A smear of liquid violet slashed across the nighttime sky and suddenly grass filled my vision. The three of us tumbled from the void, surrounded by a belch of fragrant smoke, the acrid tang of sulfur filling the space. In spite of her injuries, Loren landed in a graceful, sweeping crouch, arms spread, while Doris dropped to a knee, yet absorbed the fall.
Me? I hit the ground in an awkward, limb sprawling flail, barely avoiding a shriek of pain as I went rolling across the grass. My guts churned and I scrambled to my hands and knees, just barely keeping whatever meager food still remained in my stomach where it belonged.
“You’re not going to puke, are you?” Loren stood, scanning the surrounding area for potential threats.
“No promises.”
“If you’re going to do it, do it now.”
“Puking isn’t generally something I set time aside for.” I drew my fingers through my hair, blinking rapidly to get my bearings. “It’s the sort of thing that either happens or it doesn’t.”
“Well, pull yourself together and make sure it doesn’t happen. I’m not sure we’ll have the luxury of a vomit break once we step inside.”
“Step inside?” I looked ahead, in the direction where Loren was looking and saw precisely what she saw. We were on the Darkheart Coven property, but not outside the manor house, instead we were in a sprawling, wooded area behind it, sandwiched between the estate and the Salem shoreline. Once I’d recovered from the sudden teleportation, I could detect the trace of saltwater in the air. It carried on the breeze over the rows of thick oak that made a natural barrier between the property and the tourist trap town beyond.
A large building was erected upon the grounds before us, something that resembled a church, but knowing how steeped witchcraft was in pagan beliefs, I knew that’s not precisely what it was. It was an impressive structure made of stone and mortar, a twisting steeple of bound vines and contorted trees rising high above the gently sloped roof. It could have been built a week ago or hundreds of years ago, it was impossible to tell from the architectural styling or materials used. Earth’s own natural composites forced into a ceremonial building that suited human demands.
Or the demands of the not-quite human.
“How long has this been here?”
“Since the beginning.” Loren took a cautious step forward.
“How have I never seen it?” I followed closely, eyes peering into each and every shadow, muscles tensed for attack.
“You weren’t meant to see it. It’s a sacred structure— it’s for coven use only.” She halted for a moment, taking in the significance of what was about to happen. “The fact that you’re even here with us— violates many of our coven laws. This is a great risk we’re taking.”
Arched windows were carved from the exterior stonework and flickering yellow light shone through their shaped holes.
“Perhaps,” Doris advised, “we should handle this— just the two of us to start?” There was an anxious edge to her voice that I’d never heard. “What you say is true— this is in direct violation of—”
“Whatever historical tenets we’re violating,” Loren almost spat back, “they pale in comparison to what Ricard and Lucinda have already done. If those can be overlooked, surely this can.”
As a trio we moved closer to the building, the soft glow of interior candlelight sending strange shadows dancing along the structure’s interior.
“Wait.” Loren halted abruptly, her hand extending, her posture suddenly rigid. From out of the darkness ahead, a trio of figures emerged, moving like poured silk, dark robes sweeping along their lithe forms. Though I couldn’t yet see them clearly, I knew just from the way they moved who they were— or more appropriately— what they were.
“Handmaidens,” Doris whispered, her stout body tensing.
“You don’t belong here.” The three figures melted into clarity beneath the glow of the overhead moon, the one in the center pale-faced and wearing an ornate headdress of sprawling antlers. Her robe had ragged sleeves, exposing slender arms, a soft glow emanating from the flesh of her palms.
A second Handmaiden carried a short sword, a wooden hilt with a flat steel blade, roughly hammered into a sharpened edge. A dark bandana was tugged around her forehead, drawing her dark hair back from her eyes. The third wore a dark red robe with a black sash, her fingers coiled around a withered, wooden staff she used as a walking stick.
“Clearly you recognize me,” Loren said, taking a step forward, putting herself between the three Handmaidens and us. “You know I have every right to be here.”
“In whose eyes?” the one with the crown of antlers asked. “Not ours.”
“Has Ricard twisted your minds so much you don’t recognize me as the one true heir to the Darkheart Coven?”
Antlers sneered, her fists clenching as she positioned herself in a battle ready stance. The warrior with the sword drew back as well, wrapping both hands around the hilt of her weapon while the third twirled the staff expertly above her head.
