The Witch and His Crow (The Witch Trials #1)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

A storm ruled the sky the night my parents were murdered.

I’d never forget the snakes of lightning cutting through ominous clouds, or the way the droplets hammered against our Victorian sashed windows so loudly it was as if something was warning us of the foreboding event that was about to take place.

The storm had begun in the morning, forcing my mother to rush me to school beneath her umbrella. I’d woken only hours before, pleading and screaming that I didn’t want to go in. Salem Tanner would steal my Legos and pinch me, I’d told her, but to no avail. All it took was the promise of chocolate pancakes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner—and mother teasing about sending nasty creatures after Salem—to get me out the door.

We skipped over puddles as though it was some game, laughing when our boots filled with muddy water. In hindsight, it was our way of taking our minds off the strange feeling which had seeded in our guts—a feeling which had only grown throughout the day, sinking roots into my soul and showing no signs of ever releasing.

We should have listened. A witch’s intuition never lied. By nightfall, it would be my life’s greatest regret.

Everything happened so fast. As evening swept over Oxford, bringing with it a bitter autumn wind, doom arrived like one of the four horsemen. Supper was ruined, my mother’s wine glass tipped over in her urgency to snatch me from my seat.

‘No matter what you hear, do not move.’ My mother’s nails had bitten into my upper arm, breaking skin. I knew she didn’t mean to hurt me, but fear had taken over her. Her breath smelled as it always did, of sharp, sour berries, even if she never ate berries at all. It wasn’t until years later I knew why.

‘Tell me you understand, Hector. I need to hear you say it.’

I nodded, tears stinging my eyes, my vision blurred. ‘Yes, Mummy. I understand.’ My reply seemed to calm her, if only for a moment.

The lines creased across her forehead lessened, her pupils widening like dark caves. I was six years old, and I had never seen her cry before. Now, her expression mirrored mine. It was unnerving, watching my great protector crumble before my eyes.

‘Peter, secure the boundaries,’ my mother had shouted to my father.

I looked to him, my ever stoic and silent protector, rushing through the living room at her back, spitting on his fingers before running them over the windowsills. A charm, or hex, I couldn’t be sure. Why he wasted his time playing pretend with old magics, I’d never understand. Those powers had faded away a long, long time ago. My mother had brought me up on the old tales of grand witches using nature to do their bidding. One story I loved the most was about Eleanor Letcombe, better known as the last witch, who died on a pyre and in doing so forever changed the course of a witch’s abilities. Shedding old magic for new.

Our plates had been left upon the table, hardly a scrap of food touched before the atmosphere had changed. Within seconds my parents had gone from hiding their pride when I told them I knocked Salem’s bricks over using only my mind, to snatching me from my seat and wrenching me to standing. Only when my back was pressed against the cold bricks of our fireplace could I finally comprehend what we were about to face.

Death. It hung in the air, a scent like an orchard of rotten apples. At least, that scent was the promise of it.

‘I’m scared,’ I said, clutching onto my mother. I didn’t have nails to bury into her skin, forcing her to stay by my side. So, I did the next best thing. Reaching out to my gift, I wrapped cords of invisible string around her waist, refusing to let her take a step away.

Telekinesis, my mother called it. I’ll never forget the day it manifested and the elation on her face as I lifted one of my toy cars from the carpet during a tantrum. Even when it sliced a clean cut on her cheek, she looked at me as though I had solved one of life’s greatest mysteries.

Even at six, I knew there was a pressure to come from being the son of the Grand High. If I didn’t manifest a gift, I would’ve been an embarrassment to my family, and a waste to witch-kind.

‘Take that fear, and turn it to something useful,’ mother had replied. ‘Do it for me.’

‘I can’t, I don’t know how.’ Being frightened was the right emotion, even if I felt like a flock of birds battled beneath my little ribs, cawing and flapping for a way out.

‘The world can be a dangerous place,’ she replied, kneeling before me, taking my cheeks in both her hands. Soft hands, like silk. Her fingers caught my tears, clearing them away. I felt the cool metal of her wedding ring leave an imprinted line in my flesh.

