Chapter 22
All I could hear was the pounding of my heart and the rush of blood in my ears as, for a long moment, I braced myself for impact. But it never came.
“Cricket! Jesus, are you okay?”
I looked up to find Patrick standing over me, his face a mask of concern as he tried to help me up.
My hands were stinging and scraped, but I barely felt it as the bark of dogs sounded again, closer than ever.
“We’ve g-g-got to go,” I managed through numb lips. I was soaked to the bone and shivering with some potent combination of shock and cold as he led me to the passenger’s side of his sedan.
He bundled me in, slammed the door, and ran around the other side of the car to climb in.
“We’ve got to go. Right away.” A million conflicting thoughts filled my mind like the buzzing of a hornets’ nest, all trying to be heard through the layer of shock and confusion addling my brain. “Drive around the preserve so we can find Zoe. People are chasing her. Bad people. We need to take a left on Chestnut Street. And I need to call Mee-maw,” I babbled inanely, knowing I probably sounded like a complete lunatic and not caring.
“Okay. Okay, calm down.” Patrick’s focus was on the road as he took the next corner, passing the turn off to Chestnut Street.
“Wait,” I said, “this is the wrong way, we need to turn back around to get Zoe.” Even as I said the words it hit me like a sledgehammer, right between the eyes.
Patrick showing up like some helping hand from the heavens hadn’t been some lucky coincidence. He was on their side.
Click.
I reached for the handle trying to tug the door open, but it wouldn’t budge. The child lock had been engaged.
“What are you doing?” I demanded, grabbing his arm frantically, the dull ache in my wrist from being hit with the typewriter ratcheting it up to full blown pain. I must have sprained it when I fell, but a sprain was the least of my concerns now that I’d literally handed myself over to the enemy.
“Just relax,” he said flatly, “they just want the typewriter, you’ll be fine.”
As I stared at his hard, unyielding profile, I shivered, wondering how I hadn’t seen it before. The cruel tightness around his mouth, the icy gleam in his eye.
“Patrick, let me out,” I growled, digging my nails into his arm and pulling it away from the steering wheel.
“Look Cricket, I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, pulling his arm away from me. “Just trust me for thirty minutes and this’ll all be over with. You’ll be free to go after the ritual and everything can go back to normal for you. It’s all about the typewriter.”
The news broadcast about the burglar being killed in an accident flashed in my mind and my stomach roiled with disgust. The man who had stolen my typewriter had been run over by a dark sedan…just like the one I was sitting in.
“You killed him, didn’t you? He went rogue or was working for some other faction of lunatics, stole the typewriter, and you killed him for it,” I whispered, fear like a knife through my heart as I clutched at his arm again.
He winced, his jaw clenching as he pried my hand away. “No. That wasn’t—I didn’t kill anyone, Cricket. Now stop it, the roads are slick and you’re going to get us in an accident. They’ve assured me that once they have the typewriter, you’d be free to go,” he said, frowning sadly as he turned to me. “This is just how it has to be. Magic needs to be controlled…monitored. People can’t handle that kind of power without checks and balances. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. It ruins people.”
“If they just wanted the typewriter, why wouldn’t they’ve just taken it from Connie in the first place?” I said, hoping he’d listen to reason. “I don’t even have it with me. Either they’re lying to you or you’re lying to me.”
“I made them promise you’ll be safe, Cricket, I’d never do anything to hurt you. There’s a whole bunch of stuff you don’t understand and explaining it to you would only put you in more danger. Why can’t you just trust me that this is for the best?”
Part of me—the broken, exhausted, terrified part—almost wanted to listen to him. It’d be so much easier just to go along for this ride and hope everything turned out okay.
But that wasn’t the woman Mee-maw had raised me to be. My family was in danger, and I wasn’t having it. I’d get away from Patrick and try to save them, or I’d die trying.
I waited until we slowed to take a corner and, before he could speed up again, I curled my hand into a fist and slammed it into his jaw, with all my might.
