Witches of Ash and Ruin

by E. Latimer

  There was a beat of silence after that, and then Meiner released her and turned for the door. “We should make sure Gran is ready for supper.”

  Cora stayed frozen to the spot. Her face was burning, and her limbs felt strangely heavy. It was hard to swallow, her throat was so tight. A personal low point…

  Meiner turned back to her, brows raised.

  “You do it.” Cora forced herself to speak, and her voice wobbled slightly. She hated herself for it. “She’s your gran.”

  This wasn’t strictly fair, since Grandma King had raised her after her useless aunt had kicked her out at thirteen. Still, it wasn’t Cora that Gran was giving the coven to.

  Meiner was still staring at her, solemn-faced, and Cora kept her expression blank. A fire had started in the pit of her stomach, and she wanted to scream.

  Fuck you, Meiner King.

  She looked away first, hating herself for it.

  Meiner turned without saying anything and disappeared from the room.

  In the kitchen, Yemi was chopping vegetables, and Reagan was tossing handfuls of carrots into a brass cauldron above the fireplace. Cora saw Meiner eye this setup with interest, and something about it raised her hackles. What if Meiner decided instead of combining the two covens, she’d just join the Carman coven herself? They wouldn’t let her, would they? If you were an unattached witch it was almost impossible to find a coven. You had to be related, or old family friends, like her mother and Grandma King had been. Someone had to vouch for you. And there was certainly no jumping from one coven to another, as there was little if any contact between them. But Meiner had already met the others, so they might skip the vetting process. The thought made Cora’s stomach twist.

  Bad judgment. A mistake.

  Meiner had made it clear she didn’t belong with Cora. That, in spite of growing up together, in spite of being together in the way they had, she felt no loyalty.

  Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, nails biting into her palms. Cora forced her expression into blankness.

  Reagan flicked on the radio above the microwave. The news was saying something about crops dying, whole apple orchards and fields of strawberries. Meiner and Cora exchanged a glance, and Meiner’s pale brows lifted.

  More omens.

  The dry shuffling of nylon compression socks on the tiles signaled Grandma King’s entrance from the living room. She paused in the doorway and huffed a long sigh.

  “Dinner will be ready in fifteen,” Reagan said, then paused as her phone pinged, frowning down at the screen.

  “Good.” Grandma King turned to Cora. “Help me up to my room, witchling. I forgot to change out of these damn socks, and they’re squeezing the life out of me feet.”

  Cora wanted to protest, but she was careful to keep her face straight while she waited for Grandma King to shuffle over. She put her elbow out, and Gran hooked one skinny arm into hers.

  Resentment crashed through her, making her uncharacteristically silent as they made their way up. Why couldn’t Meiner help her own grandmother up the steps?

  Because, a nasty little voice in her head chimed in, Meiner is the next High Witch and above things like this.

  She helped the old woman up yet another step, slowly, so slowly.

  Grandma King seemed to run out of steam halfway. She stopped in the middle of the staircase, and Cora turned, sighing. She froze.

  They were eye to eye, and something in the old woman’s face had changed. There was an air of razor sharpness about her. The way her dark eyes glittered. The smile that curved her mouth.

  “Gran—Mrs. King?”

  Grandma King said nothing for a moment, just squeezed Cora’s arm more tightly. “I have a proposition.”

  Cora blinked. She didn’t seem to be able to get her tongue to work.

  “My granddaughter is not prepared for what’s coming.” Grandma King’s expression was stony, and Cora repressed a shudder. Here was the woman people talked about, the King Witch.

  “I’ve tried to raise her to be ready to take on the mantle of leadership when the time came. When this time came. But it’s grown clear she isn’t strong enough. She lets emotion guide her. She is weak.” The old woman spat this last sentence, and Cora forced herself not to flinch. She didn’t like Meiner, exactly, but it was disturbing to hear her grandmother talk like this.

  Still, what she was saying…?