I did the same, raising a hand to her cheek, capturing her tear like a jewel on the tip of my finger. ‘Why are you crying?’

‘There are few who wish to see us thrive, and more so who would seek to ruin us.’ I didn’t understand her answer then, not completely. But the feeling never wavered. The intuition. The sense of impending danger—a thorn breaking into the shield that was my home, my family.

‘Heather,’ my father called, voice thunderous as his gaze. Haloed by the window, his outline flared as stark purple-white light cut across the sky. His usually neatly parted hair was now a mess of curls, curls I longed to touch, to take a cutting of it, so I could eternally tie him to me. Even my young mind knew it would be the last time I could see every fine detail of him and drink it in. ‘They’re here.’

They’re here. Two words I did understand.

‘Hector, my darling, it’s time to play hide and seek. We’ve practiced this. You’re the world’s best at hiding, aren’t you my boy?’ Her smile was forced. It pained me, deep in my core, seeing how hollow her stare was compared to the pinched rise of her lips.

I couldn’t reply. Fear choked back my words.

‘Quickly,’ my father hissed, refusing to look at me.

It was not shouting nor screams that my father heard, but a feeling he sensed. As though the air was charged with the promise of danger. It was as if the lightning entered our home uninvited and left its mark fizzing in the air.

‘Hide with me,’ I begged.

Mother simply shook her head, more tears falling. ‘You will forever be my brave boy, Hector.’

It was funny how, even at six, I sensed the goodbye lingering beneath her words.

‘I don’t want to play. Please don’t make me.’ I jutted my chin in defiance, unable to form another word. Deep in my belly, the beast stirred. Only when my mother laid a hand on it, stifling the feeling, did it simmer down.

‘You must.’ Her breath was perfumed with the sour bite of something I was too young to place.

It took little for mother to pull free of my power. I could barely hold a colouring pencil from a table for a few seconds without tiring, so forcing her to stay with me was years from being a possibility.

She leaned in a pressed a kiss to my forehead, her cool exhale disturbing the same curly hair my father had. Except mine was a dirty sand colour, just like my mother’s. My mother who slowly drew back, cheeks red and wet with tears.

‘I love you, Hector. To the moon and back.’

I swallowed, forcing the vicious lump that rose in my throat. ‘Then stay. If you love me, you’ll hide with me. Me, you, and daddy.’

‘ Caym , I call on thee,’ Mother called out, her voice oozing the command I was not used to hearing. In response, a groan echoed at my back, the sound of a waking beast. If I looked behind me I knew what I would find. The gaping mouth of darkness as mother opened her favourite hiding place—a place she had always made me run to during our games . Games I would one day realise the sick reality behind. She was never playing with me, but preparing me for this very moment.

‘Close your eyes,’ Mother commanded. A creeping yawn sounded behind me. Deep in the cold belly of the fireplace, where stacks of wood and old cinders would be, was now nothing but shadow. Waiting arms, ready to embrace me, when all I wanted was the warm hold of my parents.

But I did as she asked, not because I wanted to, but because she willed it. Her power was strong. Before my eyes shut, I saw her gaze shift towards the shadows at my back. I couldn’t see who she spoke to, but I knew her next command wasn’t for me.

‘Protect him. Keep my son from them. All of them. Our allies and our foes.’

‘Who are you talking to, mummy?’ I asked, unable to look at the swell of darkness behind me. I was scared, but I wasn’t sure why. ‘What key?’

‘Shield my child with your life.’ She didn’t reply, not to me at least. ‘Swear it.’

‘ I swear to it ,’ came a voice I’d never heard before. It was rasped and hoarse, like grating of stones or the shattering of glass. There was nothing pleasant about it. The darkness had always been a silent entity, it shouldn’t have a voice. Except now, the shadows at my back spoke.

Mother was wide eyed as she gave another command to the dark. ‘Bahmet must never be freed again. This ends tonight.’

