfolding behind me, but I didn't need to see it again. My heart was pounding rapidly in my chest. I had lived through this twice now. That was quite enough.

  “I need to destroy something?” I asked Emily, “Something symbolic of this memory?”

  She nodded, not looking away from the drama unfolding before us. The look on her face had gone from haughty to pained.

  “It hurt you,” She said. “Quite a lot, when he left?”

  “I lived,” I said, swallowing. “And we got past it.”

  “Did you?” Emily asked, gesturing to the scene before us. “Would this be here, if you had?”

  I ignored that. Because I didn't want to admit that she was right.

  I scanned the room, looking for the symbol that represented the memory. Emily had said that it could be anything. My eyes landed first on the dining room table. It was the same shiny black lacquer that Mrs. Stewart was so fond of, though not an antique. No, I decided. Not the table. My gaze move to the glass display case, housing dozens of colorful and delicate fenton glass vases that Mrs. Stewart had collected. But the display case nor its contents had no real part in the memory. Neither my brother nor I had ever cared about antiques or collectibles.

  Those were the only two objects in the room, not counting the chairs. Did the chairs represent anything? No, I decided. Neither of us would have felt any attachment to the chairs.

  My gaze landed on the duffel bag that Gwydion clutched to his chest. The expression on his face was pained. I had missed it the first time, but there was a split second of agony that darted across his features when he realized – believed – that we saw him as a murderer. He held the bag in front of him like a shield.

  It was the bag. It made so much sense that when I realized it, I almost groaned at my own stupidity for not seeing it sooner. It was what had enabled him to leave in the first place. He had put everything of value he owned in the bag, along with a couple of changes of clothes. It was the thing that represented him leaving, to both of us.

  I lunged forward, stepping between the younger version of myself and the younger version of my brother. I did what I had wanted to do from the first moment I had re-entered this scene. I ripped the bag from his arms.

  Without a second's hesitation, I tore the zipper apart and emptied the bag onto the floor. Glaring at the younger version of my brother, I threw the bag as forcefully as I could against the far wall.

  The memory burst like a soap bubble.

  It was there one moment and the next instant, it was simply gone.

  Suddenly, Emily and I were standing on a two-lane highway again, fog on either side of us. And beyond the fog, endless darkness.

  Without a word, I set off down the path. Emily followed me, silent for once. It took a long time for my breathing to return to normal. Thoughts were swirling through my mind like the fog.

  Why had I been shown that?

  Was it because Gwydion felt guilty about it? About leaving? He hadn't been there, so it couldn't have been the memory he had become trapped in. Had he defeated it the same way? What had he felt when he'd seen it?

  And then, the thought that I couldn't let myself think. And yet it kept encroaching on my mind, no matter how vehemently I fought it: I hadn't tried very hard to stop my brother. I hadn't tried very hard at all to stop him from leaving.

  Because, if I was being absolutely honest, a small part of me had wanted him to go.

  Emily and I walked in silence for a long time. I kept turning what we had just seen over and over in my mind. It was certainly one of my very worst memories, but was it one of my brother's worst memories too?

  I didn't know.

  What had he felt when he passed through the memory? Had he felt guilt? Anger? Had reliving the experience of leaving hurt him, or had he passed through it without emotion, without hesitation?

  The memory of the funeral was still in the back of my mind as well. Had the funeral been one of Gwydion's worst memories? Again, I was certain that it was definitely one of my very worst memories. But after Gwydion had run away from home, I had no idea what happened to him. I've asked, but he's never told me. But he's gotten a haunted and faraway look in his eye every time I've brought it up.

  I was expecting those sorts of memories. I wasn't expecting to keep seeing memories of our shared past. Unless the memories represented the loss of his innocence? Maybe everything that came after that was inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. Maybe these were the memories that mattered to him, the memories that he couldn't let go of.

  Emily's suggestion was still in the back of my mind: what if this these memories weren't for Gwydion's benefit? What if this wasn't his trial after all? What if — what if it really was mine?

  I pushed those thoughts away. She was wrong, obviously. Niram had tried to kill me in order to get me to leave, because he believed that I was upsetting the natural order by being here, that rescuing my brother was against the rules, that I was interfering with Gwydion's
trial. And Rory had taken us here, specifically to Gwydion's underworld, to his own personal version of hell. He had used my brother's blood to do so. I didn't know very much about magic, but I assumed that there were rules to how it worked.