But Patrick only jerked back, barely swerving as he grabbed me by the collar.
“Stop,” he growled, pinning me against the window with his right hand while driving with his left.
I felt my skin go clammy and hot as I pushed and grabbed helplessly at his arm. His hand was like a steel band and, while he wasn’t hurting me, I certainly couldn’t escape his grasp. The rage I felt at being controlled that way was unlike any I’d ever felt. I’d grown accustomed to the hot flashes that came along with my age but this was different. Heat and fury welled up inside me, so strong, that I felt like I’d burst. All of a sudden, I heard a horrible ripping sound and the pressure was relieved, my cloudy fugue state fading. Only now we were swerving wildly to avoid a tree that had come crashing down in the middle of the road just yards in front of us.
“Damn it, hold on!” Patrick hollered.
The car began to spin out and I lost all sense of direction as we slammed into something hard with a deafening crash. My head jerked back and my teeth clacked together as we stopped short.
Head humming, I sat still for several seconds, looking around in utter shock and confusion. I turned to my left to see Patrick, the front of his head bleeding, presumably from hitting the steering wheel. He was motionless, but I could see a pulse beating in his neck. I reached over him, praying under my breath as I disengaged the child locks. Then, I shoved open the passenger’s side door and slipped out onto the ground. It took me a second to get my bearings but we were several yards away from the road, and the tree that had fallen moments earlier was laying directly across it.
In a daze, I did the only thing I could think to do and broke into a jog, getting my phone out to call 911. If I could make it back to a place with some actual cars around maybe I’d be safe to wait for the police to show up. I wouldn’t talk about magic or witches, but I could certainly fill them in on the kidnapping.
Just as I began dialing, however, a large black SUV with tinted windows came speeding directly up the road.
When would it end?
“Hello,” I said frantically into my cell phone as I turned to run.
“Hello this is 911, what is your emergency?” a woman’s voice said over the line as the car skidded to a halt.
I never had time to answer one way or the other as three men piled out of the SUV in ski masks, guns pointed in my direction. I let out a scream as one of them lunged at me, knocking my phone out of my hand. Before long, the second and third man were holding me to the ground while the first recovered my cell phone and hung up.
“Tie her hands and feet,” a man’s voice said from behind the thugs that were currently holding me down. He was clearly in charge. I couldn’t make out his features but he wore black gloves and a pair of sunglasses, forgoing the ski mask altogether.
I struggled violently as they tied me up but it was futile. “Where are you taking me?” I asked, turning around as they finished tying me up and got off my back. Every muscle ached but it was nothing compared to the slick of oily fear in my stomach.
Nobody answered but Patrick’s voice boomed from behind them as he trudged toward us, clearly disoriented. “What’s going on?” he said. “You got the typewriter, didn’t you?”
A stab of grief shot through me for Maude, but that was quickly replaced with worry as my mind shifted to Mee-maw. I silently prayed that they hadn’t hurt her when they’d taken it.
“We have it,” the man in the gloves r
esponded reluctantly, taking a few steps toward his men.
“Then why don’t we do the ritual here and now?” Patrick said. “She can finally be done with all this and we can let her go. There’s no reason to drag it out. She’s afraid, cold, and wet. Enough’s enough, fellas.”
“Think, Patrick. We can’t just let her walk away now. After all she knows? If she’d left well enough alone, it would be one thing, but the wheels are in motion. I’m afraid it’s too late.” He turned back to me and made a waving gesture at one of his men.
“Damn it, don’t—” but Patrick’s protest was cut short as pain exploded in my cranium.
A second later, everything went black.
Chapter 23
The throbbing in my head was like a heartbeat when I finally came to, and I winced as I forced my eyes open.
It was dim, and dank, the slate gray walls around me unfamiliar. I immediately hunched over my burning stomach, and it hit me again that Maude had been taken. Right on the heels of that came more bad news. I had no idea if they had Zoe, or if Mee-maw had been hurt when they’d stolen the typewriter from the house again.
