Witch Myth Super Boxset

by Alexandria Clarke

  In the hallway outside my flat, Chad combed through my belongings. His thin fingers searched through the pockets of my clothing while his rat nose sniffed out anything that might be worth a quick buck. He didn’t notice when I crept up behind him.

  “Find anything good?” I asked casually.

  He jumped and straightened up, hiding his hands behind his back. “Just lookin’, love. That’s all.”

  “Bite me, Chad.”

  Chad’s answering grin revealed a mouthful of cracked yellow teeth. “Are you askin’ or tellin’?”

  “Ugh.” I shoved him toward his own apartment, but when he turned to go inside, he made sure to keep his hands hidden from view. “Wait,” I ordered, snagging him by the back of his sweaty T-shirt and regretting it instantly. “What did you take?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “Don’t mess with me.”

  “Swear on me life.”

  I stared him down. “Chad, if I find out that you removed so much as a paper clip from my things, I will make you wish you’d never been born. Understood?”

  Chad winked and raised both palms to show me that they were empty. That didn’t mean anything. He was a grifter and a pickpocket, like so many others that lived in the area, and disappearing acts were his specialty. Without any proof, all I could do was let Chad retreat to his own apartment, grinning that stupid grin as he closed the warped door on my sad pile of possessions.

  The best thing about constantly moving—if there was a “best” thing to take away from all of this—was that I never had the time or the cash to accumulate the amount of useless crap that normal people did. I didn’t own anything superfluous. No gadgets or gizmos. No electronics to be stolen. Just whatever I needed in order to live: clothes, shoes, and essential hygiene products. I did own a rusty road bike that I’d picked up at a yard sale for twenty bucks, which now leaned against the wall outside my apartment, but that was for travel purposes. A bicycle, thankfully, was nearly impossible to ignite.

  At the bottom of the haphazard pile, I found the tattered duffel bag I used to haul my stuff from hovel to hovel. With an enduring sigh, I shoved my clothes into its depths without bothering to fold or organize them. They would all need a wash. The corridor was littered with dirt, cigarette butts, and other remnants of my uncouth neighbors’ questionable lifestyles. I refused to wear a pair of jeans that had been lying on this ground for who knew how many hours, but finding access to a washing machine was going to be a problem. As I sifted through the rest of my things, I realized that something was missing. I turned the duffel bag upside down, dumping it out and probing through the contents. What I was searching for didn’t appear.

  I kicked in Chad’s door, the vibrations from the force of it traveling from the sole of my sneaker all the way up to my quadricep. The distorted wood gave readily. The cheap lock popped right out of the frame, and the door rocketed inward to reveal Chad reclining in a rugged fabric armchair, smoking something from a small glass pipe that certainly wasn’t tobacco, and listening to the rough cable connection of his tabletop television blaring an afternoon talk show. His reaction to my strident and unexpected entrance was sluggish. Before he could fully rise from his lackadaisical sprawl, I crossed the room in three long strides, pinned him to the armchair, and snarled in his face.

  “Where is it?”

  He batted fruitlessly at my forearm, which I cemented against his upper chest to prevent him from moving. The glass pipe slipped from his fingers and thunked to the carpet, spilling out whatever was inside. It smelled atrocious, and it lingered on Chad’s breath as he whined. “Oi, I can’t breathe!”

  “Where—is—it?” I asked again, emphasizing each word with a harmless but annoying flick to the tender spot between Chad’s eyebrows.

  “I dunno what you’re talking about.”

  “The necklace, Chad,” I clarified. “It’s a gold box chain with a small tree pendant. It’s also the only thing I own that I actually care about, so I highly suggest you tell me where it is before I break so many of your fingers, you won’t be able to smoke out of that pretty glass bowl anymore.”

  My elbow slipped, and I accidentally rammed my arm into Chad’s throat. He coughed, a wet hack that caused a groan of disgust to slip out of my mouth. I eased up to let him catch his breath. As he massaged his throat, he declared, “I don’t have your necklace.”

  I flexed his index finger backward, and he cringed in discomfort. “Is that your final answer?”

