The Cruel Coven

by Isla Jones

  Her entire world collapsed around her. The walls drew closer, constricting her, the ceiling came crushing down on her, the air thinned, suffocating her. Reeling back against the wall, Blake’s horrified gaze gawked at the red rug. It had once been white.

  Anguish flooded her eyes with burning tears as her jaw dropped, and she slid down the wall to the spinning floor. Devoured by stunned horror, Blake didn’t notice Theodore wander in, nor Hunter rush to her side. She gaped at the bloody scene before her. Abe and Jack lay on the rug, face down, arms and legs fanned out in jarred directions. Their bare bodies haunted Blake’s mind, carved with the same symbols she’d seen on Zeke’s cadaver. Paling skin replaced Abe’s once-brown complexion as his life was stolen from him; Jack’s ivory skin greyed as the magic of the symbols replaced the blood drained from his body.

  It cracked: The shock, the façade, the faux strength she’d been relying on. Blake fractured. Throwing her head back against the wall, Blake opened her mouth and released a blood-curling, agonising, heart-wrenching scream. Fingernails scratched and snapped against the floorboards as her hands curled into fists; legs thrashed, kicking out at nothing; agony shredded her insides apart, showing no mercy as her soul plummeted into the deepest pits of despair.

  Hunter, kneeling beside her, draped his arm over her tense shoulder and pulled her against his chest. She struggled. She fought, kicked and slapped him. But Hunter secured his arm around her, and endured the attack. Bowing his head, Hunter remained stiff as her hands came raining down on him, her screams resounding through the house, tainting the once happy home.

  “You did this!” she screeched, balling up her fists and lunging at Hunter. “You killed them!”

  The blurred logic warped in her mind. If he’d listened to her to begin with, when she’d gone to the bayous for help, her dads might still be alive. She could’ve proven to them that she was right, they wouldn’t have sent her away, and she could’ve protected them better. In that moment, drowning in desolation, Blake blamed Hunter.

  An arm slipped around her waist and effortlessly lifted her from Hunter’s stiff body. Theodore held her up, back against his chest, as she tried to strike Hunter again. Hunter sat up and wiped his bleeding nose, his passive dark eyes fixed on her tormented face.

  “Focus,” hushed Theo into her ear. “The witch did this—focus your hate on her. It will aid you when the time comes.”

  Shrieks morphed and choked into strangled blubbers and sobs. Blake’s legs weakened as they kicked out, her body wilting in Theo’s hold. Through watery eyes, she watched the blurry Hunter climb to his feet.

  Her body heaved, jerking, as vomit spewed from her damp lips and splashed onto the floor. The image of her dads seared into her mind, even as she clenched her eyes shut. Again, bile spewed from her mouth between broken sobs. Hunter’s clenched jaw ticked as he stared at the floor, averting his gaze from Theo’s fingers stroking through Blake’s hair.

  Theo’s whisper brushed through her hair to her ear, “Let it in,” he urged. “And use your rage to find the diadem.”

  The cabin in the bayou offered protection and cloaking from those without the sight. It did not, however, shield Blake from Bethany. So why Theodore and Hunter had brought her to the cabin in her numbed state would be beyond her comprehension, if she had the mental capacity to contemplate it. In that particular moment, she didn’t. Her brain had melted to mush, only hardened by the constant thud of her headache. The lone focus of her dreary mind were her parents; their corpses; their deaths.

  On a mouldy, thin mattress, Blake lazed. Her hooded green eyes, watery and blurred, gazed up at the rotten beams exposed on the ceiling above. Clusters of feathery cobwebs were tangled all around the nooks of the beams, each one of them abandoned. Even spiders didn’t want to inhabit the cabin, she mused. Rats scratched at the fireplace behind her head, but she barely heard it.

  Her ears only picked up on the soft murmurs on the mossy porch outside. Theodore and Hunter had been talking outside for a while. Blake didn’t know how long, but it’d felt like days. Of course, it wasn’t days. The night still blanketed the sky in darkness, and dawn had yet to brighten the field.

