“So be it,” my grandmother thundered, but these were notwords of submission. Ominous storm clouds assembled in the sky, obstructing the moon and stars. The clearing plunged into a darkness not even the embers of the once-blazing fire could stave away. “Alara, run.”
Not needing to be told twice, I sprinted away from the witch. I’d barely put enough distance between us when the Vanorans struck.
Acting as if they shared one mind, they lifted their tridents and blasted water at the Crow. Before their blows could find their mark, she saltated away.
My eyes darted around the clearing, searching for the witch. There was no sign of her—had she fled? Surely not. She would never let me go without a fight—not after the decades she had spent plotting to ensnare me. But where was she?
Everyone went still. The only sound was the rain, now battering down upon us. Still, the Vanorans remained poised to strike.
The beat of my heart was like a hummingbird’s in flight as I surveyed the scene and readied my own powers to react.
The corpses continued to circle my friends, the maglocuni snarling like demonic guard dogs. Amalie whimpered, her face drained of all color.
I have to save them.I needed to move before the Crow came back to finish what she started. Swallowing my fear, I took a slow step forward, when—
“I hope you don’t mind, I brought some friends,” came the Crow’s voice from behind us.
My body gave an involuntary jerk.
As one, we turned to find the Crow standing at the bottom of the mound. To her left stood two females dressed completely in black, scarves covering the lower half of their faces. To her right stood a pallid male with flaming red hair and a single, angry scar snaking down the left side of his face. Each of the newarrivals sported a witch’s mark on their right hand, and not one of them was armed.
My stomach hollowed out.
“Seize her,” drawled the Crow, her voice uncharacteristically low.
Lightning cracked like a whip, followed by a monstrous growl of thunder.
Chaos erupted.
The Vanorans launched water blasts on the witches with brutal efficiency. The witches moved quickly, conjuring shields to protect themselves. From behind their shields, they shot spears of dark power towards the Vanorans. The unlucky few who were hit fell to their knees, sobbing and crying out for help. But it wasn’t pain etched on their features; it was terror.
My legs were already in motion. I had no intention of being seized or speared with darkness.The others—how are the others?My eyes fell on my friends, and my heart came to a standstill at the sight.
The Crow’s undead puppets had attacked. Tarben and Filip fought, shielding Amalie, but Hugo fell to the ground, disarmed and screaming in agony—one of the maglocuni had bitten his leg. Before the beast could strike again, a stream of water poured into its mouth, eyes, and nose. Any living thing would suffocate from such an attack, but, for this creature, it was only enough to incapacitate it while four Vanorans—one of them shifted into polar bear form—rushed to assist my friends.
I sped past them, keeping low and carefully avoiding the fray that had broken out between living and dead. I needed to keep moving. But, as I reached the wood pile, an errant spear of dark power slammed into me, knocking the breath from my lungs and the dagger from my hand, and sending me tumbling to the muddy ground.
Blackness.
Blackness and silence engulfed everything. A cavern? Or another realm stitched in obsidian fabric?
Pushing myself up off the ground, I tasted blood on my tongue. Blood and soil. I spat it out, then wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.
I reached for the throb on the back of my head. No lump, but I saw stars every time I shut my eyes.
I looked around—I wasn’t alone.
Bodies. Bodies everywhere.
I was in the clearing outside the cottage, but everyone was dead. Desperately, frantically, I combed through the deceased, praying.
Beside the cauldron, I found them bundled on top of one another as though carelessly discarded: Filip and Hugo and Amalie and Tarben. All glassy-eyed and lifeless. Next to them lay an unmoving figure, porcelain skin blemished with cuts and bruises.
My grandmother.
I fell to my knees, buried my face in my hands, and wailed.
“Alara.” My name was a rasp on my grandmother’s lips.