  Fire flared to life in the pit of her stomach. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m saying you’ll have to do, lass,” Grandma King snapped. “You’re vindictive and cunning and if you’re trained properly, you’ll be ready when the time comes. Meiner will never. That’s why I stopped her training and she hasn’t ascended.”

  “I knew it!” She should feel angry. Gran had been putting them off for ages. It would have been easy to chalk it up to her dementia, but Cora had had a sneaking suspicion she knew exactly what she was doing. She’d been right.

  Her throat was tight with longing. All she’d ever wanted was this moment, though she’d imagined it with her mother. Even at thirteen, before her mother had become sick and handed over the mantle to Grandma King, she’d imagined what it would feel like. To have her mother hand over the title, the power that would fill her, the thrill of realizing she was in charge.

  Still, she would take this, whatever the hell it was.

  “If you train with me, it won’t be easy. Not by half.” Grandma King held a crooked finger up. “It will break you and put you back together. You’ll go through a series of tests the likes of which you cannot dream.”

  It felt like the air had been stolen from her lungs. This was it, what she’d been waiting for. What she’d dreamed of for so long.

  And yet, she knew it was a betrayal.

  But Meiner’s voice still rang in her ears.

  A personal low point…

  “I’ll do it.”

  “You’re sure?” Grandma King gave her a sharp look. “No hesitation?”

  “I want this.” She could hear the eagerness in her voice, and she wasn’t ashamed. She wanted what she wanted. “I’ll do anything.”

  “Anything.” Grandma King’s voice was flat, but her bright eyes combed over Cora’s face, and she pulled the collar of her sweater a little closer around the left side of her throat. “You’ll have to be fair certain of that. The kind of magic you’ll need for what’s coming isn’t like anything you’ve experienced.”

  “I don’t care.” She was defiant now, stretched to her full height. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

  “Good.” Gran fished in the wide pockets of her sweater, coming out with a thin glass tube. Cora watched as the old woman held it out, the dark rust-red liquid inside washing back and forth. “Take it.”

  Her hand shook slightly as she did so. The glass was cool beneath her fingers. “What is it?”

  Gran ignored the question. “Drink it when you are alone, but only if you want this. There’s no going back.”

  Cora nodded and thrust the tube into her pocket, throat tight.

  “And, Cora, a word to the wise…I see how you prod at my granddaughter.”

  Cora opened her mouth to protest and then cut herself off when Grandma King raised a hand. “Don’t underestimate Meiner’s temper. She’s not herself. Hasn’t been for months.” Grandma King turned away. Abruptly she was an old woman again, making her shuffling way down the stairs, gripping the railing. “Get me downstairs, lass. We’re missing all the action.”

  Cora did as she was told, silent, triumphant. By the time they reached the bottom she’d composed herself, her face a mask of calm. But that fire had flared to life. It burned hot and strong in the pit of her stomach, and nothing could put it out.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  SAMUEL

  The basement was where he stored the charts.

  At fourteen he’d begged his father to turn the drab, concrete square into a rec room. Over the years he’d scored a pair of overstuffed armchairs and a matching couch, as wel
l as a huge old TV at various yard sales, and built a couple of shelves against the wall that he’d filled with paperback novels.

  The focal point of the room was the bedsheet pinned to the wall, a print of a classic Star Wars poster. Sam had first hung it claiming he wanted to cover the cracks in the concrete.

  Only he and Dayna knew what was actually behind it.

  Dayna. He’d practically jumped out of his seat in the middle of the church service when she’d texted this morning. She wanted to talk, and considering that the town was buzzing with gossip and speculation, he had a pretty good idea why. Sure, that wasn’t exactly why he’d been hoping she’d text, but he was picturing them poring over this thing, spending long evenings together, just the two of them.

  Maybe she’d remember how good they were together. Maybe he could remind her.

  He took the stairs two at a time, not bothering to lock the basement door behind him. Locked doors would be questioned, and besides, the stairs were so creaky it would give him ample warning if anyone were to make their way down.