  Blake submitted to the tug of her heavy eyelids, allowing them to flutter shut. Like each time she’d closed her eyes since arriving at the cabin, her imagination tormented her. Every time she almost fell asleep, she pondered their last moments. It was always the same, constructed by her limited imagination. Images came in flashes, screams rang in her ears, tears leaked from the corners of her creased eyes. Abe thrashed on the rug, reaching out to Jack, never able to touch him. Jack choked on his own blood, the necromantic Zeke slicing off his ear—

  Blake snapped her eyes open. The torture of her thoughts was too much to bare. She stayed awake.

  The door creaked open. Blake turned her head to the side and stared at the hallway. Theodore and Hunter entered, both locking eyes onto her, only one consumed with concern—Hunter offered her a comforting smile, but it was tight, and more of a grimace than anything. Theodore dashed by him and stopped at Blake’s bedside, head bowed as he studied her.

  “Hey,” greeted Hunter. He stepped into the cold, dank living room. “How are you feeling?”

  “Like my parents were just slaughtered,” she croaked. Her gaze flickered between them.

  Hunter nodded, and dropped into the armchair behind Theo. He clasped his hands between his spread thighs and leaned forward. “I need to go to the bayous,” he said. “Tell the Wolves what’s going on, what’s coming.” Blake stared at him. He rolled his jaw and added, “Theodore will watch over you while I’m gone. And when I get back, he’ll go and feed. I’ll bring you food and some fresh clothes. Need anything else?”

  Remaining silent, she lifted her gaze to Theodore. He smiled down at her. She wondered who he would feed on, whose soul he would steal and take to purgatory. Blake looked at him before rolling over, turning her back to them, and curling into a ball. Blake pretended to fall asleep.

  Night fought against the day, but surrendered to the light as dawn came. The pink whispers of the sun seeped into the cabin through the windows, kissing the dust particles that flittered in the air. It stretched over the creviced floorboards, its fingers grasping at the edge of the mattress Blake lay on, but had yet to touch her. The rats and mice had retired to their nests, finding the sleep that Blake yearned for. Hunter hadn’t returned, leaving Theodore as her only companion for the morning. He sat on the armchair that faced her, his penetrative gaze piecing the back of her head. At times, he talked. They marinated in silence.

  When the faint glow of dusk reached Blake’s back and spread over her, consuming her like her misery had, her stomach growled. Blake had forgotten about food. She hadn’t eaten since the morning before, at Hunter’s terraced house. Despite her stomach’s rumblings and churnings, the thought of eating released a trickle of bile from her tummy, which trailed up to her parched throat. Blake swallowed the bile.

  Theodore obscured her vision. He appeared in front of her, and dropped to one knee. The burn of his eyes scraped all over her face as she stared at his pristine shoes. He touched the back of hand to her sweaty forehead. “Hot,” he commented, as if observing the weather.

  “I feel sick,” she groused.

  “It’s your magic,” he replied. The back of his hand still touched her skin as he brushed it over her temple to her chin. “It is awakening, piece by piece.”

  If she had the energy, she would’ve have scoffed. “Is it?” she asked with soft sarcasm. “I thought I was sick because I saw my dads’ slaughtered bodies.”

  “And that is why your magic is awakening,” said Theodore. “Trauma, misery, rage—those feed the power; nourish it.”

  Her hands, folded between the mattress and the side of her face, dampened as tears rolled down her temples onto the skin. “Is that why she killed them?” whispered Blake. “So my powers would grow stronger? Is that why they’re dead?”

  “Elementals are motivated by
the worst of themselves—rage. A cruel species when provoked,” he almost crooned. “Perhaps the witch learned that.” The pad of his index finger traced the line of tears down her to her hands. “You should sleep. You will need your energy.”

  “I can’t,” she said, her lip quivering. “Every time I close my eyes, I see them. I see what she did to them.”

  A flash lit up his blue eyes as his finger stilled on her cheek. “What do you see?”

  “Zeke,” she whispered. “Or, what’s left of him. Cutting off my dad’s ear. Bethany just stands there in the doorway, watching. Her grandma killing Abe.”

  “The ear,” repeated Theodore, an impressed tint to his tone. “It was indeed removed from your father. I did not think you had noticed.”

  Blake sniffed and pushed herself up. Sitting cross-legged on the mattress, she frowned up at him. “I didn’t,” she said. “I thought I was only … imagining it.”