  A sudden thought rose up in my mind, crowding out all of the others. Something that Emily had mentioned earlier...

  “You said earlier that the ritual to gain passage to the underworld takes a full day,” I said at last, breaking the silence. I sounded much calmer than I actually felt. “Can—” I didn't want to ask, but I had to. “Could the ritual be shortened somehow? Like, down to a single word?”

  Emily blinked, then looked at me. Her puzzled blue eyes met mine. She cleared her throat, frowning at me.

  “Well, yes. I suppose so. There are quite a few longer rituals that can be prepared ahead of time and then triggered with a keyword of some sort,” Emily said, still frowning. “Though, again, this particular ritual requires consent from the power that's being invoked to even work in the first place. It requires an offering. In this case, quite a substantial one. A sacrifice that even the Queen of Hell herself could not refuse.”

  The gears in my brain were spinning.

  Almost unwillingly, my mind replayed the scene in the clearing. I hadn't seen everything — Rory's spell had been effective in rendering me motionless. But I had heard everything. There hadn't been much preamble. Rory had gotten us here with a single word. And before that, he'd seemed pretty confident that he'd be able to get us here. He had risked everything, in fact, on the assumption that he’d be able to get us here in time to escape the witches.

  And he'd found me on the third day of Gwydion's trial.

  If what Emily had said was true, he would have needed to take an entire day to perform the ritual to gain admission to the underworld. A small part of me had been wondering why he'd taken so long to contact me in the first place. It would have made the most sense for him to come to be as soon as he could, to give us more time here. Why wait until the time was almost up?

  Unless he had to wait. Unless he'd had something else he had to do first. Something essential. Something that took a full day.

  And yet, with everything else that my mind had been trying to process, it hadn't seemed especially important. But now it seemed absolutely vital.

  A horrible possibility slid into place before I could stop it, so suddenly and completely that I realized it had been there all along. What if — oh God — what if Niram had been right? What if Rory had brought me here, never intending for me to go home? What if he'd meant to bring me here all along and leave me here, in return for my brother? A life for a life.

  “So if the offering was good enough, say—a human life—you could do the ritual ahead of time and then come here quickly. Like with a single word.”

  “It's possible. You're speaking of the warlock who brought you here.”

  “Well,” I said, feeling rising horror at the thought, “He brought me here to rescue Gwydion. He said that I was the only one who could find him. Emily, he brought us here with a single word.”

  “And you consented to come here with him, to hell?” Emily asked, her tone sharp. “Just like that? Was your brother really worth it?”

  “I believed him,” I said softly, feeling stung. “He said that it was the only way to save Gwydion. And yes, saving Gwydion is worth it. How could you even ask me that?”

  “Save him from what danger, exactly?” Emily stopped and touched my shoulder, “Kendra, you asked me earlier, why I chose to help you...” She trailed off, a flash of pain in her eyes. She didn't look like a witch anymore, but like an ordinary woman. “You reminded me of me. Who I used to be, before I became a witch. And that has proven to be quite true. Tell me everything that transpired to lead you here.”

  And so I did. I told her everything that Rory had told me. How he and Gwydion had met and fallen in love. How Gwydion had discovered witches were real. How the coven had eventually discovered that he knew and had tried to wipe his memory of magic, of Rory. How Gwydion had pledged himself to the earth in order to give Rory the power to stop them, dedicating himself as a witch. How Rory had found me when it became clear that Gwydion wasn't coming back on his own. On the third day of Gwydion's trial. I told her everything that had happened.

  Emily listened without interruption, but her eyes grew wider and wider as I spoke. The expression on her face went from curious to thunderous. I could practically see steam rising from the top of her head.

  “Your brother did what?” Emily asked me finally, blinking rapidly. She seemed utterly bewildered. “Did anyone explain to you what your brother will become if he escapes this place? How could the coven have allowed this to happen?”

  “Rory thinks he did this so that they could escape. So that Rory could draw upon the power released by the claiming.”

  “That was foolhardy in the extreme,” Emily said. “And ultimately useless. Because now he is here, trapped and facing an even worse fate.”