  He glared up at me. “Piss off, Ken.”

  That did it.

  For as long as I could remember, a fire smoldered in the pit of my very being. It was the nature of my problems—that ember of rage, the flicker of a temper that would not do me well to unleash—and it lay in wait for the day that I gave in to the heat and fueled it with gulp after gulp of wanton fury. I fought it every minute. Pushed it down. Doused it in breathing exercises and ten-mile jogs and mind-numbing work, but it persisted anyway. Before today, it had never broken free, but I’d learned long ago that the one thing I could always count on was imminent change.

  It was the most natural thing in the world to let go. To allow the flare of whatever resided within me to grow and morph into an unyielding hellfire. What was this unfamiliar sense of freedom that accompanied such a release? This quick alleviation of my bottled resentment? The relief was such a surprise that I embraced it in one fell swoop, accessing that repressed part of me with an eager yet daunting confidence.

  When a fiery orange glow illuminated the dingy interior of Chad’s apartment, I thought the vibrant shift in light and color was all in my mind. Chad’s expression informed me otherwise. His eyes grew wide, his mouth dropped open, and he stared at me with a mix of awe and terror. It was then I realized that the glow came from me. My hands shimmered with a red-orange glare, the same hue and intensity of the setting sun. It traveled the length of my arms, and within seconds, as warmth engulfed me, my entire body was alight with the alien force. My ears roared with white noise, and with a resounding boom, a surge of something—pure energy or whatever—pulsed from my core and spread like a shockwave to every corner of the room. The entire apartment shook with the brunt of it. The windows rattled. A leg of the rickety coffee table gave way. The fire alarm in the kitchen beeped feebly. As the force passed through Chad, he blacked out. His neck slackened, his head lolled, and his eyes rolled back in their sockets. Then, when everything settled, the gold necklace fell from between the cushions of Chad’s armchair and plinked to the floor in a tiny, tangled heap.

  It took me a solid minute to come down from whatever high the strange internal energy had induced. I heaved short, spasmodic gasps of air, like I’d finished running a marathon and forgotten how to control my breathing. My fingers clutched the fabric of Chad’s T-shirt. I unfurled them, detaching myself from my unconscious neighbor, and shakily climbed off the armchair. Trembling, I checked Chad’s pulse. He was breathing—he was fine—so I let him be and knelt down to pick up the necklace. It sparkled with residual energy. I cradled the little tree pendant between my thumb and forefinger as it shimmered in the fading orange light, bracing myself against the side of the armchair. I felt exhausted and energized all at once. My inner fire calmly faded to its original smolder, but for the first time in my life, I didn’t feel overwhelmed or enervated by its subtle presence. On the contrary, I felt free. Like my mind and body suddenly embraced the oddity of it all.

  A door slamming in the hallway outside Chad’s apartment brought me to my senses. I stood on wobbly legs, tucked the necklace into the front pocket of my jeans, and—with one last look to make sure Chad had survived the surreal experience—headed out. I locked his door from the inside and firmly pulled it shut. I looked left and right. Whatever had rocked Chad’s unit apparently hadn’t traveled past the dilapidated walls of his apartment. No one had come running at the sound. No sirens blared in the distance. Before any of Chad’s acquaintances had the chance to check on him, I collected my belongings, slung my
duffel bag across my shoulders, and straddled my bike. I rode out of the complex with the wind in my hair, ignoring the other residents’ mixed looks of pity and relief as I disappeared into the dusky pink evening.

  2

  When I turned off the main road and onto one that was less busy, I abandoned the handlebars of my bike and leaned back to let my legs do the work. The strap of the duffel bag dug into the skin of my throat. I hoisted it upward so that the weight rested higher on my back, alleviating the pressure around my neck. As I pedaled down the empty road, I considered my options. In reality, I didn’t have any. There was nowhere else for me to go. I was out of cash and out of luck, and it was getting cold. It was late September, and though the leaves of the trees had just begun to change colors, the absence of the sun welcomed a chillier air than usual in this area of Massachusetts. If I didn’t find a place to stay, I’d spend the night huddled uncomfortably on a bed of grass beneath a mound of sweaters and jackets from my duffel bag. The mere thought made me shiver, so I skidded to a stop, unearthed my windbreaker, and worked my arms through the sleeves. The shiny fabric stretched tight across my broad shoulders. I needed a new one, but for now, the insulation and reflective patches prevented me from freezing on my breezy ride or getting run over by an oncoming car. I zipped the duffel and continued on my way.

