The Cruel Coven

by Isla Jones

  Blake mumbled under her breath and climbed to her feet. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll see what I can find.”

  Hunter shouted after her as she shoved through the door, “Nothing that can be traced back to the Prescotts, remember.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” she grumbled, “I know.”

  Blake ducked around the staircase to the chipped oak door underneath. It was already open. With a sad smile, she treaded through it and climbed down the rickety steps. The steps creaked beneath her weight before she reached the dark basement. A few candles were lit in the far corner. Blake sighed and walked around the shelves to approach the orange glow. It wasn’t a surprise when she turned the corner and saw Zeke swaying on the spot. He had a feather duster in his hand and nudged it against a framed photograph.

  “Hi Zeke,” she said.

  The golem grunted and continued to nudge the picture. It was his favourite. Blake would often find him down in the basement, staring at it, caressing it, or dusting it. She stepped around him and looked over his shoulder—the faces of Mary-Jane and Maxwell Prescott smiled at her from the frame. Toddlers stood at their legs, coming up to their knees, both with hair as red as the fire that had killed the girl in the picture.

  Blake tore her gaze from the photograph and scanned the items on the shelves. Most of the objects had been stolen from the Prescott manor by the Wolves because of their value. A few tomes, leather spines crinkled with age, were tucked into the gaps. Those were the spell books from the first coven. Blake couldn’t give them away—their value was too great, given what she had become after consuming Bethany’s power, and they could lead the police back to the Wolves.

  Blake looked at Zeke’s profile. The pallor of his slack face shone in the light of the candles. “I need to pawn a few things.” No one could overhear them, but she whispered just in case. The others wouldn’t believe her if she told them she thought a piece of their souls lived within the golems. “What do you recommend?”

  Zeke gurgled at the back of his throat. His head shivered, side-to-side, before he lurched over to where she stood. He reached out his limp hand and smacked a jewellery box. Blake lifted the lid and looked inside. Bracelets were tangled around necklaces, entwined with diamond rings and gold earrings. The jewels weren’t Prescott heirlooms, which meant they weren’t traceable. She dove her hand into the box and scooped out a handful of jewellery.

  “That’ll do,” she said, and shut the box.

  Zeke grunted. At first, she thought he’d been agreeing, but then she glanced up at him. He had his back to her and pointed at the safe underneath the shelf. Blake knelt in front of the safe and spun the dial to unlock it. The door swung open to reveal the only ornament within—the diadem. The white gold, wrapped around vines and gems, winked at her. It glowed, and a light hum vibrated through the metal safe. Blake reached forward and ran her finger over the brightest gem—a red stone—and smiled.

  “No, Theodore.” The gem spread warmth down her finger to her wrist. “I have plans with Hunter, and you know the rules.”

  The gem cooled, and the glow died down until the only light in the basement came from the candles. Blake closed the safe and spun the dial, locking it. She patted Zeke on the shoulder before she left.

  Blake walked onto the porch. Hunter was perched on the barrier, his legs dangling over the side, and jaw rolling as he ate a second cheeseburger. Two containers overflowed with fries, the second garnished with cheese—he’d left them for her.

  “How’d you go?” It was Clay, lounging on the hammock with Cheyanne. Blake tossed a handful of jewellery at him. His hand snatched it out of the air before it could hit him. His eyebrow arched as he inspected the bracelets and rings. “Pretty good haul. That’ll take care of a few things.”

  Blake grabbed a container from the floorboards and jumped up onto the bannister beside Hunter. “What will you do when the loot runs out?” she asked, picking at the fries with her fingers.

  Clay shrugged. It was Cheyanne who said, “Probably go back to robbing houses.”

  Blake raised her eyebrows. Clay snickered as Hunter said, “We could sell the diadem.”

  Blake looked as if she’d been hit. Her eyes bulged and she turned to gape at him. “The diadem?” she repeated, aghast. “What, so someone can figure out what it does and try to open the gateway again?”

  “You’re the only one who can open it.” It was Clay, using a fork to pick at his teeth. “It’ll fetch quite the chunk of cash.”

  “No.” Her voice was firm as she shook her head. “No way. I can’t open the gateway because I’m elemental. My magic comes from Bethany, now.”

