Which Witch is Willing? (The Witches of Port Townsend Book 4)

by Kerrigan Byrne

  They’d have this out once and for all.

  Their horsemen had left as the shadows grew long to do whatever it was warriors did before such a battle. Ready the horses, shine the armor, sharpen the weapons, etc. The de Moray sisters each kissed Violet and Seraphine who, even at such a tender age, were ridiculously well behaved, as if they understood the gravitas of the day. Not wanting to bring infants to an apocalypse, they left them once again in Justine’s care.

  Moira and Tierra helped each other up the stairs, both holding in hiccupping sobs as they retrieved their crowns and wands, and all four trudged toward the attic like women about to face their fates.

  And so, they were.

  As they spilled into Mirelle de Moray’s attic room, they stopped to breathe her in. To look at the bookshelves full of ancient tomes and rows of herbs hanging from hooks. Baubles sparkled beneath the skylight and with a flick of Claire’s finger, candles flared to life.

  Their flames illuminated four ancient-looking trunks lined up in front of the portal that Aerin was certain hadn’t been in this room before.

  Tierra went to them, throwing open the lid and staring down at the most vibrant scarlet material. Lifting it out of the trunk she unfurled a long robe stitched of the finest silk and softest velvet. “Look, Claire,” she said, fingering a note pinned to the long sleeve. “It’s for you.”

  Claire allowed Tierra to slip the robe over her usual jeans and black tank, and then she unpinned the note and read it aloud. “These robes are woven from threads of fire and passion and stitched with cords of illumination and creativity. Though it seems the world is burning around you, know that the destruction is necessary for rebirth. You will win the day, so he can light the way. Signed, Kenna de Moray.” The robe fastened with tiger’s eye toggles that glinted in the candlelight as she fastened them.

  “Ugh. They rhyme.” Aerin muttered. She thought Claire looked like a goddess and told her so. Noting how the robes shimmered with umber flames when she walked. “I remember reading about Kenna, she was Malcom de Moray’s sister. The fire druid.”

  “That’s right,” Claire said as she bent to open another trunk. This one contained a robe of cobalt and azure, and she unfurled it to hold up to Moira. “For you.”

  Tears still leaked from Moira’s eyes as she slid her arms into the robes. “How do you think these got here?” She sniffed, tucking her arm beneath her hair to pull it away from the collar.

  Tierra put her finger to her chin in thought. “There are torpor spells that can hide things until they’re needed,” she reflected. “I’m sensing a bit of that sort of magic at work.”

  “Makes sense,” Moira said as she caught at the note hanging from her robe. “These robes are woven with shifting threads of water and dreams and stitched with cords of vision and serenity.” she read. “Though floods rage and seas swell, the path of least resistance will serve him well. Signed, Morgana de Moray.”

  “Aww,” Tierra said. “I love that you gave Seraphine her middle name.”

  Moira fastened her toggles and tucked the note away. “She was there for me when I needed her. She will always be close to my heart.”

  “Here’s yours, Tierra.” Aerin flapped a stunning robe of greens and golds underlaid with deep shades of bronze. She held it while Tierra slipped it on and waded around for the note she knew was there.

  “These robes are woven from threads of soil and seed, stitched with cords of manifestation and abundance. Though the earth is in upheaval, know that she is the source of our strength, and will always nurture us. You will hold the ground. So his soul is no longer bound. Signed, Malcom de Moray.” She held the note to her chest. “I just love him. Do you think Malcolm is the ‘he’ referenced here?”

  Malcom de Moray had once been king of the Picts and ruler of the druids and an earth druid, himself. He’d held such a burden on his shoulders, and a thousand years ago, he’d halted the apocalypse in Scotland. He was a grandfather who knew they’d be born one day, and he knew that they’d need his guidance. That they’d need these robes. Stitched with love and words of encouragement.

  Tierra looked at Aerin a little sheepishly. “There’s only ever been a maximum of three de Moray siblings… until now. You didn’t have an air druid ancestor or anything to give you your wand so…your robe might not have a note.”