I sighed and pushed back the halves of my trench coat, revealing my own defensive weaponry. There were times in a past life when it became necessary to venture into battle with an assortment of weapons. A unique leather sash that I could buckle across my chest contained three separate knife sheaths in conjunction with the two I wore at my hips, giving me access to five separate blades. I’d selected each weapon relatively carefully, even in my rush to exit my apartment earlier that day. I was fully prepared to use each and every one of them.
“History will remember what you did this night,” Loren said, showing no signs of withdrawal. “Your acts will be etched in the tomes. Etched in blood.”
“Not our blood,” Antlers replied and I could see the light forming in her palms brighten into small, coalesced spheres.
“If my mother could see what you’d become, her heart would break. Each of you was hand-picked by Nadella Montague— and I am her first born! This is how you betray her memory?”
“Nadella Montague has been of no consequence for quite some time— her body simply finally realized it.”
“How dare you speak of my mother that way.”
“You abandoned this coven years ago, Loren. You’ve long since forfeited your rights to anything.”
“I’ll be interested to see if the rest of the council feels that way.”
The one with the crown of antlers took a step forward. “You’ll never get that far.” Her arms shot out a sudden pillar of white light erupting from her palms. Loren whirled left, her hand sweeping up, a sudden shield trailing behind it, deflecting the magical attack almost effortlessly. Doris lunged, clawed at the ground, then jerked both hands up, the earth erupting at the feet of Antlers, sending her sprawling backwards. The Handmaiden with the staff leaped forward, bringing the withered, wooden weapon down in a swift arc. Loren twisted toward her, her left knee buckled slightly, and I could tell she wasn’t operating at full strength.
Still the staff splintered in mid-air, a mere gesture from her fingers ripping the wooden weapon asunder, the broken item passing harmlessly by her. The woman wielding it was pulled off balance by the momentum shift and Loren jabbed her fingers around the sash across her chest. Pulling the woman toward her and twisting her wrist, she cinched the sash tight, then used it to lift the warrior and flip her over her shoulder. The Handmaiden struck the hard ground and lay still.
As Loren turned her back, the one with the sword lunged at her, bringing the blade around. I drew my shield blade from its sheath, the one called The Stand, and conjured a quick, semi-translucent barrier, which deflected the sword blow and left the Handmaiden open to my follow-up attack. Joyland was clutched tightly in my right hand, a tingling surge of electricity thrumming my palm until I unleashed it in a sudden forward stab. Vibrant forks of fanged lightning scorched from the blade, entangling the woman in a humming vortex of electricity. Luminescent claws raked at her arms and legs, tearing at her frayed robe and sending her jittering to the ground, her muscles taut, the sword dislodged.
Doris followed my attack, her hands working in conjunction as she gestured toward the ground, magically ripping dozens of buried roots free, twisting them up and around the prone form of the swordswoman, tying her tight, binding her to the earth where she lay. Loren dodged just as Antlers unleashed another magical bolt, the searing ram of light passing just to Loren’s left. She thrust her own palm outward and a swirling blast of hurricane wind exploded from nowhere, clutching Antlers in its fingers and tossing her back.
Twisting in mid-air, Antlers contorted and managed to ride the wind, dropping into a kneel, preparing for a follow up counter-attack. Loren was ready as she sprinted forward, dodging another attempted spear, then slashed with a left hand, the sheer force of her magical blow lifting the woman and sending her cartwheeling left.
As a half-breed wizard, I had the ability to use my knives to pierce the veil between worlds and harness some of that supernatural energy. But magic didn’t come naturally to me— not like it did Loren, and watching her work was like watching a classically trained ballet dancer. She used her magic like someone might simply take a step and it nearly stole my breath.
Antlers managed to roll into a low crouch, the momentum of Loren’s hurricane blast pushing her back upright. With a clench of her fist, the Handmaiden tore free a thin tree, ripping it up by the roots and she lunged forward, hurling the tree like a spear.
Loren waved her hands in a circle, opening a sparking portal in mid-air, then stepped aside as the tree spear slammed through it, vanishing from view, the portal zapping closed behind it. Closing her eyes, Loren’s lips moved, chanting some language I couldn’t hear and likely wouldn’t understand. Another circular portal opened and instead of the tree flying back out, it had been severed into several smaller spears and a barrage of makeshift arrows screamed out instead, slicing back toward the Handmaiden.
She gasped and tried to swiftly conjure some makeshift defense, but she was too slow and Loren was too powerful, even in her weakened state. The barrage of wooden arrows slammed into the woman with the antler crown and she shrieked in pain and went down, several sharpened barbs embedded in her body.