  “Rory got away from them,” I pointed out. “And he was able to hide from the coven long enough to find me.”

  “He must be quite the witch,” Emily said again, though there was a dangerous expression on her face. “To keep the entire coven at bay. Unless they didn’t attempt to stop him.”

  “They did try to stop us, actually,” I said, remembering the diner, and then the terrifying ride on the highway. “They tried very hard to stop us from coming here.”

  “As they should have,” Emily said. “Your brother must be killed, before he rises. Has anyone explained to you what becomes of a witch who does not pass their trials?”

  “A demon comes back in their place,” I answered automatically.

  “Actually, no.” Emily said. “Demons trap human souls within the memories of the worst experiences they've ever encountered. The guiltiest parts of themselves are then made manifest. Overcoming those aspects enough to gain clarity of mind is how you can then escape them.”

  “Right,” I said, feeling suddenly impatient. “Mythic power requires mythic tests. Literally everyone has already explained this to me.”

  Emily narrowed her eyes at me, then continued, “When a witch fails to escape the underworld, only those aspects under the direct control of the demon – the very darkest aspects of the witch's psyche – are then able to return intact to the body of the witch.” Her lips curved into a bitter smile, “All of the good bits stay here. All of the bits that make a person a person.”

  All of the parts that make a person a person. The words rang like an echo in my ears. I shook my head, but couldn’t force myself to speak.

  “The majority of the their soul stays in the underworld, but it is a shadow of what they once were. With their dark aspects gone, their soul is fractured beyond repair.” She added, “And, again, the darkest aspects of their psyche returns to their body, twisted beyond recognition. Believe me, a dark witch possessing only the tattered remnants of their soul is infinitely more dangerous than any demon could ever hope to be.”

  “What happens to the parts that stay here?” I whispered, staring at her.

  “They're doomed to walk the ghost roads, until their shade ultimately fades into nothing. They cannot truly pass into the underworld proper, nor into any other life. In the end, they simply cease to exist. That is what is at stake here.”

  The scene began to change around us, the darkness on either side lightening, the fog molding itself into ghostly shapes. I was so horrified by what she had said, that I barely noticed it.

  I'd thought that a demon wearing my brother's skin was horrifying, the worst thing I could imagine. What she described was infinitely more terrifying. She was saying that if we failed, my brother would no longer really exist. That his soul would be destroyed.

  I could feel hot tears stinging my eyes, threatening to spill. I ground my teeth together. I wasn't going to cry, not in front of her. I turned from her and took a deep breath, blinking furiously.


  It isn't going to happen that way, I promised myself. It doesn't matter what it takes, that's not going to happen to him.

  When I turned back, Emily's expression had softened again. She was looking at me with a mixture of concern and sympathy.

  “You’re saying that I have until sunrise to find my brother, or he—his soul—will be destroyed?”

  She nodded.

  “So,” I said, sounding steadier than I felt. “So, logically, it would be better for everyone for Gwydion to survive this experience. To come back intact.”

  “Of course,” Emily said slowly. “Of course it would be better.”

  “Is there anything you can do to help me find him?”

  “No. I cannot do this for you.” She said immediately. Then she hesitated, adding, “But as I am not in a position to stop this from happening, I might as well try to ensure that a monster isn’t unleashed into the world.”

  “So that’s a yes, then?”

  Emily was about to speak, but then grew quiet, her eyes widening as they left my face and fixed on something behind me.

  Warily, I turned around, expecting horrors.

  And I wasn't disappointed. In front of us was another door, completely blocking the path forward. It was open this time, spilling a dancing orange light onto the pathway.

  Rory was on the other side of it, his back to us.

  He was completely encased in fire.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Emily recovered first. “Right,” She said, her tone very matter-of-fact. “Well, that explains where your warlock went.”

  I started forward, “Emily, he's on fire!”

  Emily grabbed my arm. “Yes,” She said, “But it pays not to go galloping off into danger. Things here are not always as they appear.” She added, “And this has been constructed by a demon. I will have access to none of powers once we step through that door. We could very well become trapped in there.”

  I realized that I was still clutching the cross in my hand. I'd almost forgotten about it. I held it up by the broken chain. “I do. We have to help him. Besides, that's the only way forward.”