  The sun sank below the horizon and the moon rose in a silvery arc. My stomach rumbled. There was a handful of loose change in the back pocket of my jeans. I wondered if it was enough for a burger and fries from whatever fast food restaurant appeared along my route. It wasn’t the best meal of choice when you were trying to stay as healthy as possible on a budget, but my grumbling insides were desperate for sustenance of any kind. When I found a drive thru, I rode up to the window, ordered off the dollar menu, and paid in quarters and dimes. The visored teenager on the other side of the glass said nothing of my vagabond appearance but made a point not to touch my hands as she handed over the greasy paper bag. I thanked her anyway, burying the urge to tell her how lucky she had it and to not turn her nose up at people who were less fortunate than her, but it was a battle prematurely lost. Besides, as far as “unfortunate” went, I fell into the category in peculiar ways. I might’ve been unlucky, but I was in no position to preach or complain.

  I sat on the curb in the parking lot to eat, my bike lying next to me in the grass. The fries were cold and the burger bun was mushy, but it was food nonetheless. I munched in silence, watching cars drive by on the main road. In my pocket, I felt the trunk of the tree pendant poke into my hip. I was a master of compartmentalizing, and yet there was no way to banish the flurry of thoughts racing through my mind. What had happened back there in Chad’s apartment? That energy blast had, no doubt, come from me. It felt so good to let all of it go, but I wasn’t naive. This sort of thing came with consequences. There was something wrong with me, and it wasn’t like I could make an appointment with my friendly neighborhood doctor to find out what. First of all, I didn’t have insurance. Second, I doubted any physician would take my bizarre story into account and immediately light upon a diagnosis. It was best to keep this to myself, to keep battling against the burn as I always had, no matter how cathartic it was to finally release it.

  When the wind picked up, tossing my auburn hair into my eyes, I threw out my trash, righted my bike, and continued on my way. My knees protested as I set my feet against the pedals. I’d been riding for hours, putting as much space between me and Chad’s prone figure as possible. Thankfully, this entire portion of the state was familiar to me. I’d spent most of my life ping-ponging from this end to that. The riffraff lived downwind, while the affluent occupied the northern side. The farther I traveled from the apartment complex, the closer I got to estate homes and prestigious universities and people who could afford to own purebred horses and sailboats. It wasn’t my cup of tea, but my legs pedaled involuntarily in that direction. Even if it physically pained me to show up at such a doorstep, I knew that there was a place with an immaculate green lawn and a columned entryway and a perfectly pruned rose garden that belonged to someone who—no matter how many times I’d disappointed him—never turned me away.

  When I steered my bike onto the private cobblestone road and my father’s house appeared at the top of the steep hill with its brick exterior and massive balconies and sky-high wrought iron gate, it was with a mixed bag of nausea and relief that I approached the intercom fastened to one of the tall pillars that flanked the driveway entrance. Balancing with one foot on the ground and one on the bike pedals, ready to make a quick getaway if someone undesirable answered, I pressed the call button on the intercom and waited for a response.

  It was the longest minute of my life. The night was old. My father was most likely asleep. I was a disturbance at best, a thirty-year-old nuisance that kept showing up at this gateway every time I fell harder from grace than intended. I was a cockroach that wouldn’t die. Persistent and unwanted. I buzzed the intercom again. This time, it crackled to life.

  “Yes?”

  My shoulders sagged with relief at the sound of the tired voice. It was the one person I’d been hoping to hear. “Nora? It’s me.”

  The tone on the other end of the call brightened at once, even if it was low and rough from being woken up past midnight. “Kennedy?”

  “Yeah. Could you open the gate?”

