Witch Hunt: A Pitchfork County Novella

by Sam Witt

  Al knew what he had to do, but he couldn’t summon the strength to do it. He closed his eyes and sank back into his snowy tomb to sleep. Later. He’d deal with all of this later.

  The warmth came back at him as soon as his eyes closed. It annoyed him with its insistence. He wanted to lie on the ground and wait for the cold to suck the last of his life away. He’d failed to rescue Rae, and now it was easier to just let go.

  The lapping was back, this time accompanied by growls and sharp nips at the tips of his ears. “Goddammit,” Al growled, and his rage gave him the strength to sit up and shake the snow off.

  A young member of the pack, gangly and brindled, licked Al’s face again then lowered its head to its paws and barked at him. C’mon, it seemed to say, stop being a pussy and get up.

  Al glowered at the dog. He’d been not far from the grave, he knew that, and sliding into the final darkness seemed like the easier option. But he couldn’t give up and let that freak carve out Rae’s midnight bezoar. If there was even a chance she was still alive, he had to find her.

  The world swam and dipped around him at an alarming angle as he forced himself onto his feet. He stumbled and caught his balance then fell back to his knees. He puked until he felt empty, like his guts had inverted themselves into the snow, then fell back on his ass. He stared up at the starry sky and drank in the clean, cold air.

  Al felt better, clearer, as if he’d puked up not just his last meal, but the poison in his system. That left the bolt itself to deal with. The pain from the shaft stuck through his shoulder was incapacitating. He had to get it out.

  Al held his head in his hands and braced himself for the painful change he knew was coming. Let’s go, he whispered to himself, just get it out.

  But his body didn’t want to change. He was tapped out, the last of his reserves of energy barely enough to maintain his bestial form to keep him from freezing to death.

  The hound whined and nudged Al’s chest with its forehead. He’d nodded off. The cold was eating him, bit by bit. If he didn’t get the bolt out of his shoulder soon, he was good as dead.

  Al rubbed the dog’s head and tried to clear his mind. He had to do this. He closed his eyes and imagined his shoulder shifting, the flesh parting around the bolt so it could drop free.

  He concentrated on his shoulder, and the pain loomed large in his mind. It was an enormous weight burrowing into the soft meat of his brain, threatening to crush all of his thoughts beneath its pitiless bulk. But Al found a way around the pain, out to the edges where the skin was still clean and unbroken. That was where he did his work.

  The cold soaked into him, finding its way through the unspooling of his flesh. When he looked down at what he’d done to himself, it took all of his concentration and willpower not to keel over into the snow.

  His flesh and bone opened like a flower, revealing a cross-section of his shoulder down to the bolt itself. The gap in his flesh yawned open wider still, and the bolt fell from its slot and into the snow at his feet.

  But Al didn’t notice the fallen bolt. All he could see was the rich, meaty interior of his own body. Stark white cross-sections of bone gleamed from within nests of muscle fibers. Blood vessels stretched across the opening like bridges spun from red webs. The wind blew through the gap in his body, clearing the oozing blood to reveal something else down deep, nested atop the fluttering lobe of his lung.

  A network of black fibers wriggled through his flesh, burying itself away from his sight. The godsblood, Al thought to himself, it never really went away.

  That was a worry for another time. Al had more than enough on his plate and not much time or energy left to deal with it. He willed his flesh to close, and it obeyed him, knitting itself back together with a buzzing itch, leaving no trace of the injury.

  But that trick had burned away the last of his strength. He needed meat, and he needed it now.

  The runt of the pack approached him, head lowered, lips peeled back in a submissive grimace. The smell of it, hot and alive, made Al’s stomach rumble. It was right that the leader of the pack should survive, even if that meant another of its members must fall.

  The runt stopped its advance and backed away. It let out a short, sharp yip then danced back a few more steps.

  Al growled at it. “Come here,” he snarled.

  The runt shook itself and its hackles raised. It yipped again.

