Halfway Hunted - Halfway Witchy

by Terry Maggert

  Again, Exit grunted, but this time it was a drawn out contemplative noise. “If that is true, and I have no doubt since neither of you strike me as tipplers or liars, then why wasn’t I protected in 1916?”

  Of all the things he might have said, I certainly wasn’t expecting that.

  Gran answered him directly and with a level gaze. “Because in 1916, my mother was called away briefly for a family matter, and before you ask, I’ll tell you. She was the only person approximating a doctor within fifty miles of Halfway, and she was gone for two weeks attending the difficult birth of a niece in Eagle Bay. It was one of the only times in centuries that the McEwan witches have left their lands unguarded, and for that, you have my deepest apologies, Exit. All it came down to was a simple stroke of bad luck, and you were made to pay the price of that chance occurrence with all that you held dear.”

  Now, I know that Gran doesn’t believe in coincidence, but given the certainty in her tone, it seemed that this was one of those rare instances where bad luck slipped through the McEwan defenses to roost in Halfway proper. Exit mulled this over, and as he did I noticed that his skin was beginning to take on a sickly pallor.

  “Are you tiring?” I asked him.

  His nod was brief and resentful. I knew that after so long a sleep, it made sense that he would find the prospect of closing his eyes once again to be something like failure.

  “Before you rest,” Gran began, and quelled Exit’s protest with a glare, “you’ll need something to look forward to other than more of our endless questions. The first place you went was a library, and we’re close with the staff. We’ll send for books to bring you up to date on the chaos and triumph of the past century. Would that help you to feel more anchored, if only superficially so?”

  “I’m not sure I could say no, despite my fears at what I might find.” His smile deepened into something bitter and sad. “And yet, I would very much like to know what has happened during the long winter of my rest.”

  Gran squeezed his corded forearm before standing to begin a sleeping draught. “You might find that the world is better than the one you left behind, Exit.”

  “And worse,” I added.

  “It’s most certainly both. I’m sure there are wonders aplenty, but as to the people who made up my life, they’re long gone.” His smile faded into a bleak look. “Even if I could find Reina’s fate, it would let that part of my mind rest. Then, and only then, could I consider the task before me. As well as some other troubling questions.”

  “Which are?” Gran’s eyes were bright with curiosity.

  “You intimated it is something supernatural that caused my, ah, hibernation?”

  “I did, and I think it’s most likely.” Gran was direct. There was no need for shadowboxing with the man.

  Exit stirred his tea with purpose before looking up. His eyes were bright with intelligence, and for the first time I began to see his former self resurging into full form. “If something supernatural stole a century from me, and you are, by your own admission, supernatural, then why should I trust you?”

  I tried hard, but couldn’t think of anything to say.

  Chapter Seven: Small Warning

  Gus put one enormous, furred paw on my cheek to let me know that more than one hour had passed since his last feeding. I was on my bed, mind whirling with possibilities of what might happen when Exit woke up. Gran’s sleeping tea packs a wallop; he’d be in a deep state of rest for no less than ten hours. His hands had begun to shake as I was leaving, a sure indication that despite his hale appearance, he wasn’t immune to shock.

  It was dark and incredibly cold outside. I formulated a plan before Gus could complain any further; although his head butt and rumbling purr were one of the friendlier reminders a cat can give its human. His twenty-five pounds on my chest were more comforting than anything else as he turned his bronze eyes to the window, where he looked out for a long moment into the dark unknown of a winter night.

  “Brrrt?” His quizzical sound was so clear it might as well have been in English.

  “I don’t know when he’s coming back.” Hot tears sprang to life in the corners of my eyes. I missed Wulfric, and even worse, I wasn’t sure that any amount of research and magic could bring him back from the ranks of vampires.

  Gus bumped against me again, his open mouthed purr a cheerful counterpoint to the mood that was filling my bedroom. I sighed and began to slide my feet over the side of the bed. My parents didn’t raise a quitter, and Gran wouldn’t tolerate moping, no matter how serious the predicament. The fact that my half-vampire Viking boyfriend turned himself into a full-fledged demonic creature just to save me and our town was no reason to act like a whiny kid.