  Cheyanne booted Clay’s leg. “Didn’t you pay attention in class? It was a coven that opened the gateway in the first place. Blake has the power of a whole coven in her blood, now, and mix that with the elemental magic—she can open it if she wants to. But what happens when another coven gets their hands on it?” Cheyanne rolled her eyes. “Are all boys this dumb?”

  “Nah,” said Hunter, grinning lopsidedly. “That honour just goes to Clay.”

  Blake scowled it at him. “It was your idea.”

  Hunter smirked and stole a chip from her container. “Was it?”

  Clay untangled himself from the hammock and landed on the porch like a panther. “Right,” he said. “We’re off.” Cheyanne climbed off with ease. “Got to get this—” He lifted the handful of jewellery. “—to Nolan before he ends up back in a cell.”

  Cheyanne stuffed her hands into her jacket pockets. “You coming?” Her gaze rested on Hunter. He frowned and chewed a chip. “Wyatt,” she said, “was asking when you’re coming back to the village.”

  Hunter looked at Blake. “I think I’ll stay here,” he said. “If that’s good with you?”

  Blake nodded. “It’s nice to have the company.” Her eyes drifted to the field where Abe had tripped over a boulder. The golem dug a hole in the ground, searching for worms and frogs. He did that sometimes, and arranged them on the boulder. It was almost as if he was creating art again. Blake sighed before she said, “Company that can talk, I mean.”

  After Cheyanne and Clay had gone, Hunter had managed to repaint the windowpanes and patches of the porch. Blake helped for a while, but then the sun had begun to set. She cupped a mug of tea in her hands and gazed out at the pink wisps on the horizon.

  A fist clutched her stomach and clenched. Her favourite spot to watch the sun set had always been the reservoir. She couldn’t go there anymore. It was too risky. It’s why she hadn’t let Theodore through, yet. Maybe one day she would, but not anytime soon. Maybe one day she could leave the field and go to the drive-in—venture back in the world.

  It was funny to think that she used to dream of leaving Belle-Vue behind, of moving to a city where the days leaked into nights, and nothing ever closed. A sense of greater purpose had haunted her throughout her life. She’d never imagined that it would mean being trapped in the deepest trenches of the bayous. But she was alive, standing on a porch, watching another sunset. Months ago, when she’d gone to the reservoir alone, she had thought she was going to die.

  Hunter had saved her. Perhaps in more ways than one. But Blake knew that the real hero was herself. She wasn’t a cliché anymore. Blake Harper, she narrated, saviour of Belle-Vue, and maybe even the world.

  A smile, tinged with pride, twisted her lips, and she looked back at Hunter. He packed tools by the door, but his eyes were fixed on her. He averted his gaze the moment their eyes met. Blake’s smile spread into a grin and she moseyed over to him.

  “I’m hungry,” she said, nudging a screwdriver with her foot. “Want to make dinner with me?”

  “Sure.” A rosiness flushed at his cheekbones as he stood. The tools went forgotten at their feet. Hunter ran his fingers through his curls. “Your place or mine?”

  Blake snorted and brushed past him into the house. His snicker followed her inside, and the door clicked shut behind them.

  * * *

  Note from the
Author

  If you’ve enjoyed THE CRUEL COVEN, please leave a review and recommend to a friend. This book can be reviewed on Amazon and Goodreads.

  My other works include Winter’s Plague, a found-memoir of an apocalypse survivor, and Winter Castle, the second instalment of the trilogy.

  Read on for a free sample. To read for free on Kindle Unlimited, or to purchase, click here.

  Excerpt of Winter’s Plague:

  Chapter 1.

  My name is Winter Miles, and I’m about to die … again. But we’ll get to that part. I should start from the beginning. Not the very beginning, when the plague suddenly swept over the world, but the day I met him—Leonardo Pérez.

  It was sometime in August I think, and the sun was setting over the city centre of Santa Fe—not the beautiful part with sandy beige buildings that made me feel like I was in an old Western movie—I was in the forest of skyscrapers, prey to the rotters. They usually came out at night; they nested during the hours of sunlight. But sunlight was fading from the city. The rotters had come out to kill. And I was caught in the hunt.

