“Begone!” Doris lunged forward, pressing her palms together, her arms shooting straight, a sudden curling ball of purple light unfurling from her bare flesh. It seared the air and exploded into violet embers, though the two Handmaidens had broken off, sprinting in opposite directions. One of them lunged forward, touching the ground with a single hand, and bounded into a graceful one-armed cartwheel, her robe flowing behind her like fabric wings. She hit the ground in a low crouch, a staff seeming to form out of mid-air coalescing into solid material within the coiled fingers of her closed fist.
Purella had no weapon, but she curled her fingers, the aged wood from beneath the Handmaiden’s feet popping free of its nails and curling unnaturally, warping to try and entangle her foot. The warrior woman ripped her foot free, using the momentum to whirl left. She spun the staff outward and cracked the end into Purella’s temple and sent her staggering.
Helena leaped onto the table, moved with an age-defying grace, then waved her hand right, dozens of nails ripping free from the wall, peeling away wood and plaster. They twisted into a whirlwind of pointed iron in mid-air, and she lashed her arm forward, sending the barrage hurtling toward the same Handmaiden who had struck Purella.
The woman dodged left, ducked, and used her staff, batted away a wide swath of the projectiles, though several of them slashed through her attempted defense and ripped into robe and flesh. Hissing in agony, she stumbled backwards, a cloud of purple blood and smoke left in her wake. She dropped to one knee and glowering up at the woman, enraged.
The second Handmaiden shrieked and threw herself toward Helena, legs bent, fingers clawed. Doris redirected her attention and unleashed a flaming, purple whip with a snap of one hand, the coiled barb of energy wrapping around the Handmaiden’s leg and yanking her off course, tossing her roughly to the floor. Helena nodded a swift acknowledgement and leaped from the table, arcing with practiced precision. She came down at the fallen Handmaiden, her hands pressed together and glowing a vibrant yellow. The maiden somersaulted backwards, out of her way, then came up on one knee and propelled herself forward. A battering ram made of smoke appeared out of thin air and collided with Helena’s chest, knocking her to the floor.
The first maiden was on her feet, grimacing in pain, two other witches closing in upon her. She shot her arm upward, ripping the nails free of her own flesh and jettisoning them toward the approaching women with an almost blinding velocity. I swept my shield knife from its sheath and uttered the words, then slashed through the air, carving a bright arc of void energy. It hurled forward as I attempted to will it to emerge between the maiden and her targets.
I was only partially successful. Even as thrown nails rebounded from the energy shield I’d erected from half a room away, several others snaked past, striking one of the witches full in the face. She went down with a violent, desperate scream, clawing at her blood-soaked visage.
“Who are you?” hissed the first Handmaiden, wheeling toward me, seemingly noticing me for the first time. “You are not a warlock!”
“No, no I’m not. I’m one hundred percent man, baby!” I had no idea why I’d even said that, but— it had its desired effect. She howled and charged, spinning her staff over her head in a blinding whirl of black wood. Still balancing The Stand in my left hand, I withdrew Joyland into my right, the bristling hum of electricity coursing through my palm. The staff hurtled down in a swift arc and I conjured an energy shield, striking up with my left-hand blade and deflecting her strike. Her aggressive swipe left her opposite side exposed and I muttered a nearly silent spell, then lashed out with the other knife, a ragged gash of pale, blue lightning following the knife’s path. It raked across the Handmaiden with a twisted, whiplash coil and she shrieked, wheeling away from it, nearly falling, using the staff to hold her up.
Meanwhile the second Handmaiden had leaped atop the table where Helena had been a moment before and extended a rigid piston of her left arm, a blast of concussive force erupting, powering into two other witches. One of them went sprawling wildly to the left, the other lifted from her feet and hammered, spine-first, against the far wall. Before she could move, the Handmaiden gestured with her opposite hand, ripping free a trio of wooden frames from within the wall of the old Victorian. They tore free of plaster and shot toward the trapped witch, then buckled and snapped, reforming into sharply angled barriers. She forced them forward, pinning the woman to the wall, embedding themselves in the material at her back and holding her there as she squirmed.
Helena lunged toward the maiden on the table, pivoting and wheeling a leg just above the table’s surface. Her calf clipped the lower leg of the battle-ready warrior and swept it out from under her, sending her crashing, shoulder-first to the work surface. One of the laptops snapped beneath her weight, a scatter of paper fluttering onto the floor. The Handmaiden was far from out and continued rolling from the impact, tumbling down onto the floor in a low crouch, preparing for a follow up attack.
