Feathers, Tails & Broomsticks

by Dionnara Dawson

  Net gave a nervous smile. ‘Good morning, brother.’

  Ramiel’s smile was dark, but gracious. He bowed slightly to Net for the kind greeting. ‘Yes, brother. I believe it is.’ He projected his voice down the table to the twenty angels sitting patiently. ‘Brothers and sisters, this morning we gather here because I have a message for you from our Father.’ At that, a tide of whispers and mutterings drowned out the room.

  Mal whispered harshly into Net’s ear, ‘A message directly from Father? When has that ever happened?’

  Net did not know. In his memory, never. Whispers of the same incredulity flowed about the room.

  Ramiel smiled at their shock, waiting for them to settle. ‘Brothers and sisters, please.’ They quietened as he continued. ‘As I said, I have a message from Father. As you know, Father sees and knows all. And he has been watching as those evil Cambions, for the first time in generations, collect friends and allies. This is not to be. Cambions are evil, obviously, and must be put down.’

  The roar of assent in the room drove daggers of fear and pity into Net’s heart, but he kept his face impassive. He cast a glance among the crowd, wondering if any of his kin felt the same as he. Judging by the anger and disgust twisting their faces, he thought not. A twist of guilt curled his chest. Perhaps he was born unlike his kin, and these sympathies for the devils were wrong, but he could not change them now.

  Besides, if he were to be found out, he would meet the same fate as those poor witches, burned alive.

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Nerretti

  With his hands stuffed into the loose pockets of his uniformed white pants, Nerretti bent his head against the light rain sprinkling over Mill Valley as he walked, just after the sun had set. He arrived at the Witches’ Wares bookstore, jingling the bell as he entered. He was aware that his blond hair would be stuck to his pale skin. He glanced down at himself, wondering if his clothes had become transparent. He hoped not. The meeting this morning had hardened his resolve. He was doing the right thing, he told himself.

  The old witch entered through the side room, a cup of tea on a saucer in her hand. She looked more rested than last he’d seen her, and it took Net a moment to realise he was glad the witch might be feeling better. His choices, and his feelings, warred within him. He shouldn’t care about any witches, or Cambions, but he couldn’t help it. They seemed just like humans, who he was supposed to protect. The evil nature that his brethren saw, he did not.

  He smiled sheepishly down at the witch, who was significantly shorter than himself. ‘How are you Remy?’ he asked, then inwardly chided himself. What a stupid thing to say, so friendly. He shouldn’t be emotionally involved. He shouldn’t be involved at all.

  Remy returned the smile, though even Net could tell that hers was softer, genuine. ‘I am well, Net. Or, as well as can be. I’m afraid I miss my coven more than I thought I would—That sounds terrible,’ she blurted out. ‘But, I just mean… I miss them, and this was all very unexpected.’

  Net shoved his hands back into his pockets. An old habit. He couldn’t look at the witch. From somewhere deep inside him, he felt something like shame even though he hadn’t directly had a hand in her loss. From what he understood, witch covens were like their families, and he had let hers be mercilessly murdered by his own family. He looked along the shelves instead. He’d never taken much notice of the store’s contents, but his eyes landed on an ancient leather-bound book, protectively tied up with string. And it was spelled.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked, nodding at the book.

  Remy didn’t turn. She seemed to know which book he meant. ‘That’s our plan, Net. That’s the spell my coven was working on. That’s what got them killed. If I’m not to specifically blame the angels, of course,’ she added with venom in her voice. Net tried not to feel the sting of her words, but it didn’t work. She turned and picked up the book, which flashed a blue glow at her touch, then she unbound the string, and possibly even the spell, because it opened with a thud on the glass countertop. She pushed it toward Net to look at, who bent over the counter curiously.

  The text was old, not as old as angel-works, perhaps, but old indeed. He was surprised to find that, in fact, he could not decipher the words at all, if indeed that’s what the old ink marks were. Net squinted at the yellowed pages, as if partially closing his eyes would make everything make sense.

  Remy chuckled. ‘You can’t read it, can you, angel?’

  Nerretti didn’t mind the generalised term. At least, not as much as he knew the humans and Cambions minded it. Instead, he smiled. ‘No, witch, I can’t. Is this text, or a spell you’ve done?’