  Devastation was everywhere. It was in the blood that soaked into the concrete of the alleyway; it was the putrid stench of death in the air that I unwillingly tasted; and it was the tears of terror that rolled down my dirty cheeks. Devastation was nigh and it had come to take its next victim; me.

  Wrinkled flesh snatched at my ankles, cracked fingernails scraped against the faux leather of my boots, and blood-stained teeth snapped at the festering air around me. Their snarls and howls sent shivers down my prickled skin—I couldn’t hear my own cries over theirs.

  I was crouched on top of a low brick wall. It was at the back of the alleyway they had chased me down, and I clutched Cleo—my black Chihuahua—against my chest. She’d peed on me a few moments ago. Her terror matched mine. I hushed her whimpers with blubbering words of comfort, but I knew—and she did, too—that our chances weren’t good. The rotters surrounded us. They lurched and reached up from both sides of the brick wall. We could run, I thought, along the wall to the opposite building and try to reach the fire escape. The wall was caved in ahead, I would have to try and jump—but to do that, I would need to let Cleo go. And I would never let her go.

  I was completely and utterly surrounded.

  It wouldn’t be long before fresher rotters—one whose bodies were younger with stronger muscles—came along. And then I’d be screwed. I’d be torn apart and eaten … Or worse; they would take me back to their nests. They did that sometimes, but I had no clue what happened in there. I didn’t want to know.

  A dumpster hit the wall. I whipped my head to the side; eyes wide, hair whacking me in the face. A few of the rotters were trying to climb onto the dumpster—that’s how I’d gotten up the wall. But I’d been smart. I’d pulled the lid open so that any rotter who tried to climb it, would fall inside. It wasn’t a permanent solution. Rotters weren’t stupid. They’d climb over each other, they’d find a way to reach Cleo and I.

  My head thrashed from side to side, my gaze darting around the predators that trapped me. Not only was I fearing for my own life, I desperately clung onto Cleo, terrified at the fate that awaited my tiny dog. Animals turned, too. It was rabies after all, at least a strain of it. But victims had to survive the attack to become one of the rotters—that didn’t always happen. Sometimes, they were ripped apart and devoured until there was nothing left but bones. It was a fate that I wouldn’t let happen to her or myself. But how to prevent the brutal dooms that awaited us was an unreachable dream.

  It was difficult to think then, and even more difficult to remember clearly. I can still feel the panic that clutched me and shook my body. My frazzled mind had tried to ween through surges of adrenaline that licked through my veins. I recall the tingling sensation trickling down my spine to my toes. The ruthless sun had shone down on me, and my jeans and t-shirt stuck to my dewy skin. Strands of pinkish-blonde hair were plastered onto my sweaty temples and cheeks. I didn’t look good. But who does when they are cornered by a pack of rabid rotters?

  Finger grabbed onto my shoe. I screamed and twisted around to face the rotter. It was an old rotter—it had once been an elderly woman—and it dangled over the side of the dumpster. Its fingers coiled around my boot, its fingernails scraping over the leather. A fierce shriek tore through my throat as I yanked my leg back—it still held on—then kicked out. The sole of my boot crunched against its face, and I’m sure to this day that I broke its nose. But it held on, and it lurched forward—

  I kicked out at its face again. It didn’t grunt, like a person would, but it hissed. It was a low, fierce sound that brewed in the back of its throat. The dumpster wobbled beneath the rotter, and I realised that it was climbing over its own to get to me. My foot jerked, trying to pull back, but its fingers were hooked around the laces. It dragged my boot closer to its foamy teeth. I could lean forward and unfasten my boot, but that would mean putting Cleo down. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.

  The thing had its red-stained fingers wrapped around my laces and its other hand scratched against my boot. I yanked my foot again, threw my head back and screamed in the dusk. Cleo barked in my arms. She shivered and yapped. I felt warmth on my t-shirt again; she’d peed.

  A grunt came from my dry lips as I lifted my other leg and kicked out. I did again, and again, and again. The rotter’s face was caved in on the side by the time I’d lost my energy. My shoulders slumped, my chest heaving against Cleo, and my legs went limp. I was exhausted—I don’t remember the last time I’d eaten before that day.