  Sam drew the sheet back slowly.

  He kept the charts well hidden, since he knew what reaction they’d get. His father would flip out, and his mother would pray over him.

  The sheer breadth of his obsession wasn’t lost on him.

  His “murder board,” as he called it, had once held other unsolved cases, but the moment he’d realized the Butcher’s pattern, he’d been hooked. It was a puzzle that needed solving.

  The top portion of the charts was all timeline, stretching out from one side of the wall to the other.

  1990—First kill?

  First Use of Symbol: 2000, 6 in Manchester

  2010, 5 on Isle of Man: Injured or killed?

  Darting another look at the stairs, he unlocked his phone and checked in on the forums again. His post had only received a few hits from diehard Butcher fans and amateur investigators who hadn’t been able to let the case go.

  He hadn’t included much information, not wanting it to be traced back to him. Just that there was a murder and a rumor around town the Butcher’s mark had been found at the scene.

  He scrolled through the posts.

  CrimeBuff69: If he resurfaces every ten years, then the timing is right.

  TheCrunchyPuff: Bro, this would be in the news if this was true.

  BananaSplit25: If OP is right, then this is a major cover-up.

  JStofferton: Why choose in the middle of buttfuck nowhere to find new victims? Doesn’t make sense.

  CrimeBuff69: Unfinished business?

  The last poster had shared a link to the same video Sam had seen floating around the internet over and over, with the title “The One That Got Away?” It was leaked security footage from years ago, of the barn where the last victim had been attacked. Sam had already seen it dozens of times, but he clicked on it anyway.

  The main focus was the stalls—the owner had apparently installed the camera because of a neighbor’s dog— but in the left-hand corner you could make out the broad red wall of the barn just beyond. There was a flash of movement as someone came running into view, a blur of gray and black. A taller figure pursued the first, and when the first one turned, long gray hair flying out behind her, the taller one lashed out, something in his fist glittering in the sunlight.

  The first figure went down, out of sight of the camera lens, and a moment later the second walked casually out of view after her.

  The first time he’d seen it he’d been chilled to his core, but now it just frustrated him. Who was the woman, and how did she get away after that? According to popular theory, the killer had slashed her with some kind of blade. It should have been a killing blow, but the gardai hadn’t found her at the scene, and the killer never buried bodies or hid them—he left them out to be found—so it stood to reason she’d escaped. That she was alive and out there somewhere.

  He replayed it again, watching as the figure turned, gray hair flying. The judge, she’d had long gray hair…hadn’t she?

  Sam chewed the inside of his cheek, hitting the replay button. The one that got away.

  Was the last poster right? Was it possible the killer was picking up where he’d left off by going after Judge O’Toole? But why wait so long?

  A faint chime came from somewhere overhead, and Sam hastily shoved his phone into his pocket, reaching up to pin the sheet back into place. He could hear his mother’s footsteps as she went to get the door, and her muffled greeting. His pulse picked up when the basement door clicked open, and Dayna’s voice floated down the staircase. “Sam?”

  “Come on down.” He kept the sheet in place, just in case his mother wandered down with her.

  Dayna appeared around the corner. The sight of her was almost enough to knock him back a step. All the longing and guilt seemed to crash together in his stomach at once. It made him feel a little nauseous, actually. This was the first time in three months he’d seen her outside school.

  He gave her what he hoped was an easy grin. “Ma let you in without giving you the third degree?”

  Dayna shrugged, letting her bag drop to the ground beside one of the armchairs. “She didn’t beg me to get back together with you, if that’s what you mean.”

  He winced. His mother made no secret of the fact she thought he and Dayna should cut out “all their nonsense” and get back together. He was pretty sure she was already planning the wedding. Not because she loved Dayna, but because his mother was a devout disciple of the reverend.

  As if his being with Dayna would get his mother bonus points with God or something.