  Aerin shrugged it off, having come to terms with the same idea. “That’s okay. Let’s get it on. We don’t have much time.”

  Moira opened the final trunk and took out the robe, a shimmering confection of every conceivable color of sky, from stormy gray to blue threaded through with shots of silver and white. Aerin shucked it on with her help and gasped as something scraped at her arm in the billowing sleeves.

  She closed her eyes for a moment. Just so, so, so relieved she hadn’t been left out. Disconnecting it from the sleeve she looked down into something like ancient cardstock upon which was scrawled semi-neat lettering. She read, “I was once one with the darkness. A demon born for destruction. I was sent to end Malcolm de Moray, and I fell in love with him instead. I saved his life and he saved my soul, and together we bought the world a thousand years. You can change what is written in the sky. So that he can touch the world. Signed, Vian.”

  Beneath it a hasty line was scrawled that Aerin read silently. Forgive me, I have no care for rhymes.

  Aerin didn’t realize she was crying until she laughed.

  Vian. A demon and a kindred spirit. She’d have to ponder that later.

  She turned to her sisters and realized they were standing in a circle, each a point of the direction they’d been assigned by their elements.

  “We leave the familiars this time,” Claire said sagely. “Someone has to look out for things in case…”

  She didn’t have to finish her sentence.

  Aerin glanced around at them, marveling at how resplendent they were in their robes. How their crowns had transformed them into something regal. Symbolic.

  And powerful.

  It was Tierra who turned to the portal first, taking a deep breath before she stepped through. Moira followed, then Claire and Aerin gripped her wand tightly as she brought up the rear.

  It was time to save the world.

  Or end it.

  49

  Until this moment, Aerin hadn’t known it was possible to be seized by both marvel and terror simultaneously. The sight before her both moved her deeply and caused her heart to plunge into her belly as if to hide from the enormity of what was about to happen.

  The cliff known as Siren’s Cry loomed skyscraper tall above Discovery Bay, a handful of miles outside of Port Townsend proper. The de Morays had stepped through the portal to several standing stones adorning the pinnacle like a jagged crown, the stones replaced with a flick of Tierra’s wand.

  Below them, a churning sea barraged the cliffs. And before them, acres of verdant meadow unspooled down the gentle slope that would have been called a Moor in a more ancient land. It was besieged by dense forests of both evergreen and deciduous trees.

  This meadow made for a perfect battlefield.

  The armies had assembled and were, even now, facing each other like players on a chessboard.

  Lucifer levitated in a cloud of writhing black mist in front of an army thousands strong of wrathful wraiths and the undead. They stretched back into the trees and disappeared beneath the shadows. Bodies under complete control, whose souls she lusted after.

  Souls they would fight to save today.

  Aerin had never truly understood what the word horde meant before now, but the numbers of hissing, screaming, cackling cadavers were incalculable.

  And fucking creepy.

  Melody stood at the Devil’s side, the apparent general of the dark-clad witches who arced out behind her. Each chanted and taunted in equal measure. Calling their powers to lend to the darkness. It was odd to see several of the witch hunters join their ranks, but times like these often created unlikely bedfellows.

  Against t
he onslaught, creating a protective arc around the stones, the coven of witches stood like infantry behind four magnificent figures mounted on their famously colored horses.

  Conquest astride his white horse, draped in a suit of armor that might have done any Roman legionnaire proud, managed to look both civilized and brutal as he held his bow at the ready, an arrow nocked between two strong fingers.

  War had painted his red steed with various symbols and adorned it with the same dark armor plating he wore. He gleamed like the edge of his frightening blade, as the horse danced beneath him in anticipation of the coming violence.

  Pestilence eschewed ornamentations, donning only a long black hooded robe that draped majestically over Archimedes. He sat tall and proud, cultured but merciless, brandishing his scales like a banner. In his offhand he held an onyx-tipped spear Aerin hadn’t been aware he knew how to wield.

