I never asked for it, but that’s the crux of inevitability: it’s unavoidable, inescapable. Which is why I spend my free time exterminating the vermin from the streets; to attempt penance, however small and undeserved.
If I’d had a choice, I wouldn’t have lived this wretched life. My family has been the monarchy of Salem’s underworld for centuries, but this—ruling as crime lords—was never in the original plan.
Grandpapa Lucian taught me our history before he passed away, unknowingly engraving on my psyche how far we’ve strayed from our origins. The Morgensterns had built a reputation in the city’s black market during the days of the infamous witch trials. Our ancestors had been saviors of a sort, a resource for people to go to for herbal remedies to spiritual influence, protection against malevolent magic. Regardless of how ridiculous it all sounded growing up, it also sounded like something of a dream.
Now, the Morgensterns are known to be ruthless criminals not even the cops dare to fuck with.
“We have an unwelcome guest,” Papa replies. “I need you to eradicate them before they can cause more damage than they already have.”
Every vertebra in my spine locks. We haven’t had a turf war in Salem since our battle with the Volkovs. I grew up during the bloody nightmare. Grandpapa Lucian was reigning at the time. So many lives had been lost between our families. Innocents were cannon fodder, friends were collateral, family was quarry.
The only reason we won the war was because the Volkovs turned on themselves. They shredded each other apart like rabid wolves. Leaving the remaining Volkovs working for us.
My jaw unlocks enough for me to rasp, “What has this unwelcome guest done?”
“So far, they’ve poached some of our best mercenaries and arms dealers, along with a few informants and chemists. Clientele are already closing their contracts with us. Whoever they are, they’ve tipped the hourglass, and we’re very quickly running out of time. At this rate, we will be nothing but another dead legend in this city.”
I detect something in his voice I’ve never heard before: fear.
Alexander Morgenstern may be many things, but frightened is never one of them. Fear is his sword. He’s the master, not the slave.
“What aren’t you telling me?” I ask carefully, kicking off from the panes and pacing to subdue my own rising anxiety. There’s no reply for so long, I check the screen to make sure the call hasn’t dropped. “Papa? Are you still there?”
“This is how the last war started.” Even though his voice is clear, he sounds as distant as the moon. “Your grandpapa plucked the Volkovs’ forces one at a time until their house of cards caved in. He didn’t stop there. He targeted their entire bloodline, leaving alive only those who swore themselves and their lineages to the Morgenstern name. If this intruder is starting where my father did…”
Then our crooked empire will fall, and the entire Morgenstern dynasty passed down since the age of torches and pitchforks will crumble to ash and ruin.
All thoughts of light and laughter sink to the depths of the Atlantic as suspicion rises from the deep. “Could it be the Volkovs?”
“No.” Papa’s credence cuts through my theory. “What’s left of that family remains loyal to us. This is someone else. Use whatever resources you need. Find out who it is, and bring me their head.”
Some might question why he’s ordering his own daughter to hunt down the enemy. But this is the man who raised me to rule on my feet rather than serve on my back.
I can still picture it, clear as the moon and the stars in the night sky above. Us, standing in an old chemical factory. Me, with a book cradled to my small chest. Him, replacing that book with a knife and pointing to a man on his knees and begging for his life.
While other little girls my age were dreaming about castles and fairytales, I’d been death’s right hand.
I may be the daughter of a king, but I am no princess nor a damsel in need of protecting. I know how to protect myself.
I know how to kill.
“Hai,Papa,” I vow, sharp as the blade I was forged to be. “Consider it done.”
WITCH HUNT
Brontë
Mozart flits across the studio speakers as I sew the ruby-dyed hide of a cannibal onto Quinn’s copy ofCarmilla.
My needle and glittering gold thread move in time with each rising note and melancholy chord. Dantë claims I’m a psychopath for listening to classic symphonies as I weave the dead together for sale on my Etsy shop. As if Taylor Swift would be more fitting.
In truth, no other music can soothe my senses so easily overwhelmed by the hum of the exhaust fans, the burn of toxic ammonia fumes, and the rancid sweetness of decay always slithering beneath. You’d think working in a morgue would acclimate me to death’s stench. But befriending death is almost as concerning as having the dead talk back to you.
“Brontë?”
My hands stop moving. The stainless steelC-curved needle is stuck halfway through ringing the hide. I stare at the splayed book facing me cover-up from the worktable. Dim fluorescence filtering from the overhead recess lights casts dark shadows upon a cat’s golden eye embedded beneath the title as a surprise for Quinn. It’s staring back at me like it canfeelwhat I’m doing to its skin. I swear it twitches in its glass casing,blinkingat me.
“Brontë.”