  The automatic lock on the wrought iron gate disengaged. I eased through the gap and rode up the hill. My thighs burned with the effort, and near the top I had to hop off and push the bike the rest of the way. As I ambled into the courtyard, the double doors of the house opened, spilling a hallway of golden light across the dark grass. A slender silhouette leapt from the porch, sprinted toward me, and vaulted into my arms.

  “Oomph!” My bike toppled over as I stepped backward to compensate for the extra weight. Then I leaned into the hug, letting my half-sister tug me down to her height. She was the sole beneficiary of my limited love. I trusted her and no one else with my fragile sense of affection. Too soon, she let go to inspect me from head to toe.

  “You look tired,” Nora said, studying my drawn face.

  “Long day.”

  “I haven’t seen you in a year.”

  “No offense, but I wish it was longer.”

  As Nora frowned, I looked her over. She was taller than the last time I’d seen her. Her nightgown stopped short above her ankles. Like her mother, she sported flawless fair hair that flowed past her shoulders like a flaxen waterfall and inquisitive almond-shaped eyes the same color as a ripe green apple. The similarities didn’t end there. They had the same high cheekbones, delicate chin, and balletic figure. When Nora was born, I distrusted her instantly. Anything made by that woman was sure to be as vile and loathsome as its creator. But as the years went by, Nora proved her decency. Perhaps it was the fact that my father raised her too—perhaps it was something else—but Nora and I, despite the age gap between us, proved closer than my stepmother originally intended. I reveled in that. What a joy it was to have earned Nora’s fondness when it so disturbed and vexed her mother. I hated leaving Nora alone in this house, but I hated being here even more.

  I picked up my bike and wheeled it toward the front porch. “How was your birthday?”

  “It would’ve been better if you were here to celebrate it with me,” Nora answered, reaching up to relieve me of the heavy duffel bag. She prodded the muscles between my shoulder blades. “Hey, Ken. I don’t think you’re getting enough protein.”

  “Shut up.”

  Her answering giggle pealed through the night.

  “So did you get a car?” I asked her as I lifted the bike onto the porch and rested it against the house. “Sweet sixteen and all that.”

  Nora nodded. “Naturally.”

  “Leather interior? Heated seats?”

  “Naturally. Oh, and it’s self-driving, which apparently is a major perk, but actually takes all the fun out of owning a car.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I could bu
y a house with a car like that.”

  “If I thought you’d take it, I’d give it to you so you could.”

  I hushed her as we stepped inside the house. The soles of my cheap sneakers squelched against the waxed floor. I looked up the grand staircase to the mezzanine. Though the house was thoroughly heated, the place made me feel colder than the chilly wind outside. I’d grown up here, but there were no happy memories associated with my childhood bedroom or any other part of the gargantuan residence. My relationship with it started and ended with a heavy, neglected heart.

  “Where’s Adrienne?” I whispered.

  “She’s asleep,” Nora whispered back. “So is Dad. Are you hungry?”

  “I already ate. I could go for a hot chocolate though.”

  Nora dumped my bag near the bottom of the stairs, took my hand, and led me through the maze of the house until we arrived in the kitchen. It was meant for staff mostly—in a house this enormous, you paid someone to do the cooking for you—but I’d spent a lot of time when I was younger teaching Nora how to do things on her own. That included whipping up scrambled eggs or boiling a plate of pasta for when the cook wasn’t around. Those were things I wouldn’t usually be able to do without setting the house on fire, but Nora’s presence lessened the effect of my terrible, terrible luck. She had a soothing aura about her, and it seeped into my own to quell and quiet the burn within me. If I could, I would take Nora with me wherever I went, but that wouldn’t be fair to her. She deserved more than my life of vagrancy, and she fit in far better with the upscale teenagers of the surrounding area. For the most part anyway.

  As Nora bustled about the kitchen, gathering a gallon of whole milk, a carton of cocoa powder, nutmeg and cinnamon, and a bag of marshmallows, I sat at the preparation table in the middle of the room. With a groan, I kneaded my aching quadriceps. I hadn’t biked such a distance in a long while.