  Al staggered to his feet. He didn’t have the time or energy to be chasing the runt. He needed it to submit. He needed its meat. Al took a step, then another toward the brindled pup.

  It danced away again. Al kept following, his brain fuzzy with the need to feed. He followed the dog until it stopped and nudged its nose at something in the snow. It chuffed out a sharp breath, and the snow parted to reveal its prize.

  A dead rabbit, still warm.

  The Beast shoved Al’s mind aside and fell on the meat, shredding it with powerful jaws. Within moments, there was nothing left but the slick, discarded skin on the snow.

  The dog yipped at Al again, annoyed that he hadn’t shared.

  Al sighed and got to his feet. He wasn’t at full strength yet, but the rabbit would do for now. He reached for the dog, which danced away and let loose a warning growl.

  Shame slapped Al. He’d almost eaten a member of his own pack. He felt disgusted with himself. “Sorry, little guy.” He wiped the blood from his lips with the back of his clawed hand. “I owe you one.”

  The dog grunted and nudged the rabbit skin with its nose. Then it rejoined Al and rubbed its head against his shin. All was forgiven.

  Al returned to the spot of the ambush with the dog following behind him. He knelt in the snow and retrieved the wickedly barbed bolt. He clenched it in his fist, his own blood sticky on the shaft. “I’m coming,” he whispered into the wind. “I’m going to hunt you down and end you.”

  But as he stood and began searching for Rae’s scent again, Al couldn’t help but wonder whether he was truly the hunter here.

  10

  Al knew the valley had no outlet; it meandered a few more miles to the south then dropped into a box canyon. The witch finder was clever, but unless he had grown wings he wasn't going to escape from Al this time.

  Al flung the barbed crossbow bolt into the snow. He was going to do this with his bare hands. He might not even use his claws. He’d pound the witch finder's head into a pulp with his fists. Al snarled as he ran, and the runty dog ran alongside him with its teeth bared to the winter’s wind.

  The pair chugged through the snow, kicking up plumes of white powder in their wake. The snow had stopped for the moment, and the sky overhead was strewn with glittering stars to light Al’s path. For a moment, he was at peace. He was running with his pack, or at least part of it, the way it was meant to be.

  There was no trace of Rae's blood in the air. Whether she was no longer bleeding a trail for Al to follow or the witch finder was taking greater pains to hide his tracks, Al couldn’t tell, and it didn’t matter. The travois’ tracks were plain to see in the snow, and Al wasn't going to stop following them until he found the old man.

  The valley narrowed, and its downward incline sharpened. The black walls of the box canyon began to rise on either side, and Al could see the far end up ahead. The witch finder's trail hadn't varied or turned. The deep trough of the travois's passing continued in a straight line, so deep the falling snow wasn’t able to cover it.

  Al expected to find the old man and Rae waiting for him at the end of the trail. He imagined them trapped between the walls of the canyon and his outstretched claws. He braced himself for the fight to come and felt his adrenaline rising as he neared the cliff face.

  But as the snow stopped falling and a crescent moon rose high overhead to shed its pale silver light over the valley below, Al saw nothing at the end of the trail. His keen eyes followed it as it unspooled before him and ran straight into the wall of stone at the end of the canyon.

  Al slowed and stepped away from the witch fin
der’s straight path. His senses were keenly attuned to his environment; he didn't want to get ambushed again. He approached the cliff, stiff legged, with his claws stretched wide and his nose to the wind. The runty little dog slunk along beside him with its nose snuffling at the snow. Al hoped that between the two of them their senses would be keen enough to avoid another embarrassing trap.

  As he drew near to the canyons walls, Al realized the error he had made. The path didn't end, it curved upward. He followed along as it rose up an incline of naked rock into a well-hidden cave entrance. Al stopped at the cavern’s mouth and breathed deeply of the dry wind sighing from its depths. He didn't smell the witch finder, nor did he expect to, but he did catch a whiff of melting tallow. Al had wondered what the witch finder thought he was doing, where he thought he was going. Now he had his answer: the old bastard had run to ground. This was his bolt hole, the place he’d prepared for the ritual to come. Time was short.