  “This is good. Your power is strengthening. You can see how they died, how they truly suffered.”

  “So that really happened? Zeke cut off Jack’s ear?”

  “Yes,” he said, inclining his head once. “It did. And it was stuck onto a blank canvas by the door.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I saw it,” he replied. “While you were attacking your hunter.” Theo paused and regarded her blank expression. The sobs she had cried out already didn’t emerge—she didn’t possess the energy to spare on another anguished fit of despair. In a sense, she was emotionally drained. “That,” he explained, “was not an act of torture without purpose. The witch removed the ear as a message to you.”

  “That she’s a psycho?” whispered Blake. “I didn’t need a message to know that. Seeing my dads butchered was a strong enough message on its own.”

  Theodore rose to his feet and strode to the cabinet beside the fireplace. The door was already open from when Hunter and Blake were last there, drinking whiskey. Theo’s hand reached inside and removed a plastic bottle of water. He unscrewed the lid before he offered it to her.

  “Do you know of Van Gogh?” he asked.

  Throughout her childhood, Abe had decorated the house in fake Van Gogh artwork that he’d painted himself, or bought at flea markets when they went to New York City. Van Gogh was Abe’s muse, and his idol. Blake took the water and nodded. “I’ve heard of him,” she said.

  “A renowned artist in his own right, talented, and praised by many. I wonder if he would be as celebrated as he is if he had not severed his own ear.”

  Gulping down generous amounts of water, Blake watched him lower himself onto the armchair. He draped his arms over the sides of the chair and observed her.

  “Do you know why his ear was detached?” he asked. Blake shook her head. “It was not the act of self-harm that the modern historians consider it to be. In fact, Van Gogh didn’t remove his ear—his friend did. Paul Gauguin and Van Gogh entered a sword duel over a heated exchange. Things spiralled, Gogh lost his ear. In the end, Gogh claimed to have done it to himself.”

  “Why?”

  “To protect his friend,” he said. “Gogh adored Gauguin, loved him, perhaps. He lied to protect Gauguin from persecution, and hoped to maintain their bond thereafter. The ear represents their pact of silence. The witch wants this from you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means,” he said, leaning forward, “the witch wants your lips sealed. She wants you to find her, and leave behind your hunter and myself.”

  “She wants to lure me in,” said Blake.

  “Yes.” The heat of his arctic eyes poured over her face. “Were her attempts successful? Do you wish to reach out to her?”

  “A little,” she admitted. “I want to find her. But only so I can kill her.”

  “Kill,” he repeated. “And is that who you are? What you want is blood for blood?”

  “Honestly,” she whispered. “I think so.” She looked up at him, her heavy eyelids drooping into her vision. “I want to see her … the way I see my dads when I close my eyes. I want to hear her scream, the way my dads screamed. I want her to lose what matters most to her; her power and her life.”

  A sly smirk tugged at his lips. “It is not so easy,” he said. “But it is not impossible, either. To achieve your grim desires, you must earn it. You must welcome your pain, and destroy her yourself.”

  Welcome your pain. Those words echoed in her numb mind. The pain, she felt already, but could she welcome it? Embrace it? No, she couldn’t. Because to receive the pain she fought to keep at bay would be to destroy herself in the process. All she wanted to do was go to the reservoir. It was there that she could gaze out into the brown water between the muddy shore and the horizon. It was there that she could lose herself in the tranquillity, and escape the horror that had become her life.

  *

  Blake pulled the sheet up to her chin and faced the feeder. He sat in the armchair, and stared at her. But her gaze rested on the door as it swung open. The wash of midday flooded inside, and bordered the arrival’s silhouette. Hunter kicked his leg back to shut the door and slung a duffel bag over his shoulder. A paper bag crinkled between his fingers. The paper rustled as he entered the damp room.

  “Here,” he said, and tossed the bag at her. It landed on the decayed floorboards beside the mattress. She stared at it. “Got it from the diner.”

  Blake peeled the sheet from her sweaty body and sat up. Rubbing her eyes, she repeated, “The diner?”

  It was strange to think that it was still there, functioning, serving food to the townspeople. Would Flora be there, waiting tables? Frank counting the till money constantly? Jimmy in the kitchens, cooking broth of the food poison variety?

