“I’ll go with you,” the boy relented. “I was only saying.”
The witch watched as the three boys came into full view, clearing the last of the branches and crossing the threshold of the tree line. They stood motionless, standing in the clearing that bordered the side of her home. The woman could now see them clearly. They were average in height and build, gangly and unsure in their movements, typical mannerisms of boys that age. She could no longer see them below their knees, their shoes and lower legs now completely enveloped by the ryegrass and thistle that had overtaken the property. They look like apparitions gliding over the weeds, she thought.
“Let’s go,” said the first boy, the leader, the one who, moments before, had mocked his frightened friend—or possibly brother, which, if that were true, would give her less time if he escaped. His voice was quick and full of energy and adventure, and the witch knew that if they headed toward the back of the house, he would be her first victim. It was always the eager ones who made the most mistakes. Bless their hearts.
The thought of new prey now elicited ecstasy. She licked her tongue across the bottom of her top row of front teeth, groaning as she did so. The sound was low and guttural, starting deep in her chest and rattling up through her throat. The noise came out in a loud rumble, louder than she had intended, and she saw the boys stop and pivot, now facing toward the backyard and the ditch where she was lurking. She ducked below the brim of the narrow channel, the canopy closing the small gap, and waited, listening for the scatter of terrified footsteps. If they did run, she stood poised to attack. This was a gift she wouldn’t deny herself.
“What was that?” a voice asked, his tone playfully suspicious. It was the second brave boy in the group, the other teaser, and his question was clearly directed toward the coward with the intention of pushing the boy into panic.
“Oh that was definitely her,” the leader declared. “I mean, what other explanation could there be? The Old Witch of the North lives!”
The second boy laughed at this and said, “You’re crazy, Tomas.” But the fear behind his brave veneer was now detectable to the woman. She could almost smell it.
“Okay, well what was it then?” It was the coward this time, he making no pretensions at bravery. “We should leave. There’s probably bums back here anyway. Or wild animals.”
“Or...” the leader replied, “wild bums! Terrifying wild bums!”
The first two boys burst into laughter, loud enough now to veil the woman if she chose this moment to attack. But she restrained herself, not quite confident that her legs were charged and ready for a guerilla attack at this distance. Soon, but not yet. Instead, she waited and listened, trying to anticipate the boys’ next moves.
“Well something is back there. You heard it. And I’m not going to find out what it is. Have fun being brave; I’ll have fun being alive.”
“Leave then. Bye. Don’t forget your bottle, baby.”
The witch couldn’t tell which one of the bullies supplied this last taunt, but there was a malignancy in the tone that was unmistakable. It was the sound of the rotten men she’d known all her life.
Suddenly the bullies began laughing like rabid jackals, and the woman could hear the coward’s footsteps trotting off and diminishing into the distance, a slow gallop at first, and then, just before breaking into the trod of a full sprint.
“Do you still want to check it out?” said the second in command.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I? Wait a minute. Don’t tell me you’re scared too.”
“Shut up, Tomas. I was just asking.” There was a pause. “You’re such a whaling prick.”
“Stop pouting and come on then. Of course, we’re going to check it out. Let’s see if this crazy bitch has something cool in her attic or something.”
“Wait. You want to go inside? I don’t know about that. I mean, maybe we—”
“You are scared! Ha! I knew it.”
The woman could imagine the look of gleeful satisfaction on the face of the leader, his dominance once again established by the apprehension of his companion.
“Go off with Billy then! You can probably catch up! Ha! I don’t care. I’ll go alone. Faggot.”
“Shut up, Tomas!” the second boy screamed, the fury in his voice real.
The witch’s eyes opened wide, and the trace of a smile returned to her face.
“Or what?” Tomas replied. The words were threatening, daring.
“You don’t want to find out.”
“Really? You won’t do crap. Pussy.”
And with that, the scuffle was on. The jocular conversation of the adolescents was replaced with grunts and screams and slaps of skin.
With the delicacy of a new mother rousing her infant, the woman pushed up on the canopy and slid it aside, just far enough so she could clear her head fully from the ditch. Fascinated, she watched the boys as they grappled themselves into a human knot of head and leg locks, pinning each other helplessly into a stalemate of limbs. She rotated the canopy further, with less care this time, and then nestled her foot on an earthen step that had formed naturally on the side of the trench. Effortlessly, she propelled herself to the ledge of the ditch and then pulled herself easily from the grave.
Now on level ground, the woman strode steadily toward the boys, focused and menacing; her dark cloak and the cake of mud on her hair and face made her appear like an encroaching black blot against the sun-filled landscape. The boys, still caught up in the scrap and whines of their own meaningless struggle, took no notice of the evil that was now less than twenty yards from them.
It wasn’t until the old woman’s blade-like thumbnail pierced the back of the leader’s head, just at the neckline, that the second boy knew what was happening. His scream lasted only a second or two, but it was loud enough to be heard by a third boy who was now sprinting in terror through the woods of the Back Country.