  The cave's mouth was wide enough for two men to walk side by side without touching, but the roof was low and the footing uncertain. The stone was cracked and strewn with pebbles, which slowed Al, as he had to move very carefully to avoid making noise.

  The cave burrowed into the wall of the canyon, its path curving down and to the east. The little dog followed Al for a few yards then let out a whimper and retreated back to the entrance. It lay on its belly at the mouth of the cave, a low whine trembling in its throat.

  Al turned back and lifted one talon to his muzzle. The little dog went silent and laid its head between its paws.

  The weight of the earth pressed in around Al as he worked his way deeper into the cavern. He tried not to think of the last time he’d been underground, tried not to think of the swarm of demonic bats that’d almost eaten him alive. He licked his lips and swallowed hard.

  The tunnel narrowed, and the ceiling dropped even farther. But the scent of burning candles was stronger, and, at long last, Al could smell Rae again. Her blood smelled old and coagulated, probably the scab on her head from where she’d been struck, but it told him everything he needed to know.

  Rae was here.

  He hunkered over in the low tunnel and crept forward. He followed the scattered snow left behind when the old man had dragged the travois over the stony floor. Al followed the tunnel, descending deeper and losing any light from the surface. He could smell soot and kerosene from the old man’s lantern, but Al had no need for such light. His eyes could see as well in pitch blackness as under the noon sun.

  He rounded a sharp corner in the tunnel and had to blink away the sudden light. There were candles stuck to the many stalagmites studding the room's floor, as well as to the pillars of flowstone that supported the cavern’s ceiling.

  A low murmur echoed through the tunnel, and something about it set Al’s teeth on edge. There was a rhythm to the unintelligible words, a pulse that seemed to war with his heartbeat. It tangled in his ears and left him feeling confused and exhausted. He need to lie down, he needed to just rest…

  Al shook his head and pushed on. The chant was another of the witch finder's traps, more bullshit for him to overcome. He wasn't going to be defeated by any more tricks.

  Even as he drew closer to the witch finder, Al couldn't understand the words. The sounds twined around one another, coagulating into aural scabs that clogged his ears. His head bobbed, and he had to turn all his concentration to ignoring the seductive commands of the throbbing chant. He was too close to fail now.

  Al peered over the spiked tip of a stalagmite, and saw what he’d come for.

  Rae was sprawled across a rounded dome of stone. Blood trickled from the wound on her head, but Al could see no other injuries on her body. The witch finder was on the side opposite Al, towering over Rae. The heavy furs he'd cloaked himself in made him look like a savage priest from a time men had left behind. He held a long onyx blade in his left hand and a scepter of bone in his right.

  Al’s time was up. The ceremony had already begun.

  11

  The Beast wanted to lunge over the stalagmite and charge straight at the witch finder. The Beast wanted blood, and it wanted it now. But even the Beast knew that the witch finder was a wily and dangerous opponent. He’d managed to lay traps for Al in the wilderness; there was no telling what he had waiting in his own lair.

  Instead of charging blindly, the Beast hunkered down and kept his belly close to the cave’s floor as he slithered up on his foe. He slipped from one stalagmite to the next, from flowstone to shadow. He circled the witch finder, watching as the dark ritual unfolded.

  As the witch finder intoned his ancient verses, he lifted his arms and turned his implements in complex patterns. The scores of candles littering the room flared in response to his words. The scattered light sources threw shadows in every direction and created overlapping, confusing patterns of light that made it difficult for the Beast to focus on the old man.

  He circled the witch finder, hoping the man was lost in his ritual. The Beast didn't know how long he had until the chanting stopped, but as long as it continued he felt comfortable that the witch finder wouldn't be paying attention to much of anything else. He used the time to position himself behind the witch finder, edging around one pillar then another, to get within striking distance.

  The witch finder arched his back and raised his hands as high as he could, holding the scepter parallel to the floor and the knife with its tip downward, ready to stab. The Beast knew he was out of time.