Helena redirected her attention, curling her fingers toward the large table and levitating it from the floor, the massive piece of furniture trembling as she used the sheer force of her will to lift it. Screaming, the tendons on her neck bulging she threw it across her body and toward the crouched maiden. The maiden reacted. She slashed a swift upward strike and a sword of purple light followed in her hand’s wake, cleaving the table in two, splitting it in half. One end tumbled harmlessly behind her while the other end actually struck Helena in the right shoulder with enough force that it knocked her over.
Up on her feet in an instant, the maiden searched the chaos for her next target as I watched her every move, trying to plan my own. It was bedlam, as the other maiden had recovered from my blast of electricity and was going toe-to-toe with Doris, each of them exchanging vibrant blasts of power, both of them tiring. Two Handmaidens had barged in here and had held their own against eight witches and— well— me, though it seemed the longer the battle went, the more in our favor it turned.
I should have known that wouldn’t last. The temperature dropped fifteen degrees in an instant as everyone halted in mid-strike, turning toward the door, almost as one. Ricard strode forward, his dark cloak brushing the floor behind him, his silvery hair looking almost translucent in the pale glow of spent energy lingering within the foyer. Lucinda trailed behind, a smug sneer on her face, her long-nailed fingers coiled tightly into fists, a pulsing glow seeping out from between her fingers.
“Well, well, well,” Ricard muttered, shooting me an accusatory glower. “Is this your doing, Savage?”
“Yep. All me. I take full cred—”
Before I could finish, he shot forth an arm, a sudden ram’s head shape of solidified shadow punching me full in the chest. I went backwards, the air exploding from my lungs, the momentum of the strike toppled me into a clumsy, sprawling roll. I came up against the far wall just next to the trapped witch, my ribs burning, my breath stabbed painfully in my chest. Several of the witches were on the ground, four of them motionless, while another struggled against the broken wood supports pinning her to the wall. Doris remained upright and Purella groaned, rubbing her temple where the staff had struck. Near the back of the room, Connor lurked, away from the scene of the battle. As important as he was to this fight, he was too young— and too male— to be of much real value outside of his political importance.
“Don’t lie to me,” Ricard growled, standing over where Helena lay, partially buried by the broken table. He cast a furtive look downward. “I know who’s really behind this pitiful resistance movement.” Gesturing toward the fallen witch, he peeled her out from beneath the broken furniture, tendrils of dark smoke coiling around her limp body, elevating her, the table shifting as her body was slipped free. It was as if an octopus made of clouded water wrapped its tentacles around her.
She rose a bit higher, her arms pinned behind her back, one thick snake of solidified shadow curling up, beneath her chin.
“You’ve always been trouble, Helena Trescott. Always.”
“I fully supported your mother,” she grunted, her mouth barely open. “I’ve followed your family for centuries.”
“Until now, apparently. What, I wonder, changed your mind?”
“I think you know.”
Doris seemed braced to fight, but I shook my head softly in her direction, silently begging for her not to. The Handmaidens alone had put up a fight— adding the twins to that list seemed like a recipe for disaster.
“Yes,” Ricard agreed, nodding, “I think I do know.” One finger moved gently and the smokey tendrils drew Helena closer to him. “So what do you suppose I should do about this betrayal?”
“I’ve betrayed no one.”
Ricard tipped his head. “Oh? Meeting in silence? The subterfuge? Plotting against the council?”
“I’m plotting against you, you dumb son of a bitch. Whatever you think, that’s not the same as plotting against the council.”
His lip curled, revealing a scant glance at his sharpened teeth. “I suppose that’s true— for now. But— give it time.”
“We have no intention of giving it time.” Doris interjected and I held my breath, bracing for an inevitable outburst. I struggled to stand, pressing a hand to my ribs, which immediately argued its placement. Walking weakly, I drew up next to Doris and held out a warning hand. Ricard cast an angry glare in my direction but did nothing to stop me.
“I don’t think you have a choice, Doris. The council has made up its mind. All that’s left is the— relentless bureaucracy.”
“So you’re saying we have a chance.” I tried to take the attention off of Doris, but when I saw the fiery glint in Ricard’s eyes, I briefly regretted that decision. Ricard shook his head with disgust.
“Still,” he hissed, “after all of these years. This is a joke to you.”
“Not really.”
“After everything that’s happened to my family. To this coven. Many atrocities that you’ve witnessed firsthand.”
“I think you’re being a little melodramatic.” I squared my shoulders. “The biggest atrocity I’ve seen is that a brother could actually try and kill his own sister in his twisted quest for power. That, my friend, is a real atrocity.”
He didn’t immediately take the bait. It took him a moment to nod, then step forward, drawing close to me, turning slightly to look me in one eye. “I am not your friend, Angus Savage.”
“The feeling is mutual.”