  Hunter dropped the duffel bag at the end of the mattress and sat on the floor. “Didn’t know what you like, so I got you the special. Grilled cheese and ham sandwich.”

  Blake bowed her head and dragged the paper bag toward her. “I’m vegetarian.”

  A sharp laugh barked from the armchair. The feeder grinned wickedly and reclined in the chair.

  Blake scowled at him and snatched the paper-wrapped sandwich from the bag. “That funny to you?”

  “Quite so,” he said. There was a secret there, in his sharp eyes, swimming behind the surface. It mocked her and dangled knowledge in front of her face; he knew something that she didn’t.

  Hunter leaned forward and snatched the sandwich from Blake’s hand. He unwrapped it, peeled it apart and picked out the slices of ham. After he’d stuffed the carcass pieces into his mouth and handed the sandwich back to her. “There you go,” he said through a mouthful of flesh. “Vegie sandwich.”

  She eyed the soggy sandwich. Melted cheese and a single slice of tomato were crammed between the wilted pieces of bread. Her stomach growled, desperate to receive the food, but she took her time and nibbled on the crusted edge.

  “They were talking about you,” he said. “At the diner. The whole town knows you’re missing, and about your dads. Frank said that a few agents from the city came by, looking for you.”

  “They think I did it,” she said after a thick swallow. “Don’t they?”

  “Some do. Doubt that woman does.”

  “Flora?”

  “She looked miserable.” He raised his arms over his head and stretched. “A few down at the bayous are taking the kids out of town,” he added. “The Wolves will meet us in a few hours.”

  “And then what?”

  “We’ll see then, won’t we?” Hunter shrugged. “There’s snacks in the bag, too,” he said, and kicked the duffel bag toward her. “I swung by your house, again. Got you a change of clothes.”

  Blake swallowed a chunk of under-chewed bread. “My phone?” she asked. “Did you get that?”

  “It was on the night stand.”

  Blake’s hand shot to the bag and wrenched it onto her lap. The sandwich fell to the sweaty sheet as she unzipped the sack and riffled through the contents. Plain cotton underwear—her lips pursed as she
thought of Hunter going through her bras and knickers—a pair of torn jeans, fluffy socks, ankle boots, a cardigan, a t-shirt, buttery popcorn, chocolate bars, pretzels … Ah! Her phone.

  Blake unlocked the device and scrolled down her notifications. Rachel had called her thirty times, at least, and had sent an essay of text messages. ‘The Sheriff came by’; ‘Bethany’s worried sick about you’; ‘…they found your parents’; ‘Blake, call me. I need to know you’re ok.’; ‘The Sheriff thinks you did it … I know you didn’t … Please tell me you didn’t.’

  Before Blake could tap her thumb on the reply button, the phone had vanished from her hand. Theodore crouched down beside her, the device snapped into two even pieces.

  Blake’s eyes bulged out of her head as she shrilled, “What the fu—”

  “This,” he interrupted, and dropped the broken phone to the floor, “can lead the witch to you. There are many ways of tracking people on these devices.”

  Blake gaped at the two chunks of metal. But she didn’t argue. He was right. Bethany could track her with a multitude of social apps. Even the phone itself could lead her straight to the cabin.

  “I need to call Rachel,” she said. “Give me your phone.”

  Theodore tilted his head to the side. “I do not have one.”

  “Then, you,” she barked at Hunter. “Gimmie.”

  Hunter slid his phone from his pocket. It was old; a chunk of outdated metal from the nineties. It even had an extendable antenna.

  “It’s disposable,” he explained. “It’s how we stay in contact with someone in off the radar.”

  It took Blake a moment to realise that he meant the Wolves. She grunted and pushed herself to her feet. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she said.

  Theodore suddenly blocked her path. He stared down at her with impassive eyes. “Where are you going?”

  “To the porch,” she said, and shoved by him. “And don’t eavesdrop!”

  The door slammed shut behind her and swallowed her voice whole.

  Blake paced back and forth on the porch. Each board groaned beneath her weight in protest. The steady rings of the dial tone hummed in her ear. The phone trembled in her hand, and her legs felt numb, dreading the end of the dial tone. But, it stopped, and in its place, came Rachel’s thick voice.