The woman choked out a word I couldn’t understand, groped toward one of the half-dozen arrows that jutted from her, then collapsed backwards, her blood soaking the grass beneath her.
“I did not enjoy doing that,” Loren groused, glaring at the Handmaiden who was bound to the earth with twisted vines. “She gave me little choice.”
“You— you have a choice,” the woman struggled to say, her throat constricted by one of the narrow roots. “You— can let Ricard and Lucinda take leadership— as they— as they should.”
“You call that a choice?” Loren glowered angrily at the struggling Handmaiden. “Then clearly you are already too far gone.” Loren extended her hand, slowly curling her fingers and the roots began to twist more tightly around the woman’s neck. She gasped, her eyes bulging her lips puckering desperate to draw in air.
“Loren. Don’t.” I stepped toward her, holding out a hand.
“She would kill all three of us without a second thought.” Loren squeezed her fingers and the roots tightened, the Handmaiden writhing on the ground, trying to draw in breath.
“That’s why we’re better than she is. That’s why we’re better than all of them.”
“What good has it done us? What has it gained other than losing my coven? Losing my mother? Losing everything that was ever important to me?”
“Everything?” I touched her arm and looked her in the eyes. “You haven’t lost everything. You’ve got me. You’ve got Doris. And I’d bet you’ve still got friends in the coven. You just need to give them a reason to believe it.”
Her fingers were closed into a tight fist, the roots cinching around the Handmaiden’s neck, the flesh of her throat tightening so no air could come out. Loren sighed, closed her eyes and let her fingers uncoil, the roots slacking, the woman bound to the ground gasping for desperately needed air.
“Remember this,” Loren said. “Remember who could have stolen your life and didn’t. Do you think Ricard or Lucinda would have done the same?”
The Handmaiden gulped in air but said nothing else. Without another word, Loren strode forward, heading directly for the stone building straight ahead.
We could hear it even as we drew near, the murmur of conversation, voices raising every so often, then falling again, as if in debate.
“Ricard and Lucinda Montague— we recognize your place and your status. We recognize the gap that needs filling in coven leadership. But this is highly irregular!”
The dimly lit entrance alcove was cool and dark, but the acoustics were good, each word carrying from the meeting hall into the outer chambers in stark, crystal clarity.
“Everything about this situation is irregular,” Ricard replied. “Look around us! The world is irregular!”
“There are traditions to uphold. A legacy! It is precisely because of the situations we’re facing that we must keep a stranglehold on that legacy!”
I didn’t recognize the woman speaking, but knew she held a position of authority on the council, and I was glad to hear that she spoke with some semblance of perspective. As it so happened, not everyone on the council appeared to be under Ricard’s spell.
We eased toward the arched doorway and peered in at the inner chamber. It was a large, dome-shaped room, the stone walls arched gracefully up into a spherical ceiling. The center of the room was carved out, a rounded pool of glistening, dark water rippling in the soft breeze that blew through the opened windows. Beyond the pool, against the back wall a long stone table ran the length of that wall, a half dozen chairs seated at the table.
Women sat in each chair, all six of them with their spines erect, wearing various gowns, decorative and ceremonial, a makeshift jury of witchy peers. For a moment I thought that perhaps Loren might have a chance— she might be able to explain her position to this gathering of witches. I wasn’t typically an optimistic guy but I felt at least a little bit at that moment.
“All I ask for,” Ricard continued, taking a step forward, “is a majority vote.” For the first time, I caught a good look at Lucinda and I saw that her left arm was bound in some sort of bandage, the end of her limb terminated in a blunt stub. I remembered the shield I’d erected, my desperate attempt to save Doris’s life and how the swiftly forming energy barrier had severed Lucinda’s hand at the wrist. I felt a creeping sense of unease— that was something I felt certain neither Ricard nor Lucinda would let go unpunished. As the old saying went— there would be hell to pay.
“We can’t let this happen,” Loren whispered. “If Ricard is asking for a majority vote, it’s because he knows he has that majority. If this vote happens— this is over.”
“Do we agree with the request for a majority vote?” The woman at the head of the table, turned to inquire of her peers. One of the other women lifted her hand in approval, and Loren decided she could no longer wait in the shadows.
“We must end this farce here and now!” she screamed, her voice echoing from the arched ceiling of the room. There was an audible gasp as the six witches turned toward the entrance, all eyes directed at Loren. “I am Loren Montague as you all know— eldest heir and first in line for coven leadership! I am here to claim my place at the head of the table!”
Ricard’s hands closed into fists and his lips curled into an angry snarl.