“What happened to my sister— I see that as being more your fault than mine.”
“Oh? Am I the one who ordered an assassin to stab her in the back?” I could feel my blood warming, heat flooding my cheeks, my muscles ached with the force of my locked limbs.
“What goes on in this family is no longer your concern, Gus. If it ever was.”
“Whatever my relationship with Loren might be, if you mess with her, you mess with me. You stab her in the back, and you stab me in the back— and I don’t appreciate being stabbed in the back.” For the first time I’d noticed Lucinda approach, standing next to her brother, looking almost diminutive in his presence. Their dynamic intrigued me— in most cases the female sibling would hold power over her brother in a witch’s coven. It was the natural order of things. But here— Ricard seemed to have that edge, and I couldn’t quite tell why.
“Why do you continue to verbally spar with this man?” Lucinda leaned close to her brother and almost whispered into his ear. “Just give me the word and I will flay the flesh from his bones. Strip by precious strip.” She formed the words carefully, her dark lips moving, her steel eyes settling on mine.
“Ouch. Sounds painful.” I looked over at Ricard. “What a shame that you don’t have that sort of power, huh?”
His nostrils flared and I thought for a moment that I’d stepped a bit too far. Lucinda smiled a wicked, sneering smile and leaned in closer, again whispering something in her brother’s ear. He hesitated for a moment, then his eyes darted left, and he nodded his understanding.
“My sister is right, as always,” he said with a flat smile. “As much fun as it would be to watch her— remove you. We have— other matters to attend to.”
My brow furrowed and I turned, trying to follow the direction of his sideways glance a moment before. I spotted it a split second too late, my eyes widening, my muscles coiling as my hand moved toward the hilt of my shield blade. But Ricard fired his left arm out to his side, a sudden, sharpened blade made of pure shadow exploding from thin air in the wake of his arm’s motion. The projectile shot forward, a searing blur of blackness and my mouth agape, my fingers not quite closed around the handle of my useless knife at my belt, the blade impaled Connor Montague right through the chest.
The young man gasped and stumbled, his eyes peeling wide, revealing the whites and his shrinking pupils.
“No!” Doris screeched, a furious sound of fear and rage unlike any I’d heard, especially from her. Almost simultaneously, Ricard turned toward Helena, his fist closing, his wrist twisting, the coil of shadowed tendrils squeezed and violently snapped her neck, her taut body going suddenly limp.
“No!” Doris repeated, this time turning back toward Helena, her head whipping side-to-side, seeing crushed dreams and obliterated hopes in every direction. The darkened tendrils released and Helena’s lifeless form thumped to the floor at almost the same time as Connor’s did, ten feet away. Lucinda charged forward, wrapping her fingers around Doris’s throat, pulling her in close, peering directly into her eyes.
“There’s nothing you can do now, Doris. Our elevation is— inevitable.” She slowly began squeezing her fingers around the older woman’s neck, her skin compressing beneath the pressure. Doris’s lips puckered, her head arched back, her eyes rolling.
There was no more time. I closed my fingers around the hilt of my shield blade, shouted a sudden burst of incantation, then tore the knife up and between Lucinda and Doris. The solidified barrier erected between them, the formed energy blockade surging so suddenly it cleaved through the soft tissue of Lucinda’s forearm and severed her hand at the wrist. She gasped, howled and drew back, pulling the stub of her arm to her chest, a surge of raging power encircling her angry form.
“Lucinda!” Ricard moved to her side, reaching out to catch her as she stumbled backwards, dark blood pulsing from where her left hand had once been. Doris, released from her grasp as the bloodied hand landed on the wooden floor, almost fell, though I barely caught her.
“Get us out of here,” I urged.
“C—Connor.”
“He’s gone. Get us out!”
Ricard laid his sister on the floor and rose upright, a roiling halo of snapping dark power crashing above and around him, a surging ocean wave of blackness, tinged with purple light. He lifted one hand, closed it into a fist, a vortex of pitch blackness swirling into his fingers, the air itself seemingly sucked from the room.
“Doris!” I wrapped my arms around her and squeezed tight, bracing myself for the unrelenting barrage of dark energy, a magical blast so potent it was bound to disintegrate us both. Ricard drew back, power building in his palm, every trace of darkness and shadow within the Victorian coalescing into a pulsing globe of energy. I opened my mouth to plead with Doris again, though I suddenly couldn’t speak, the world was swirling around us, sucking us in, engulfing us in a putrid, nauseating lurch.
Then, the Victorian vanished, the old Inn little more than a memory and we were stumbling out into a different place, the force of the unexpected teleportation sending me to my knees, a rush of vomit proving that, at the least, I was still alive.