  Remy puffed out her chest like an Australian cockatoo. ‘Both,’ she said, raising herself to her fullest height. Which made the top of her head reach roughly Net’s stomach.

  He nodded. ‘I’m impressed. I’ve done my fair share of reading over the centuries, and I’ve never seen this before. What language is it?’

  Remy’s blue eyes narrowed. ‘Oh, now I couldn’t tell you that.’ She waved a hand at him, as if he’d asked to know her deepest and darkest secrets. ‘All you need to know is what I need from you.’ She ran a short, stubby finger down the length of the page to a section which seemed to be numbered instructions. ‘My coven had been working on this for months, so step one is complete. We have most of the potion we need.’

  ‘We’re making a potion?’ Net asked curiously. Their alliance had been agreed upon, but the details he knew were fuzzy at best. The old witch had said the less he knew, the better. Just in case. But now, he needed to know.

  ‘Don’t interrupt,’ the old witch snapped, as though Net couldn’t blast her into oblivion if he chose. ‘But yes, we are,’ she added, more politely. ‘Now, in order to bring our world to justice, we have to complete all four steps of this spell. I still need Meele to return for her Scire blood, but Hella’s helped with that. She found her, thankfully. I’m sure Meele is on her way here. Then, step three is where you come in—I got the feather from Harrow, thank you for that. And, of course, step four.’

  Nerretti’s heart twisted in his chest. For centuries he had witnessed the horror his kin called ‘purpose’ and ‘justice’ upon the witches and Cambions of this Earth, perhaps even with their Father’s blessing, though if not, He certainly didn’t intervene. If Net had somehow been born with a touch of humanity, he didn’t know how, only that he couldn’t let this abuse and terrorism continue.

  ‘What are my steps?’ he asked, swallowing the rising feeling that he was betraying his own family.

  Remy’s mouth twisted. ‘I don’t know if you’re up for this.’

  ‘I have to help, and you have a plan. I don’t know what else to do. My brethren are powerful. I could hardly take down even one or two of my kin alone, let alone correct these injustices altogether. If you have a way, I will help you,’ he promised, conflicted perhaps, but resolved.

  The old witch nodded. ‘Step three is complete, so that’s good. I have to grind it up into a fine powder and add it to the potion.’

  Net nodded. ‘What’s step four?’

  ‘Oh, step four is a bit more complicated.’ The old witch explained the rest of the plan for the potion. Net felt as if she had conjured away his heart and his stomach at the same time, as if they had been torn away the way his kin ripped the Marks off of warlocks and faeries. Tears filled his eyes.

  ‘Are you sure? I must?’ he asked, his voice breaking.

  ‘I didn’t know angels could cry,’ Remy said, her voice sympathetic. ‘And yes, I’m sure. Otherwise it will not work, and we’ll all be killed.’

  A tear slid down Net’s cheek, mingling with the dampness on his face from the rain. He looked down at the witch, and the old book. ‘That’s quite a price.’

  ‘My coven have already paid your price, along with countless others. You painted that message in blood, angel. It’s time you do something to help, instead of slaughtering us.’ Her voice was
low and serious. He knew she did not mean he had written the message himself, but he felt personally responsible nonetheless. Net’s lower lip trembled for a moment. And then he nodded.

  ‘Okay. I’ll do it. I’ll kill my brother.’

  Chapter Seventy

  Hella

  Hella tightly gripped the shard of broken glass she had retrieved from the shower. The edges stung her bare hand, her wraps abandoned on the bed, spotted red with blood.

  There was a voice outside her door, sharp and panicked, as someone else approached. ‘I think she’s hurt. She slid this out. There’s blood.’ One person must have shown the other the shard she had tossed through the slit at the bottom of the metal door.

  The second voice made a disgruntled sound, then said, ‘Very well, open it up.’

  The soft metallic sound of a key turning in a lock made Hella’s heart rise into her throat. The lock’s mechanisms turned, then clicked, and the door opened silently on well-oiled hinges. Hella stood before the door, sharp glass poised in her hand, cloaked in darkness. The open door let in little light, barely illuminating the darkest shadows. She had turned off the lights in her room for a reason.