  Right.

  I stood, dislodging Gus with a muttered apology, then made my way past the giant, sulking tabby to head downstairs.

  “C’mon, supper time.”

  Instantly, his mood improved as he slunk down the steps with me like a fuzzy shadow clinging to my side. Despite it being dark, there was work to be done. As a witch, the sun is my friend.

  But the moon is my sister.

  I looked through my kitchen window to the comforting crescent that hung just over the tree tops and sent a little prayer of thanks for the company. I’d need it for what I was planning. Since Wulfric turned vampire and left, he’d been a lurking presence at the periphery of my life. For a thousand years, he served as a steward of the lands just outside Halfway, and one mountain beyond. Now, his cabin was probably cold and dark. I wondered if his friendly donkey had fled—vampires aren’t known for being good friends to the animals. There was only one certain way to find out where my lover had gone this night, and if he was still nearby.

  I opened a can of tuna for Gus and spread it on a small plate. His palate was, to be honest, finicky, but he immediately began purring when the fish hit the floor, so to speak.

  “You big galoot. You’re a thankless beast.”

  He dismissed my insult with the flick of an ear as he settled in to eat.

  “Right, time for me to make a call.”

  I didn’t pick up my phone, because I wasn’t contacting anyone human. After filling two small bowls with cream and honey, I opened the sash of the window above my sink and drew back from the freezing air. “That should do it.” I placed the offerings firmly in the snow that crowned my windowsill and closed the pane quickly as a shiver gripped my small body; the winter wasn’t anything to trifle with when you’re wearing a t-shirt and socks.

  Gus shot a curious look upward, taking a break from his feast. “Brrowt?”

  Folding my legs, I took a seat on the floor next to my cat and wondered how long I’d have to wait. Even in the cold, the magical senses of my friend Bindistrigh would detect the buffet I’d left for her in the chilly night. Wisps are like that; they’ll go far and wide for a free meal, even if they do tend to complain a lot about everything from humans in their territory to the odd beaver who’s eaten a favorite perching tree.

  I rubbed Gus and said, “Bindi will be here soon. Under no circumstances are you to try eating her, y’understand?”

  He awarded me a smoldering glare before beginning the tedious process of grooming his lustrous fur after dining.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought. She’s got a sword, and she knows how to use it.” I smiled with the thought of her magnificent set of armor, rendered in a size small enough to fit a body smaller than a young sparrow. Wisps were chatty once you got to know them, but ending up on their bad side was inadvisable. I’d seen a family of them circle a bear and harass it into leaving their favorite swimming hole. After a few minutes of their tiny, vicious attacks, the bear left, angry and confused, leaving a swarm of jeering Wisps behind. In short, they punched far above their weight.

  I didn’t wait long enough to savor the quiet. Bindistrigh arrived in a slash of glowing cobalt light that hovered just outside the window; in seconds, she’d finished both bowls and settled into a drunken series of maneuvers while tap
ping against the glass. Her laughter, like the crackle of tiny ice, pierced the pane and drifted into the kitchen. It was a welcome sound, reminding me of happier days when Wulfric and I had just met.

  I opened the window to let her in, along with a torrent of good-natured ribbing. She settled on the faucet primly, crossing her legs in full battle armor without any difficulty at all. It was a feat made possible by the exquisite craftsmanship of her miniature armor; each golden scale in the suit overlapped like the scales of a radiant fish. The armor lent her the appearance of a rather slender, extravagant beetle at times if light fell upon her, and resting on her tiny hip was a sword of silvered steel. The weapon’s edge danced with a menacing twinkle in the moonlight that spilled in through the window. Bindi may appear to be frail, but I’d seen her use the sword in an expert manner; although it wasn’t nearly as sharp as her tongue. Her ability to harangue any living creature without stopping for breath was something legendary, so I held my own tongue to let her settle before beginning my inquiry in a most respectful tone.