  Death had stowed his wings in favor of his pale horse, but he wore only simple black leather across his wide chest. His wicked scythe glinted in the dying sun, and Aerin could see the blood moon reflected in the devilish blade.

  It wasn’t the sight of the horsemen, awe-inspiring as they were, that pricked Aerin’s eyes with tears.

  It was who stood with them.

  Sir Norman Barriston and his cadre of students, swords drawn, and patchwork armor clad. His elegant wife stood next to him clutching a cleaver from her kitchen.

  Tacklebox, er Sunny—obviously not worried about being stabbed if all the piercings in her body were aught to go by— was armed with a chainsaw she’d pilfered from their shed. She revved it often and chortled manically, but Aerin sensed the fear beneath her bravado.

  Uncle Sal, Mookey, Red, and Little Earl were armed to the teeth with enough firepower to give John Wick wet dreams.

  These brave souls had gathered to buy them the time they needed to work their magic.

  The Star of the Morning looked as she should, a woman of astonishing beauty. Tall, blond, and almost skeletally thin, her dark eyes as soulless and unfeeling as her farcical smile. She wore a robe not unlike theirs. Black, of course, just to avoid any confusion as to what anyone’s powers were, Aerin guessed.

  She held a staff topped with labradorite, and it swirled with dark power as she opened her arms as if to welcome them to the apocalypse. “Don’t mind me, ladies, you’re here to end the world. I’m only here make certain you don’t do something stupid. Like save it.”

  Claire notched up her chin. “We’ll end you first.”

  “How many times must I tell you, you cannot,” Lucifer scoffed. “I am eternal. I am fed by the dark and I am—”

  “Eat glass, devil barbie,” Aerin interrupted, all mature and stuff, before she held her wand to the sky, evoking bright forks of lightning. Her robes stirred in the summoning wind. “You are nothing but the archaic evil leftover of some long-forgotten vengeful God who’s been twisted through time to be a monotheistic ass weasel. You’re sloppy seconds. Old news. Yesterday’s bullshit. And you’re about to fall. Again.”

  “Yeah!” Sunny yelled over the loud idle of her weapon’s motor.

  “En garde, Beelzebub,” Norman dropped into a fighting stance, his hand in the air behind him as his brave charges did the same.

  Drawing her palm over the stone in her staff three times, the devil conjured something like a projection onto the blazing sunset. “Whatever happens here, whatever battle you think you might fight, it won’t matter. The world is imploding. You’ve already lost.” Images of global devastation flashed above them. Crumbling pyramids, cities ablaze, people fleeing in fear.

  “No,” Moira said gently, her voice somehow clear above the din. “We haven’t lost.” She pointed her wand and summoned a skein of water over part of the image, using it as a magnifying glass. There, in a throng of terrified refugees, people were lifting those who had fallen. They heaved the wounded onto their backs and carried children who did not belong to them. Witches the world over stood against the onslaught of disaster. Calming the fires and holding back walls of flood water so others could escape with their lives.

  “Women—witches—know that they shouldn’t take power from each other,” Tierra addressed the opposing coven. “They should give. They should lift. They should empower. Because this still exists in the world, it means Lucifer has lost already.” She lifted her wand and the world began to shake. “We’re just here to finish the job.”

  Lucifer’s laugh raised every hair on Aerin’s body. “Say your little spells if you must,” she cackled unleashing whatever chains held back her minions. “You won’t leave those stones alive.”

  50

  Nothing Aerin had seen on HBO could have prepared her for the sight of what Lucifer unleashed. The army of the undead advanced, their weapons often rudimentary, but no less terrifying for it. Machetes, axes, pipes, and even pistols—for those few who had tendons and fingers left.

  She learned that too late, as one of Norman’s students fell to a bullet before someone could hack off the gun arm.

  The horsemen spurred their mounts, launching into the fray, their weapons cutting down entire swaths of undead not unlike those monstrous harvest machines chewed through fields of wheat.

  The coven wove wards against the magic of their lost sisters, slowing Lucifer’s advance.