All in all, worst case scenario.
“So you’re finally awake,” a low voice mused.
I turned to see a man sitting across from me, with bars in between us. He looked like he belonged in a motorcycle gang with a leather jacket, bandana, and a rough beard that stood out in sharp contrast to the almost feminine-looking necklace he wore around his throat.
“Where am I?” I hissed, rubbing my head as I pieced together the events leading up to me being knocked unconscious.
“Doesn’t matter,” he said, grabbing a tray from behind him and sliding it under a small space at the bottom of the barred door. “Enjoy that because it’ll be your last meal.” There was no anger or hate in his voice, just a matter-of-fact nonchalance.
Despite his cavalier words, the news hit me like a bombshell. I’d known this was to be the most likely outcome but now, behind bars with no hope of getting out, I found myself devastated by the realization as it truly sank in. “But…Patrick said you guys just wanted the typewriter,” I murmured inanely.
“Unfortunately for you, the ritual that makes the object useful to us also involves killing you,” he said, pausing in between words to pick at his teeth with a knife. “But it makes sense that Finneas kept the kid in the dark. He doesn’t have the same fire as the rest of us.”
Who the hell was Finneas? But that thought fizzled away as my mind shifted to Zoe. She’d just gotten her magical item as well. Did that mean they were going to kill her too? “What about my cousin?” I asked, my throat tight with terror.
“Once we had you, we didn’t bother with her. It’s not her time…yet,” he said.
Yet.
Second time for that word, and this was just as chilling as the last. Still, it was better than her being a cell over getting ready for the same fate as me. Memories of my cousin flashed through my brain and tears began to well in my eyes. If she just ran away now, somewhere far away with Mee-maw, they might be able to make it, but she’d never leave after realizing that I’d been captured and killed.
I steeled myself, drying my tears and resolving to find some nugget of hope, no matter how hopeless the situation seemed.
“And my grandmother? Did they kill her when they took the typewriter?” It was the question I’d been dreading most, and I tried not to weep as I asked it.
“Of course not.” He eyed me and then shook his head.
I barely held back a shuddering sigh as he continued.
“She and your cousin are being watched by a guard to make sure they don’t cause any trouble before we have a chance to complete the ritual.”
That was something, at least, and I felt like a weight had been lifted off my chest.
When I looked back up, the guard was staring at the tray of food he’d given me.
“Are you gonna eat that or no? I’m getting a little peckish myself. It’s been so busy, we haven’t had a chance to eat since breakfast.”
I looked down at the tray, which had some kind of watery soup and a piece of bread, and shook my head.
“You can take it,” I said, keeping my voice low and even. Maybe if I kept him talking and happy, he’d let his guard down some.
He nodded in thanks as I pushed the tray back under the door and ripped off a big piece of the bread with his teeth.
I waited a minute or so for him to eat before continuing our conversation. “Since I’m not going to be alive to tell anyone anyway, how about you fill me in on what’s going on? Who are you guys? What’s the goal here?”
“It’s all pretty simple actually,” he said with a shrug. “We call ourselves the Organization. In order to protect the world from witches, we kill them and take their magical objects in order to use them to control a variety of aspects of the worlds at large. You can think of us kind of like the fabled Illuminati, except real.”
Son of a…
Despite the dire situation I almost let out a crack of absurd laughter as I thought of how spot-on Mee-maw had been. “So why all the secrecy and subterfuge when you could’ve just killed me right away?”
“That’s a bit more complicated,” he said, pausing to take a final bite of the bread. “Magical items are useless without a source of magic. Non-witches like those of us in the Organization don’t have the ability to produce magical energy to imbue the items with. Historically, most witches we’ve found have already done us the favor of developing their powers on their own. In cases like yours, however, we have to let you develop your powers first to charge your item. It’s regrettable that we couldn’t let you develop even further but we’re too short on magical resources to risk dealing with your cousin and you at the same time—too much power at once—so we had to cut your time off early. The typewriter is strong enough to be of use now. We’ll just have to make do.”