  ‘Hellora?’ the figure asked quietly. ‘Are you okay?’

  Hella watched as a figure, the moving, darkest shadow in the room, turned to face her. As the man flared up a torch, Hella pounced and heard him yell as she plunged the pointed tip of glass into his arm, just a warning, then held the glass to his throat as the second person froze in the hallway. Hella felt wet blood splatter her hands. ‘Who are you?’ Hella demanded, facing her hostage toward his companion. ‘Why can’t I use my magic?’ She gripped him tighter, angry. The glass kissed his neck. Hella thought less of allowing him to answer, and more of what it would be like to kill him and walk out freely.

  ‘Hellora, my name is Henry.’ Her hostage spoke passively, as if to a child. His companion had a hand on his side, and she realised he was armed with a gun.

  ‘Don’t,’ she warned him. Under her grip, she felt Henry move a fraction, shaking his head. She saw his gun attached to his belt. ‘Nice to meet you Henry,’ she made the glass graze him, to ensure he knew it was not. ‘You’re going to do two things for me. One, you’re going to release my friends you have here. Alexa and James. Two, you’re going to let us all walk out of here, or I’m going to make a Jackson Pollock with the veins in your throat.’

  Somehow, she felt him smile. ‘I am impressed, Hellora. I was told you were weak, that in fact you may die in our care from magical exhaustion. That’s why you can’t use it, by the way. It’s your own fault, not ours. As for your friends, you can find them if you must, but our work with them is done. They won’t recognise you.’ As her anger surged, the glass cut Henry’s throat slight, but he snapped, ‘Dimitri, don’t. Hellora, listen to me. You’ve been in here for three days. I know you’ve had nothing to do but dwell on who had the audacity to put you in here, and us evil bastards who have kept you. But it really was for your own safety, and I would love to discuss this further with you, without the glass at my throat, and I do believe I’m losing a lot of blood from my arm.’ Henry spoke calmly, with just a hint of pleading.

  ‘Will you or your buddy shoot me if I let you go?’ Hella asked, glancing at Dimitri, his hand still frozen on his weapon.

  ‘No, I assure you. Neither of us will harm you, Hella. Please, put the glass down,’ Henry said.

  Hella thought for a moment. ‘You, I believe. Dimitri, I don’t. Dimitri, come here. Convince me you’re not going to put a bullet in me.’

  Dimitri raised his eyebrows, but must’ve received a confirmation from Henry to do so. He took his hand off his weapon and stepped slowly forward, pausing on the threshold of her room when he saw the growing puddle of Henry’s blood.

  ‘Come in, Dimitri,’ Hella ordered.

  He stepped closer still until he was an arm’s length away. ‘I will not shoot you, Miss Hellora,’ he said, surprisingly earnestly.

  Henry raised his arms placatingly, then winced. ‘See, we’re all friends here.’

  Hella started to nod, pretending to be convinced. She let her eyes soften. Slowly, she lowered the glass and felt Henry breathe a sigh of relief. Then she threw the glass away, elbowed Henry in the face and stole his gun. She had never used a gun before, but she aimed and pulled the trigger at Dimitri’s knee and he was on the ground with a yell, blood spurting. She grabbed his gun too and took off at a run down the corridor.

  ‘You’re not my friends,’ she growled. ‘You stole my friends.’ Blood dripping off her hands, splattered up her arms, Hella thought it was her who resembled a Pollock painting.

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Tessa

  They escaped three days ago. Thankfully, most of the angels had been distracted by their fighting pit. The faeries had to fight one angel though, and the three of them had not fared so well. They had all been injured. Meele did not have the strength to portal, so they reasoned they were only an hour or so from Mill Valley. Slowly and painfully, they had made their way home.

  Injured and exhausted, it was slow-going to walk the one hundred and twenty or so kilometres from Camden Haven to the outskirts of Mill Valley. They had walked, stumbled, really, through the night and hadn’t seen another car on the road the whole time.

  Tessa had tried contacting her sister, Hunter, with her telepathy. But, as she was told, she wasn’t even sure she had it yet. It came at varying times to a young faerie. Tessa wondered if her sister was looking for her. She must be, Tessa thought.