  Since Wisps lived at a speed altogether different from humans, I decided that brevity was best. “Have you seen him?”

  Her tiny shoulders rose and fell with comically exaggerated sadness. Before she could reply, I held up my charms and whispered a spell that would amplify her voice, as well as slow it down. She smiled, waited for the magic to wash over her, and began to speak.

  “He watches for you, but the hurt is all around him, and we no longer know if he is a friend.” Her words were morose, but the tone bright; everything a Wisp said seemed cheerful. Their cuteness extended to the spoken word as well, even if it was a death threat. They’re adorable that way.

  “Hurt? Is he wounded?” I needed clarification.

  A tiny shake of her head gave me a moment’s peace before she spoke. “His heart is hurt. He does not like being away. He does not like . . . himself? Why would he not like himself? Is it because of his eyes?” The last was an indignant squeak as she tried to process what troubled Wulfric. Wisps are many things, but self-loathing was not among their states of mind. Such behavior confused the confident little creature.

  “What of his eyes, Bindi? Can you explain? Go slowly, it’s all right.” I added encouragement to each word, knowing that she might get flustered if I peppered her with intense questions. I couldn’t risk alienating the one source I had for news of my love. A dagger of ice hit me again, so I took long breaths while smiling at the Wisp in a disarming way. Inside, I felt like I was coming apart.

  “They are red.” With three words, she drove my fears home as the first tears started to fall.

  That made me cry even harder, because I don’t lose it over minor things. The feeling of weakness and longing battered me until the world was a rain-soaked pane of glass, and I felt my shoulders begin to buck with a sob that came from somewhere south of my feet.

  “Oh, stars, no. No, no, no.” I gasped, wondering if I was going to fold up and die right there. Wulfric, my heart said over and over, beating against my ribs for the loss of a man who’d given a thousand years of time, only to find me and be torn away by his own sacrifice. “Damn your honor!” I hissed. Men and their cursed need to be honorable had led to more pain and suffering than anything under the heavens. My anger flared anew as I realized the very qualities that cost me Wulfric were some of the reasons why I loved and admired him. He never asked if something was costly, he only cared if it was right.

  And now, he was gone, a rabid beast with red eyes who roamed the hills and skulked at the edges of my perception like a chastened wraith. It was too much to comprehend, and I didn’t know what I was going to do. I needed something. A sign. A helping hand. I needed to reach into the places I’d avoided to save him.

  “Carlie? The big one still waits for you.” Bindi’s voice crashed my pity party, causing me to jerk my head up and look at her once more. I’d been so wrapped up with righteous anger, I’d forgotten she was there.

  I wiped my nose and wondered just how ugly this cry was going to be. I could feel the blooms of heat across my cheeks, and my hand was soggy with tears and stars knew what else.

  Pull it together, McEwan. No one likes a whiner, and whiners can’t think.

  Jolted back to reality, I reeled it in and began to breathe like a human instead of a winded zebra running for its life. “What do you mean?”

  Bindi shrugged with French disdain. “He hungers. He waits. We don’t know if he is a beast, but he waits for you. We hear him, and we feel him.” She leaned forward in a fully human gesture, like a neighbor about to share juicy gossip at a kitchen table. “We feel things, you know. We can tell some of his . . . some of his longing is for you, but not like an animal. It is more.” She waved tiny hands, setting her sword jangling against an armored leg. “There is a man in there. He has no scent, but we can tell it is human. And that human wants you.” Her smile was a brilliant crescent that sent my heart soaring skyward. If this tiny being could believe in our love transcending the gulf between worlds, then so could I.

  “Thank you, Bindi. You’ve been wonderful. I know what I have to do.”

  Her head cocked quizzically before she spoke again, and this time her words were careful. “Is it magic? Of the blood?”

  It chilled me to hear such things aloud, but I nodded, then replied simply, “Yes, it is.”