‘ I shall guard the key. As you request. ’

I peered behind me and saw beady black eyes of a monster. Before I could jolt away from it, pinching my eyes closed and pretending nothing waited at my back, the voice came again. Not only did it sound from behind me, it also echoed within me.

‘Who is Bah.’ I asked, but mother slapped her hand over my mouth, stopping me from finishing.

‘Never speak his name,’ my mother hissed, furious and panicked. That alone had me swallowing the name to the pits of my stomach. She withdrew her hand, as if she realised what she’d done and regretted it. ‘It is important you make this promise to me, Hector. You will never speak it. Names have power, you must remember that.’

‘Please, I don’t like this game. Mummy, I’m scared.’

She drew me in, laid her chin atop my head and sobbed. I felt her fingers draw strange symbols on the back of my head, and suddenly I forgot what she’d shouted at me about. That name slipped out of my mind, losing all meaning, until it was nothing but letters swimming pointlessly in the dark of my mind.

‘I wish I could tell you that the world is safe, but I will not lie to you.’ Mother said as she finally drew me back. But she didn’t look at me, but at the monster behind me. The intensity of her stare, part furious and another part sorrowful, frightened me more than any of her strange words. ‘Stay away from them. Our allies and enemies are all but the same.’

Not but a second later, she pushed me into the waiting shadows. In my mind, mother spoke about Salem. He was my enemy, only a six-year-old and still he lived to upset me. I had an image of my school bully stomping up to our front door, ready to zap me with his Gift.

But it was not Salem who was coming for us. It was someone far worse. Someone who didn’t just want to steal my Lego blocks, but burn everything I loved to the ground.

Without my sight, I couldn’t determine what touched me in the dark. A cool, soft brush of what felt like feathers, as though a bird encased me within its wings, drawing me back into my hiding place. It was comforting—welcome almost, but I struggled against it until I knew my attempt was futile, my mother’s fingers slipping away until there was nothing left but feather and darkness.

I couldn’t see past the wall of dark. Not even my sense of smell worked here. But what I was left with was my hearing. It was stronger than it had been before. So much that I heard every minute detail.

Footsteps, many of them. Wood cracked. Thunder rumbled. My father shouted something but his voice was cut off. The sound that followed was like gurgling water filling his throat, spluttering out and splashing against the ground. One day I would understand the sound blood made when it choked a person, but in that moment, it was water because I was a child and didn’t understand such violence.

I would, in time.

My mind painted an image in response to the noise that followed. More footsteps, furniture breaking, plates shattering, glass cracking. Feathers filled my mouth so I couldn’t cry out. No matter how hard I bit down on them, trying everything to break free and help, the hold tightened as the darkness swelled and thickened.

The song of chaos continued.

I could hear my mother, calling out with a voice that oozed power and control. ‘I call upon the elements, air, earth, fire?—.’

I gagged on my cry as her song was silenced. My hearing stretched out, desperate to hear her say something else…to prove that she was ok. I preferred the sound of her struggling to the silence.

Noise proved she still lived.

It could have been minutes the struggle went on, or hours. All the while I was forced to listen to my parent’s struggle, blinded by a shadow beast that held me in place. When that dreaded silence finally came, I wept harder than I had before. I waited for mother to come and get me, for father to reach into the shadows and pull me out.

No one came.

‘It is not a common sight to see a witch kneel.’ The voice that spoke was strange to me. Not as deep as my fathers, slightly huskier as though smoke filled his lungs or stones his throat. ‘Take it in, my son. Do you see the monster?’

I know the person was not speaking to me. No one knew I was here, lurking in the darkness. If only I could see beyond the shadows, if only I could make out who the person was and who he spoke to.

‘Yes, father.’

My ears pricked at the sound of the lighter voice. It was higher in pitch, like mine. I conjured the image of a child not much older than me, someone I could have played alongside at school or in the park. Except they sounded…sad.

I knew the feeling. I shared it with them.

‘Here, take it and prove yourself useful.’ The older voice said. ‘Show me you can do your duty.’

‘But… but it won’t kill her.’