“Why couldn’t you just force us to grow our powers after catching us?” I asked, happy that Zoe would at least have some time to figure everything out in the likely case that I didn’t make it out of this.
“Talkative, aren’t ya? I feel like I’m on a TV interview or something,” he said, chuckling. He paused for a second before shrugging. “We’ve found that magic doesn’t develop under duress. You can’t force it. Believe me, we’ve tried. In fact, the less pressure and stress, the better. We tried to keep you in the dark as much as possible about the fact that you were even being watched.”
“Then what was with the guy breaking into my house?”
He laughed. “A low-level lackey without top secret clearance. That idiot tried to steal the typewriter for himself, not realizing that in order to use it and keep it from returning to you over and over, he’d have to kill you. Idiot. Any more questions? I’ve gotta go hit the toilet.” He spat on the ground with the last words, as if to accentuate his boorishness.
“And Connie? How is she involved with all this?” I asked.
“A pawn,” he said, waving me off. “We watched as she did the legwork in finding you for us and reuniting you with your item, then we made sure she kept quiet using magic from another item we’d harvested.”
Her huge change in behavior between when she’d first given me the typewriter and all of my encounters with her after made much more sense in this light. They must’ve gotten to her right after she gave it to me.
I was about to pepper him with more questions, finally feeling like I was getting a handle on this all, but he stood and turned.
“I’ll be back shortly. Don’t go anywhere,” he said with a grin at his “wit.” Then, he was gone.
Despite that my body hurt all over, and tried to stretch and move, I had to make use of my brief period of alone time to find a way out of this cell, if one even existed. Looking at the door for only a brief moment brought memories of Zoe’s lockpicking to mind. I looked at my surroundings, trying to think of what I could use as a pick, and I realized I was wearing just the thing. I pulled
off one of my small hoop earrings, bent it quickly with my hands and teeth, and pushed my arm through the bars of the door to feel for the keyhole.
I picked at it for several minutes, not really knowing what my objective even was. It turned out that picking a lock was harder than I’d been expecting, and I cursed myself for not paying more attention to Zoe. I heard a set of footsteps at the door and pulled my arm back into the cell, hiding the earring in my pocket.
Time for plan B.
“That’s better,” he said, sighing as he patted his belly and let out a belch. “How’d you make out while I was gone? Think of any good ways to escape? You witches always try.”
I almost wanted to ask how many times he’d done this before but I realized I didn’t want to know the answer. Escape was seeming less and less likely by the second and I didn’t need any more negativity getting thrown into the mix.
“I’m ready to be done with this mess, if I’m being honest. What are you guys waiting for, anyway?” I said, trying to get a gauge on how much time I had left.
“Tradition,” he said, making a face like he had a bad taste in his mouth. “Some of the higher ups have some rather quaint and dated notions that performing the ritual at midnight makes a difference in the quality of the magic in the item. If it was up to me, I’d have made you say the words and gutted you the moment you woke up. Instead”—he looked at his watch—“I have to sit around here doing nothing for another half hour.” He sighed as if he was the one inconvenienced by all this.
Thirty minutes or less to think of a way out of this place. I clearly wasn’t going to be able to win a guy like this over, because he had zero emotions about the situation, and lacked even a hint of empathy. So what options did I even have when I was trapped in a room with no weapons or tools available?
A lesson from Mee-maw flashed in my mind. Never start a fight, but if a fight starts, make sure you finish it.
As I looked at the hulking man outside, I almost laughed at how awful my situation was. I’d tried to punch Patrick and look how that had turned out? Even if I managed to get him, how would I get past the other members that were doubtless waiting outside? But through the vague fog of memories from the rest of my night from hell, something else I’d done with Patrick flitted to the surface.
Writing Wrongs: Crow’s Feet Coven, Book One Page 18