  Aerin looked to the left and the right of her as she and her sisters shared a moment of hesitation. They had to cast together to break the final seal. They had to end this, so they could mend it.

  Moira breathed in and reached for her hand, “I am the storm of the sea,” she began.

  Claire’s hand slid into the other side, clenching it tight. “I am the dance of the flame.”

  Aerin drew from their bravery, glowing with love. “I am the breath of the sky.”

  Tiera completed their chain, creating an unbreakable bond. “I am the heart of the earth.”

  They all said, “Through me the prophecy is fulfilled.”

  Four times, they chanted the words together. I am the storm of the sea.

  Clouds gathered in the south, rolling and climbing over each other, clashing with lightning and thunder. Ice and hail pelted at the battle sharp and devastating, taking several of the undead out of the fray.

  And elsewhere it was shown that storm surges overflowed their banks. Rivers redirected and floods swelled to encompass monuments to past invasions and surrenders, victories and defeats. Piles of trash that had been thrown into the sea were belched back up.

  I am the dance of the flame.

  A spark ignited the forest, setting the undead waiting in the trees on fire and arcing round them, ensconcing their battle in flames and evening the odds. Many of them ran for the cliff, hurling themselves into the ocean.

  Elsewhere, other fires burned. Tempers ignited and passions and evils that had been held back now exploded into chaos and battles. Forests and planes alike were chewed up by flames so powerful their plumes blotted out the sun.

  I am the breath of the sky.

  Where lightning touched down on the battlefield, scores of undead were blown for yards where they landed, mangled and useless.

  Elsewhere, tornadoes and hurricanes churned the skies, feeding the sea storms, fanning the flames.

  I am the heart of the earth.

  Sinkholes opened up in the earth, swallowing entire sects of Lucifer’s host. Vines lashed and pinned them to the ground, immobilizing them so the horsemen could do more efficient damage.

  Elsewhere sinkholes devastated roads and railways. Landslides and earthquakes changed the geological maps of entire nations.

  A distressing knowledge opened up a pit in Aerin’s chest as she felt the final seal give way. It vibrated inside of her with that silent, terrible stillness right before an earthquake. The sky turned dark. The moon barely glowed, it was so red with blood, so smothered by volcanic ash.

  It was done.

  Goddess help them all.

  She sought Julian in the battle and found him easily. His features bot
h savage and focused, his movements controlled and choreographed, he devastated dozens at a time with his sharp spear.

  Next to him, Dru hacked at limbs and heads and Nick stood on the saddle of his horse, surfing through the horde and taking them out with three arrows at a time. With sweeps of his long scythe, Bane created a constant circle of bodies, and with their concerted efforts, they’d managed to keep the host of hell at bay.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  Taking advantage of the chaos, Lucifer advanced. She’d broken through the line of witches, and was coming straight for the stones. Her lips murmured dark incantations, and behind the ash and destruction razed everything to the ground.

  “It is done,” she said, her eyes gleaming with dark intent as she raced for them. “There is no need for you now.”

  51

  “We need more time!” Tierra shouted over the din. Keeping their hands clasped, she folded them over until she clutched at Moira’s other hand, forming a circle. “A protection spell, Quickly!”

  Now, their wands were each held by themselves, and another.

  Moira touched her wand to Aerin’s and motioned the other two to do the same. An orb of light and energy pulsed between their circle, and then, as if fed by the air of a child blowing bubbles, it undulated and grew. Encompassing them first, then expanding to cover the stones.

  “Everyone fall back!” Claire screamed into the fray.

  Now that the final seal had broken, power coursed through Aerin, but she wasn’t certain what to do with it. Something told her that if she used it to destroy, it would be lost. Diminished.

  It was meant for something else.

  But what?

  The coven helped Sunny, Barriston, and the uncles safely back into the shield just in time to watch the chomping, straining undead crash against it like a rogue wave.

  It held.

  The horsemen battled their way into the stones, pulling their mounts up short and breathing with the exertion of battle.