THE BOARDWALK THAT led to the defaced cottage was warped and mildewed, and the witch recalled the day—a day that to her seemed like decades ago but was probably only a year or two past—when she lay dying, lamenting the universe as the energy of Life seeped from her bones and organs, bringing blackness to her mind. It had seemed so final that day, death so absolute in its certainty. Until the moment when the gift of Anika Morgan was presented to her in the form of a desperate scream from miles deep in the Northlands forest. It was the moment of her rebirth.
She recalled how expertly she had stalked her prey that night, seeing all the moves clearly in her mind hours before executing them. And when she’d captured her Source and finally learned the secret of Anika’s family and the power of Life in the cells and blood of all of them, her mission became clear: to take all of them—Anika, Gretel, and Hansel—and become truly immortal.
She’d done well at first, killing the father and disposing of the nurse. The latter killing, that of the Orphist, had not come without a struggle. The woman had been fierce and heroic in her efforts before finally succumbing to a strength and brutality the witch thought impossible for her ever to possess.
And then she was there. So close. So near to her destiny, only a movement or decision away from seizing the women, both of them, and finalizing the greatest power ever conceived. They had been trapped, positioned there just for her, hopelessly sealed in that cannery by the lake; the old woman needed only to use the cunning and patience she had imparted that first night in the forest.
But it had ended in disaster. The Morgan women escaped, and she had been critically wounded in the process.
In the end, it was her great failure, and now, as she stood on the porch of her decrepit shack of a home, she knew that if she didn’t find the family again, her failure would be fatal.
The woman opened the large wooden door that led to her cottage and stepped inside, proceeding directly to the kitchen. It was evident—mainly due to the presence of the many sets of large, dusty footprints—that more men had walked through her house in the past six months than had ever wal
ked through in the home’s existence. She’d been right that she’d missed some of the invaders who’d come during her slumber, but things inside weren’t quite as different as she expected. A few remnants of the round black crock remained on the floor by the counter, and the witch’s eyes widened for just a moment. Was it possible that some of the potion...?
No. Of course not. She reined in the idea. What she hadn’t collected the day of the escape had long since dried away or been eaten by vermin. It was never going to be that easy.
The woman again fantasized about the power of the brew at its full potency after the bile of Gretel Morgan was added to the already powerful mélange.
She had work to do, and it started with finding them. The Morgans. All of them. Finding out where they had gone. She had no idea where they might be just now, but she knew there was someone who would.
Chapter 2
Georg Klahr lifted the dusty rag from his back pocket and snapped it once, watching the dust scatter to the wind before methodically wiping his face. The sweat began collecting on his brow almost from the moment he stepped off the porch this morning, and he was forced to stop every minute or so to clear it. It was the hottest day of the year, no question about it. He only had about another half hour in him, and by that time, the sun would have peaked. He knew he was stronger than most men half his age, but he didn’t want to push his limits. Amanda had been through enough; nursing her husband back from a stroke was more than even she could handle.
The thought of his incapacitation invoked a vague image of Heinrich Morgan, and then a clearer one of Gretel. It had been nearly a year since the day she and her family left for the Old Country, and the Klahrs hadn’t heard a word from them since, a fact about which Georg had grown slightly angry. Anika had written them the mysterious letter before they left, detailing where they were headed, and emphasizing that they were not to be contacted unless absolutely necessary. He’d not had a chance to question this clause—the letter had been given to him just before the Morgans departed on their quest—and as difficult as it had been these last eleven months, neither Georg nor Amanda ever felt there was proper cause to disobey it. Amanda had cried on and off for several days after Gretel left, and as the months ticked by, her worry had only ripened.
The girl couldn’t call? Or send a letter?
Georg stuffed the damp rag back into his pocket and stared across the lake at the Morgan property. He closed his eyes and thought of that day of death and carnage. Of the spectacle he had witnessed. Of the woman—witch—who had attacked him. And of the things he hadn’t done to save the nurse. He had failed her, and he now lived with that thought every day, just as he would until the day he died. He squeezed his eyes tightly and shook the memory clear. Not now. It was too early in the day to descend into this thinking.
“I’m leaving, Georg.”
Georg spun to see his wife stalking the back porch, studying her lavender and jasmine, sniffing them gently before moving on to tease up her hydrangeas.
“What’s that, dear?”
“I’m leaving for a bit. Got some things to buy for the garden. Don’t want you out here too much longer. Hottest I’ve felt it in a long while.” Amanda Klahr stopped and stared defiantly at her husband, imparting the seriousness of her statement.
“Would you like me to go instead? To the store?”
“I would not. If you do my hobbies for me, they’re no longer my hobbies.”
Georg smiled. “All right then. Be safe, will ya?”
“Course hon. Always am.”
Amanda paused and stared at her husband, as if waiting for the answer to her question before she asked it. Finally, she said, “Have you seen Petr today?”
Georg forced a smile. “Not yet. He’ll be around soon.”
Amanda nodded, gave one last pluck to a rose bush, and then faded from the porch into the cottage.
Georg stared his wife back into the house, wincing at the sucking sound of the sliding glass door sealing behind her. He closed his eyes and sighed. Petr.