Kill her . Mother. The child had to be talking about my mother.

‘No, my son, but it will hurt. It will cause the demon pain. Agony. Torment. It will award her a fraction of the evil that her kind has given us. Look at her, see into her eyes.’

‘I’m looking, father.’

‘And what do you see?’

A pause, broken only by a slight sniffle. ‘A monster.’

‘And what do we do to monsters, my boy?’

‘Hunt them.’

‘Yes, we do. Hunters by blood. Now…’ The voice grew quieter for a moment, as though the adult was leaning down and whispering into the younger child’s ear. ‘Punish her for existing in our world, for tainting it with the monster she harbours. Then we shall burn her, cleanse her body and soul, and free her back to the pits of hell she came from.’

My heart lodged in my throat, far enough up that I couldn’t breathe between it and the feathers suffocating me. I clawed at them, prying them free, wishing for just a chance to see my mother, to prove that they were speaking of another person instead, and not her.

‘Kill me,’ my mother snapped. Relief that she still lived was followed by the horror that her life was endangered. ‘But you will not have access to what you desire, Tomin.’

Footsteps were followed by a gasp from my mother. I couldn’t see what the man was doing to her, but the pain in her voice was clear as day. ‘If you didn’t poison yourself, you would be able to stop us. Give it to me, and I will spare you.’

‘No,’ came my mother’s defiant cry. It cut over the room, silencing Tomin.

‘Then you are of no use to me.’

What followed was a final command. ‘Do it. Kill her.’

That froze me. I clapped my hands over my ears, longing to block out the sounds. But what I heard next was loud and demanding. Over and over, the thudding of metal against flesh. Thud. Thud. Thud. I could hear a child crying, and I knew it wasn’t me. The thudding didn’t stop until long after my mother ceased making sounds. When it did, the child’s crying continued. It wasn’t me, although tears were streaking down my face. It came from beyond the shadows, deep in the belly of my living room, with its rich navy-painted walls and polished dark-oak floors.

A floor likely puddled with blood.

‘Well done, my son.’ The deeper voice worked into me, burying deep into my bones. Tomin. That was what my mother had called him. Only repeating that name over and over in my mind could cut through the thud , thud , thud of metal biting into flesh.

‘Is…she gone?’ The child choked out, voice shivering.

‘For now, my son. You did it, you’ve slain the Grand High. Now, we burn her body, so Bahmet can never damn another soul again.’

By the time the shadow being released me, the Hunters were long gone. I stepped free from the shadows, fire reflecting off my eyes, the heat hissing over my skin.

Because there, inches before the fireplace, both my parents lay, bodies encased in flame and melted flesh. Father’s skull is caved in, the oozing brain matter leaking across our rattan rug. But it was the clean slice across his neck that had clearly ended his life.

Mother looked peaceful, hands laid beside her punctured chest, a bloodied athame—a ritual dagger—discarded on the floor beside her. The fire crept over her legs, devouring skin and catching on her blue floral dress.

Beneath the roaring flames and the crackling skin, I paced towards the knife and picked it up. The bone handle was still warm, not from the fire but from the child who had held it, the child who had driven it into my mother over and over.

I turned the handle, knowing the symbol was going to be waiting for me before I saw it. The crucifix captured within the circle—the mark of a witch hunter.

My little hands tightened, knuckles paling to the hue of fresh snow.

‘ Come, child, I shall protect you. ’

I turned around, ready to face the monster who waited for me. What I found was a crow, perched on the mantle above the fireplace, studying me. I knew without doubt that it was the crow who spoke to me.

It opened its wings, shadows spilling from its feathers as it flapped and cawed. This time, I didn’t need to be pushed into the dark. I stepped into it willingly, finally accepting the creature who’d swaddled me as my parents were murdered.

The darkness reached out once again, embracing me as something feral wormed its way out of my heart. It crept out from the fine cracks, freeing itself.

It was hatred, it was anger but mostly, it was hunger .

Hunger for revenge.

Hunger for death.

Hunger for the Hunters.