  He rushed forward, coming in low and fast. The witch finder's voice reached a crescendo, words screaming out of his dry throat, the tortured syllables spilling out of his mouth in a torrent of Left-Hand Path sorcery that inflamed the candles and sent their light soaring toward the ceiling.

  The knife was coming down, its tip glowing with golden light. The Beast watched it fall. He'd been too slow, too late.

  He slammed into the witch finder hard enough to rattle his thoughts like dice in a cup. His tackle caught the man at the knees and tore his legs out from under him. The witch finder came down on the Beast’s back, grunting with pain as his legs twisted up with the Beast’s arms.

  The chant cut off, and the Beast saw the knife where it had fallen out of the witch finder’s hand. There was no blood on the black blade. Rae hadn't been stabbed.

  A wave of relief washed over the Beast, but it was short-lived. The witch finder was still in the fight, even if he was tangled in his own furs.

  Worming his way out from the tangle of the man's legs, the Beast threw punch after punch into the witch finder's middle. He got to his knees and pummeled the old man, whipping a flurry of wild blows at him.

  The Beast couldn't stop, wouldn’t stop his attack once it started. As long as the witch finder kept making noise, as long as he was still alive, the Beast would keep pounding on him. He'd beat the man to death with his bloody knuckles and relish every minute of it.

  But beating the old man wasn't enough. The Beast wanted an eye for an eye. The justice of the wild demanded that the witch finder suffer as he’d wanted Rae to suffer.

  Al crawled away from the witch finder and to the onyx blade. He lifted it in one clawed hand. It was heavy and awkward, a ceremonial weapon meant for debased rituals and not combat. The Beast didn't care. He hefted the weapon and carried it back to the witch finder.

  He straddled the old man's torso and raised the blade. The witch finder glared up at him, through eyes almost swollen closed. He was an old man, beaten black and blue, but he wasn’t going to let the Beast see him flinch.

  The Beast didn't care. He just needed to see the old man dead.

  He raised the knife overhead, gripping it with both hands. He held onto the moment, feeling the warmth of victory burning in his veins. The Beast had won; the witch finder was going to die.

  "Al?" Rae's voice, weak and wavering, came from behind him.

  He turned his head to look over his shoulder, stunned by Rae's voice. She was watching him with wide, dark eyes, confused and
afraid of what she saw. He pushed his doubts away. He had to finish this, he could get her to safety once the witch finder was dead.

  Then Rae was falling. She'd tried to get up from the stalagmite and reached out, her brain still fuzzy with concussion. Al could see the rope around her neck, the knots thick at the base of her throat. Rae was too confused to stop herself; she fell off the table. The rope snapped taut, and Rae dangled, dazed, from the noose.

  Al shoved the Beast to the back of his mind. He rolled off the witch finder and tossed the blade aside. He had to get to Rae. He had to free her before the rope strangled her, or all of this would have been for nothing.

  Crouched next to her, Al supported Rae with one hand to relieve the pressure on her throat while he worked on the knots with his free hand. His claws were able to cut through the rope’s fiber, but it was slow going. He had to be careful not to slit the young witch’s throat in his haste to free her.

  The witch finder groaned behind him.

  Al struggled to get the rope away from Rae’s neck. He cut through another layer of rope, shredding the fibers to release the next to last knot. The Beast howled to Al, warned him that danger was approaching.

  Then the witch finder's shadow fell over them both. Something heavy smashed across the back of Al's head, and the lights went out.

  12

  Al woke to the sound of curses. The witch finder's brittle voice rained a stream of expletives down on him. "You cocksucking ass maggot. Look what you've done. You've ruined every goddamned thing."

  Al opened his eyes to a blinding storm of light. All he could make out was a swarm of blue-white halos surrounding the blazing heads of candles dripping wax from the rim of the pit. He had a concussion, or worse. He blinked, but his vision remained blurry, and his stomach rebelled with a nauseated lurch.