Petr Stenson had worked at the orchard for almost a year and a half, and after the death of his father at the hands of the faithless she-devil, there had never been a question as to where the boy would live. The Klahrs had never given a second thought to taking the boy in. He was an orphan now, his mother having died years earlier, and both Georg and Amanda had grown to love him like a grandson.
But the new arrangement had been difficult, and the truth was they hadn’t expected such a dramatic shift in Petr’s behavior, at least not so immediately after becoming their responsibility. Georg realized this was probably a naïve way of thinking, given the boy’s age and the trauma he’d been exposed to, but the adoption itself was only a formality—Petr had essentially been living with them anyway—so they both thought the transition would be less rocky.
But Petr now stayed out late most nights—sometimes even all night, as in the case of this previous evening—and his friends were not of the type the fathers of the Back Country hoped their daughters would marry. Neither he nor Amanda suspected Petr was getting into any dire trouble, but his pattern of disappearing was becoming a concern.
But Georg knew it wasn’t the recent living arrangements or even the death of his father that was the most trying on Petr. It was losing Gretel.
Georg opened his eyes and turned back to his work, lifting the hoe high above his head before slamming it into the brittle earth. He loved the power and ferocity of this move—whether with the pick, the axe, or the hoe—and from that first day when spring quietly snuck a day in in March, he had come to the orchard every day, building his strength this way for hours at a time. Georg Klahr’s days of working the harvest had been effectively done years ago, so during the season, as he continued his violent work of chopping an empty field, the workers simply watched with odd fascination while they did their business of picking the blossoming apples and pears.
Georg raised the hoe again and slammed it to the earth, unconcerned what the migrant workers may have thought. Or what anyone thought. He was training. Getting strong. Building the muscles of his shoulders and biceps and thighs. Working his lungs until they burned and tormented him. And if he ever got the chance again, he would kill without consideration the person who threatened him or his.
“Georg.”
He registered his name and the voice that spoke it, but the sound didn’t quite file as real, as if it were uttered from a dream.
“Georg!”
Georg barked out a scream this time, lurching toward the sound of his name and raising the hoe high above his head, directing it toward the intruder. He stopped before swinging it, blinking wildly at the boy standing before him.
“Petr?” Georg was frozen, his eyes now dilated in madness, the garden tool still poised to strike. “Petr, I’m sorry. I was deep in thought...work.”
Petr grinned slightly and nodded. “I know those thoughts, Georg. Trust me, I do.”
Petr had recently gone from using the moniker “Mr. Klahr” to “Georg,” and Georg was still not quite comfortable with it. It was fine, of course—“Mr. Klahr” seemed too formal for their relationship, and “Dad” or “Grandad” wasn’t right either—but Petr’s use of the title somehow put him on a level of adulthood that Georg wasn’t ready for. Thankfully, Petr hadn’t yet made the transition to “Amanda,” and Georg quietly hoped he never would.
“Where were you last night? Mrs. Klahr was worried.” Georg now held the hoe down by his waist, gripping it in front of him casually with both hands.
Petr frowned and looked away. “I needed to be away last night.”
Georg waited for more, and when he got nothing, he said, “Searching?”
Petr looked back at Georg, whose eyes were set in marble. “She’s alive.”
Georg frowned at the statement, but this time he resisted the urge to diminish the boy’s beliefs further with a shake of the head or a snicker as he’d done dozens of times since Petr first declared his theory.
“I know you don’t believe that, and that’s your choice, but she’s alive...or at least...she didn’t die that night in the cannery. Not the way they said she did.”
“Gretel was there, Petr. And Mrs. Morgan. Gretel was the one who ki—” Georg stopped, not wanting to attach Gretel to the violence that had occurred that night.
“They didn’t see her die, Georg,” Petr replied. He was delicate with his words, detached from the emotion of the events. “They saw her fall. They saw her lying on the ground. But they never saw her die. They jumped from the cannery window and never saw...”
“Where is she then, Petr?”
“It’s a big world out there, Georg.”
The theory, which Petr had recited to Georg within the first month of moving in, was that the witch was alive, and she would be coming once again for Gretel. Likely Anika and Hansel too, but Gretel for sure. This discussion, which they now had once or twice a month, never reached the point where Petr told him exactly how it was that the woman was still alive or where she had been living. Or why the System had her officially listed as dead. When Georg had asked Petr about this last part, Petr had simply laughed at him and replied something sarcastic like, “Yeah, you’re right Georg. the System would never do anything like that. No way.”
Georg supposed he had a point there.
And here they were again, back in the throes of the subject, speeding down the bumpy road to nowhere. Georg decided to veer off. “Where were you searching last night?”
Petr was clearly caught off guard by this indirect validation of his belief, but he answered calmly. “It’s better you don’t know.”
Georg nodded and let the tension of the words set in. Finally, he said, “You know that you aren’t the only one who misses her, right? You know we love her too. And that Mrs. Klahr still cries at night. Not every night, but often, out of the blue, because she misses her and has no idea whether or not she’s okay.”
The Gretel Series: Books 1-3 (Gretel #1-3) Page 34