“My brother and sister tried to have me executed— and they failed. My brother tried to execute another heir— Connor Montague— and he succeeded! He is a traitor to this coven and must be punished accordingly!”
“Lies!” shouted Ricard, lunging forward. He thrust a finger directly at me. “He killed Connor Montague! I was there! I saw it!”
“Nice try, buttercup,” I replied, “but it was your shadow magic that pierced that poor boy’s chest. Last I checked, I don’t have that power.”
“You would believe an outsider over me?” Ricard swept a hand at me. “An outsider who clearly has Loren under his spell?”
I laughed out loud. “I couldn’t put Loren under a spell if I tried. Trust me, sometimes I wish I could.”
“Not. Helping.” Loren hissed, still facing the council.
“Oh come on. I bet that helped a little.”
“This outsider also severed my sister’s hand!” Ricard gestured toward the bandaged stump and Lucinda fired a stare of fury in my general direction.
“Only because she was trying to choke the life out of me.” Doris stepped up next to me. “I have been an advisor to this coven for generations— and I stand by Loren Montague. I may not be an official member, but my nomination holds weight. And I second the motion for Loren to take her rightful place at the head of the table!”
The six witches turned and spoke, voices low and hushed, speaking almost conspiratorially amongst themselves. Two of them shook their heads violently in exchange for what another was saying, a full-blown disagreement clearly rippling throughout the gathering.
“Order!” the woman at the head of the table finally demanded. “We must have order!”
The three of us stepped further into the room and suddenly I felt very conspicuous. There were only the three of us, the six witches and the Montague twins, but I felt drastically outnumbered. The voices of the six witches drifted into relative quiet, all heads turning toward the woman at the head of the table. She steepled long fingers and looked across the circular room at Loren, a soft, almost soothing smile on her face.
“I knew your mother for a very, very long time, Loren. I believe I knew her well enough to know what she would have said in this very moment.”
Loren stood proud and nodded in response.
“Until the moment we make our choice, I stand at the head of this table,” the woman said, and pressed her hands into its stone surface, pushing herself upright. “It is up to me to make the final determination about what comes next.”
“I demand a majority vote!” Ricard snarled, turning toward her. “I demand—”
“You demand nothing!” The woman’s voice rebounded from the curved walls. “In spite of what you might think, Ricard Montague, you are in no position to demand anything of us. Neither you nor your sister. You ask for a majority vote?”
“I do.”
“Request denied.”
Ricard’s neck tensed and I felt the temperature of the room cool precipitously.
“I hereby state without hesitation or doubt that Loren Montague—”
Ricard’s arm flashed forward, a sudden spear of shadow magic firing outwards from the wake of his arm’s motion. It rammed through the woman at the head of the table, piercing the fabric of her robe and the flesh beneath, striking with such force that it thrust her backwards, the dark projectile pinning her to the wall behind her.
The entire room fell into stark silence, all eyes turned on Ricard, who remained at the center of the room, standing next to the rippling pool of dark water.
“What have you done?” Loren’s words were ice.
“I demand a majority vote.” He didn’t face his sister, he stood and faced the council, both fists crackling with dark, resonate power. Against the wall, the head witch spasmed, trying to gasp for breath, but finding none.
“Request granted,” a woman said and turned toward the others, beginning to speak in low whispers.
“What are you doing?” Loren demanded, storming toward the table. “He just murdered a member of the council in cold blood. You all saw it!” Loren wheeled toward Ricard and the two siblings faced each other, Lucinda lurking in the background. “This throne cannot be stolen, Ricard— it must be earned.”
“Earned? You speak to me of earning? You abandoned this coven for decades, sister. Tell me, what have you done to earn anything?”
“Well— I mean— she didn’t kill a council member in cold blood. That must count for something, right?”
Ricard spun toward me, fiery rage burning in his eyes.
“I will remove your head like you removed my sister’s hand you cur!”
“Cur? Do people actually still use that word? What does that mean, anyway?”
Ricard took a step toward me, power radiating from him, and I thought for a moment he might cut me down where I stood.
“The council has come to a decision!” the voice echoed from behind Ricard, freezing him in place. He turned slowly, craning his neck around to look back in the direction of the stone table.
“What is— the decision?” Ricard tried to soften his voice but did a shitty job at it.
“The majority has voted— and we vote— that Loren Montague is the rightful heir to coven leadership. Legacy and tradition demand it.”
I almost couldn’t believe my ears and by the look of Ricard’s rigid posture, he felt the same.
“What?” There was venom in his question.