  Amara didn’t have the strength to heal the others, but slowly, her own wounds healed. Her powers were regenerating, but without rest, she shouldn’t risk fiery combustion by healing Meele or Tessa. Eventually, they collapsed together on the side of a road and woke up a few hours later, stiff and sore.

  Getting a taxi to Faerie House seemed like an easy thing to do, but in the middle of the night, in the quiet town of Mill Valley, there were none to be caught. As they continued to walk, from the west side of town, they stumbled upon a large, old building. For a moment, Tessa thought it might be a lair of vampires or werewolves. She wrinkled her nose at the thought, but then a commotion caught their attention. There was movement and shouting; orders being barked through phones or radios, and several people dressed in suits—actual people, Tessa realised—swarmed to one side of the building. ‘What is this place?’ she whispered to her companions.

  Meele was barely conscious, but Amara, with her self-healing powers, was more alert. ‘Is this a human compound? Maybe one of their businesses?’ she whispered back.

  At that moment, they all ducked as a man in a suit rushed past through a thicket of bushes. He did not see them. As he passed, he hissed through a walkie talkie, ‘The promised witch is on the loose. Get her back or she could burn the entire place down!’

  Tessa and Amara froze. ‘The promised witch?’ Amara said, aghast. ‘Our witch. Hella.’ Tessa frowned. ‘Why would they have her?’

  Amara shook her head. ‘I have no idea. But—’ She broke off, shaking her head of long silver hair. ‘I don’t know. But she needs our help.’

  Tessa cried out as a splitting pain shot through her head. It felt as if a Mettalum had splintered her skull with barbed wire.

  Amara put a hand on her. ‘What is it? Shush.’

  Tessa shook her head, tears in her eyes. ‘I don’t know, my head.’

  Then Amara smiled. ‘Oh, Tessa. Shh, concentrate. Your telepathy is being activated.’ The Sana wrapped her arms around the Anima Mea, who cried.

  ‘Wait, I can hear something.’

  I have to find Tessa, the Captor’s Point has to be somewhere. It’s been days, too long. My little sister, please by okay.

  ‘HUNTER!’ Tessa screamed into the night.

  Amara jumped back, startled. ‘You can hear your sister?’ She looked around. ‘Where is she?’

  They let Meele stay on the ground, barely conscious, and Amara and
Tessa stood and searched the area. Tessa followed the sound of her sister’s voice and then turned and knocked right into her sister’s girlfriend, Lola, who squealed and hugged her tightly. Hunter, next to her, burst into tears, wrapping her arms around her little sister.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Hunter hissed. She glanced at the building. ‘Do you know what this is?’

  ‘We escaped. We just wandered past it. What are you doing here?’ Tessa asked.

  ‘We came here to ask for their help. They keep data on our world, right? We thought they might know where the Captor’s Point was, oh, Tessa, are you okay?’ Hunter bent down and hugged her again. Lola joined in. Amara smiled, and went to retrieve Meele.

  ‘I’m okay. They didn’t take my Marks.’ She shimmered, and her indigo wings glimmered dully in the waning moonlight. ‘Oh, thank the stars. I thought I heard you, in my head.’ Hunter frowned.

  ‘You did. Just now, my telepathy—’

  Amara reappeared with a now-awake Meele. ‘You guys, look. I think the witch needs our help.’ Amara said, watching a red-purple fire burst through a high window.

  Meele frowned. ‘Our Cambion Den, in Mill Valley—something’s wrong.’ The Scire’s face changed, her eyes glowing gold. She was seeing something the others could not.

  ‘We have to help her.’ Amara looked up at the chaos of the building set ablaze. ‘She’s our ally, and our only hope of defeating the angels.’

  Meele was unreachable in her trance.

  ‘Tessa, you can stay in communication with us now,’ Amara said. ‘Stay with Meele. We’ll go help the witch,’ she instructed, leading the way. Hunter reluctantly followed, giving her another squeeze, and Lola joined her.

  Tessa huddled up to Meele by the bushes, out of sight. She closed her eyes, concentrating on hearing Hunter. She could hear Amara now, too. Tessa kept tabs on them as they followed the smoke and fire wafting from the top west side of the building complex.