  Bindi stood, adjusting her armor in preparation to leave. She gave me a decisive nod, then waited while I raised the sash to let another blast of winter inside my home. “I do not know about magic, but I am a warrior, and I know about blood. There is a problem with such things, Carlie.” Her voice was tiny, but serious as a tomb. “Blood is easy to spill. Hard to remove. You are pure, Carlie. We can see it. But you must be watchful.”

  “Why is that?” Snowflakes drifted about as the air pulsed inward, a cold invasion. I shuddered.

  My Wisp friend seemed sad, her light flickering from blue gold to gray. “Blood does not just stain one’s armor. It will stain your soul, too.”

  And with that, she was gone.

  Chapter Eight: Turn the Page

  I tried to sleep, really. My bed seemed like a howling wilderness despite the familiar bulk of Gus, and there was only so much movement he’d tolerate before swiping an informative paw across my nose to let me know I was disturbing some of the fifteen hours of sleep he required each day. After my billionth adjustment on a pillow that didn’t feel friendly, Gus uttered a low growl explaining, as only he could, that it might be best for me to seek my rest elsewhere if I was going to continue twitching like a criminal in a lineup.

  “Yeah, yeah. Ungrateful beast.” I slid out of the covers into a room that was chilly from temperature and my own doubts. I’d gone to work on no sleep many times; this looked like it was going to be one of those days. There was something pushing against my conscience with gentle insistence, and when that happened, there was only one place I needed to be.

  I descended into my cellar, lighting candles with a word and breathing deeply of the calming stillness. Hints of earth and former spells filled my senses, lifting me from an irritating state of sleeplessness into something new.

  Something hungry.

  I needed my grimoire, and it had to be now. The hefty book rested on the long wooden table, safe from light and the world. I opened it to the furthest page I’d managed to inscribe, peering with hot interest at the broad expanse of unmarked vellum. It called to me with a power so insistent my hands began crushing gall and iron for ink before I’d even taken a seat at the tall, crude chair that I’d used for the past four years. In a blur, I readied a small amount of ink and then sharpened a goose quill with a tiny silver knife; in three economical strokes, the point was ready. Heat grew in my witchmark, the varicolored hairs tingling in recognition that something powerful was happening. My witchmark is a scarlike ridge behind my right ear that has every possible color of hair growing from it. I keep them tucked away for special occasions like offensive magic; the power of a human hair is l
egendary, given the right spell around it. As for the rest of me, I was a conduit, and if I held my power into a diamond focus, I knew that this would be the first step to reclaiming the man I loved from an ocean of night.

  After dipping the point, I held it, letting my breathing stabilize into a metronome of calm control. I commanded my body to obey; there would be no shaking or doubt. Of that, I could be certain. Witchcraft is, after all, discipline. I used my will and magic to funnel ideas from the most distant recesses of my heart; in a moment, my quiet brought forth the first idea. It was a single word, and it was in English. I wrote it in looping script with the care one might use to handle a newborn babe.

  Purity.

  I blotted the word, letting the shape fill my eyes. That was it. Purity would be the first building block.

  Again, I drew air inward, measured and rich with the essence of my own space. A second word flowed forth to my mind’s eye, hovering coyly outside the realm of clarity until a stern word from my training sent it snapping into focus like a child who had daydreamed in class. The pen moved again, more confident, but only one word.

  Time.

  That gave me cause for alarm. To even whisper the notion of time is to venture into witchcraft of such depths that only the most ancient sages had ever attempted it. I, a young witch, would need something more. To alter time was simply beyond me; it was possibly beyond my Gran, and there was precious little she couldn’t do with her magical will. I waited to see if my witchmark would send further news of magic, but not for long. The scar behind my ear fairly rang with energy as yet another lone word began to tickle the edges of my consciousness, before coming home like a child that had stayed at play too long. I was gaining control of the idea; I could feel the resistance lessening. My hand began to move, and this time I did lose my breath, because it was the one word that I had feared since the first day I began to learn of the power of magic.