“It has been decided!”
Ricard stood erect, fists closed, dark energy leaking from between his tight fingers. For the first time I noticed that steam rose from the water at his back, the dark pool bubbling softly with heat. There was no truth to the myth of witches huddled over a boiling cauldron, but that dark pool of water was certainly starting to prove otherwise.
Steam twisted from the water in thick, coiled tendrils, the persistent bubbling seeming to match Ricard’s own intensity.
“You don’t know what you’ve done,” he said, shaking his head.
“We know what we’ve done,” one of the witches replied. “We’ve done the right thing for the first time in a very long time.”
“You have— betrayed me. Even more— you have betrayed Dornac.”
There was a hissing churn as the water continued its roiling bubble and suddenly, I had a very bad feeling about how this was going to go.
“D— Dornac?” the woman stared back at Ricard. “You made your bargain with Dornac, not us.”
“That’s what you don’t understand,” Ricard said quietly, his head shaking. “My bargain— it was not my bargain alone.”
The water behind him seemed to reach a sort of wild crescendo, broiling and frothing, the air filling with steam, the interior of the chamber thick with fog.
“I promised Dornac one thing and one thing only— I promised him this coven.”
Eyes went wide as the five remaining witches looked at each other in shock.
“That is why you wanted leadership?” Loren turned on her brother. “So you could sacrifice its power to a shadow demon?”
“I get my power— and I remove yours. Two birds. One stone.”
“Are you really that petty, brother? Is that really what this has come to? Jealousy?”
“That might have been where it started— but it’s far more than that now, Loren. Now, it’s about assuming my rightful place. It’s about not just waiting to be given what’s rightfully mine. It’s about taking it.”
“And you think the other covens will sit idly by as you wrest leadership from this one? You actually believe they will honor your place? Bow to your whims?”
“If they do, all the better. If they don’t— then they suffer the same fate as you.”
Behind Ricard, the pool erupted, a sudden, upward shower of steaming water, blasting forth like a geyser. Within the curtain of spray, a figure leaped, dark and slender, arching over Ricard’s head, moving with the heavy, awkward grace of a large ape.
The figure landed on the stone table, several feet away, striking it with such impact that the full weight of his landing shattered the rock holding the table together. It splintered and collapsed, sending the five witches tumbling away from where the figure struck.
It crouched at the far wall, hooved feet buried within the pile of shorn rock. The demon was nearly eight feet tall, a twisting membrane of red flapping out behind him, a cloak of sorts, but more organic, like a single bat’s wing. His flesh was a mottled crimson mixed with black, the shade of clotted blood, welts covering his flesh. Darkness seemed to twist all through him, a curtain of moving insects crawling about his skin, making it difficult to isolate him from the shadowed backdrop of the room.
Turning slowly, he actually peered in my direction, shimmering green eyes against his darkened face, a halo of jagged bone encircling his head.
“Dornac, I presume?” I didn’t actually need him to give me an answer— it was— kinda obvious.
The demon drew itself upright, turning to look at Ricard, its thick, leathery cape sweeping around the back of its hoofed feet.
“You made a promise,” he growled and extended a long, clawed finger in Ricard’s direction. As I watched, I saw a few more dark figures peel themselves from the water. They bore some passing resemblance to Dornac with their mottled, black skin and scab littered flesh. Eyes burned like embers in their slate black heads, small prongs of thick bone pressed through narrow strands of hair. They stood four or five feet tall, hooved feet tapping along the stone floor, tendrils of shadow magic snaked from them. Dornac’s minor demons took up position, drawing darkened weapons from their own sheaths until they all held blades and spears.
“My— my promise still stands.” For the first time, I detected a hint of fear in Ricard’s voice. “They represent this coven. Take them, and you take the coven. This is my offering to you!”
Dornac peered at the witches, drawn back from the broken table, huddled near the far wall. At first blush, they appeared like frightened old women, but as I looked more closely, I could see nothing could be further from the truth. They were members of the Darkheart council— they were powerful witches in their own right. And they had no intention of letting the coven go without a fight.
“I can smell their fear,” Dornac said and kicked at half of the stone table, knocking it aside, clearing a path toward the five women. “I will taste it as well.”
Then, a sudden whip snap of fire arched forward, extending from Loren’s outstretched hand. It lashed angrily across Dornac’s back, drawing smoke and seared flesh. The demon hissed and recoiled, turning to face his attacker.
“Then I suppose,” the beast snarled, “we shall start with you.” Then, all at once, chaos reigned.