  “Let go.” My voice was so low that it almost sounded like a whisper from the warm wind. “Get off…”

  I closed my eyes. All I could hear were the feral snarls of those things around me. My free leg pulled back toward me until my kneecap rested just beneath my chin. Then, I opened my eyes and stared at the rotter. The moment seemed longer than what it was. I could’ve sworn I’d seen something in its bloodshot eyes, something other than bloodlust. But then it was gone—I’d kicked out one last time. Every scrap of energy I had shoved my foot forward, and with the brutal kick, the rotter was thrown backwards. It smacked into the side of the dumpster and the crack of its spine snapping made my skin crawl.

  It was a brief victory. Dozens of them still surrounded me. They reached out as I turned around and pushed myself to my feet. My legs wobbled beneath me. Rotten hands swerved all around me, some closer than others.

  Another one got me.

  It almost took my foot out from under me. My arms tightened around Cleo and I cried into her grimed fur. There was no way out. It was only a matter of time. This was end.

  There was a loud bang.

  The sound punched through the alley; I screamed and curved over Cleo. My eardrums thrummed, ringing in protest. It took me a moment to realise—it was the sound of a gunshot.

  With a gasp, I jerked my head up. My eyes widened so much that I almost feared they would pop out of my head. I looked around, wall to wall, window to window—until I saw them. A shaky sob rattled my body at the sight.

  My hope-filled brown eyes settled on a window. It was three levels up on the building to the left; the shopping mall. The window was open, and three people stood on the fire escape. They all wore black combat uniforms, were strapped with holsters and padded vests, and each carried some sort of machine gun. At least, I had guessed they were machine guns. Back then, I wouldn’t have known—before the outbreak, I was an advocate of gun-control.

  “Don’t move!” It was one of the people on the fire escape. He looked like a soldier, some sort of special forces. “Stay right where you are!”

  If I wanted to reply, I couldn’t. My lips parted, but all that came out was a choked sound, somewhere between a relieved sigh and whimper. Stay on the wall? With dozens of dead snatching at me? It didn’t sound like something I wanted to do. I wanted to get out of that damned alleyway.

  I watched the three of them. My eyes had glazed over, reflecting t
he numbness within. The blond man—the one who had spoken to me—made a few hand signals to the others. I didn’t understand the hand signals. The dark-haired one replied with signs of his own; then he ran to the edge of the fire escape.

  The awe of what I saw still warms me. He had leapt off the edge of the fire escape like some sort of Spiderman, then he landed like a cat on the other fire escape. He didn’t even stumble—he shot to his feet, ran across the second fire escape and jumped off the edge. This time, he landed on the brick wall. My gaze followed him as he steadily ran down the narrow wall towards me. He held a firearm in his hand, but the bigger gun was slung around his shoulder.

  Something touched my calf. I stumbled back and my widened eyes darted downwards. Another rotter neared, climbing over the others in the dumpster to reach me. Lifting my leg to stomp on its gory head, I felt a surge of newfound confidence erupt within me. With soldiers nearby, I felt reassured. Not safe, but safer.

  Before my boot could stomp down on its head, a gunshot punched through the air again. The blood spattered from the air where a rotter’s face had been a split second before. I remember thinking that the blood was sort of beautiful. But then, bits of brain and goo sprayed all over me. My body heaved and a gravelly sound crept up my dry throat. If I’d had any food in my stomach, I would’ve puked it all over the rotters. Instead, stomach bile burned my throat before I swallowed it back down.

  “Give me your hand!”

  I looked up. The dark-haired soldier stood on the other side of the wall, right at the edge of where it had collapsed. I estimated the gap to have been around two metres. The soldier stretched out his hand for me, his other one clutched onto a small gun.

  As I crept closer to the hole in the wall, I untangled my arms from Cleo and clutched her in my hands. “Take her first,” I said. Cleo shook in my hands as I held her out for the soldier to take.

  Something had flashed in his eyes. The soldier hesitated, but then he grabbed Cleo after he tucked his gun into its holster. He settled the pup on the brick wall, firmly between his boots. She stayed there, trembling and whining, but she didn’t move. With two hands, he leaned forward and reached out for me. He curled his fingers, motioning for me to jump. I looked down at the fallen bricks. There were some limbs that stuck out of the pile of debris. And a few of the rotters tried to climb over hurdles to reach the hole. If they got the gap in the wall, I’d never be able to jump to safety.