  He had to bite his tongue now, because he agreed with his mother about one thing—he and Dayna should be together. The gossip and rumors had been bad, yes. Everyone wanted to talk about the reverend’s daughter “coming out” as gay. Or bisexual, as Dayna insisted.

  Of course people had talked; it was a small town.

  Though not even the town gossips seemed to know what had happened between Dayna and her father. He knew it was something that had turned the relationship from tense to completely sour. That she’d pulled away from anything to do with the church. Including Sam.

  Once again, he tried to push the guilt down. It hadn’t been his fault. He hadn’t been the one to tell people at school. Besides, people were already moving on. With the attack of crazed birds and a murder on top of it, no one would even remember there’d been rumors.

  “Yeah,” he muttered, “sorry about her. Uh, how’s Reagan? She still want to be an astronaut or whatever?”

  “Astrophysicist.”

  Reagan Etomi and Sam had never got along; in fact, the first time he’d met Dayna’s friend she’d called him a “total douchelord” right to his face. Whatever that meant. He couldn’t remember what had provoked the insult. Something about his faith, no doubt. Or maybe his Bible study.

  Reagan was aggressively atheist, a trait he’d found off-putting.

  “She’s fine. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to hear you asked. How’s Morgan?” She pressed her lips together, and Sam thought she was probably trying to hold a grin back. “How’s her face?”

  Sam gave her a weak smile. “She’s fine.”

  Dayna had caught Morgan flipping through one of her notebooks during a free period. It hadn’t been more than a few days after the resulting blowup that the rumors had begun circulating. Dayna had made it obvious she thought Morgan was responsible.

  “Um, how are you?” He frowned, looking at her a little more closely. She looked…stressed. “Are you okay?”

  Dayna sighed. “Well, I’m sure you’ll hear about it soon enough anyway. Dad brought Fiona home.”

  “Whoa, really? What happened at camp?” He regretted it as soon as the question came out of his mouth.

  Dayna flinched as if he’d struck her and then tried to hide her discomfort a moment later, wiping her face clear of emotion. “Apparently she’s cured. Anyway, part of the reason I texted you is because I need to be distracted. Honestly, I don’t want
to think about it right now. It’s too weird.”

  Sam bit the inside of his cheek, fighting back all the questions he wanted to ask. Dayna reacted badly whenever anyone brought up the camp, or her mother, or her father, or the Bible study…anything to do with church, actually.

  Sometimes a conversation with her felt like tiptoeing on a thin sheet of ice.

  She’d already turned her attention to the wall, sinking down on the couch to stare up at it. “So, tell me…what’s going on? I’m hearing it could be the Butcher.”

  “You are?” Sam frowned. As far as he knew, his father had his men keeping it quiet.

  “Well, I may have a special source.” Dayna tilted her head and raised her brows.

  “Ah, gotcha.” Of course, the reverend knew everything that went on in this town. Though…it was a little surprising he was sharing secrets with Dayna. He’d been under the impression they rarely spoke. “Yeah, all right. I’m pretty sure it’s the Butcher.”

  “I figured. I guess your dad investigated the scene. I’m guessing he won’t tell you anything?”

  “No, but look at this.” He propped his laptop on the edge of the couch and sat down beside her, very conscious of how close she was, her knee brushing his as she leaned forward to look at the screen.

  “I’m the original poster.” He darted a look at her as he pulled up his profile, AnonAmen. “I don’t have an avatar or profile info, just in case.” He gave her a serious look. “You can’t tell anyone. My dad would kill me.”

  “Got it.” Dayna leaned forward, peering at the screen. He could smell her perfume, vanilla and cinnamon. Her hair fell over one shoulder, and he wondered how soft it would feel right now, tried not to remember the sensation of running his fingers through it.

  Dayna read the post under her breath. “Gardai released statement, no foul play. Sergeant determined to keep things under wraps.” Her brows shot up, and she looked over at Sam, who felt his face burning.