Chapter 4
Rumor Malefic
A loud knocking pulled me from a fitful sleep.
I tried to ignore it as I shivered under my thin quilt.
Either the coven or a monster had come to claim me—and either way, it was too damn early to contend with either one.
‘Hell hath no fury than a witch awoken before the sun,’ Matri had always said.
With a grumble, I pulled myself up and rubbed my eyes.
A stump with stick arms and short legs marched back and forth, carrying wood to drop by the fireplace.
Another struck flint and tended an ember.
Outside, the knocking continued. When I padded past the two busy, bewitched stumps, I beheld a third knocking a plank of wood in place over the hole on my house.
“I’ve never seen three looms at once before,” I said to myself more than to them since the little stumps didn’t speak.
The one amber loom I recognized, the other two seemed to be from different trees.
One pale and spotted black, the other mossy green and gnarly.
They worked on their tasks, wholly ignoring my presence.
I couldn’t fathom their obligation to this cottage.
However, it was a very old house and had been in the Malefic line for centuries.
I sent up silent thanks to whatever witch in my family line had befriended these strange, stumpy creatures, because they were saving my freezing ass right about then.
The mossy loom continued its noisy knocking, while the pale one stomped in and out of the house refilling one, and the amber one had the fire blazing to life.
With all the commotion, I abandoned sleep and sat at the kitchen table, deciding instead to glare at the black leather-bound grimoire.
“Traitor,” I hissed at the binding. Brave enough to curse at it but not quite brave enough to open it just yet.
What would it say? Would it say anything?
Could there be other spells to help me out of my current predicament?
Who had this cursed book even belonged to?
I surely wouldn’t find the answer to those quandaries by staring at the thing…
but I needed food before meddling in dark arts.
Rummaging around my almost barren kitchen, I pulled out some deer jerky and dried apricots.
It was a far cry from the bacon, eggs, and muffin spreads at the Blackthorne Castle.
I never imagined I’d miss anything about that wretched place or those miserable boys…
but the running water, “plumbing” they’d called it, and the surplus of food… well, yeah, that was nice.
Tearing jerky between my teeth and attempting to ignore the woody commotion around me, I sat at the table and stared down the grimoire. I angled my palm over the binding… finding I was indeed too chicken-shit to open it.
Despite having exercised the most power of my life… wielding dark magic strong enough to shatter buildings, call forth daimons, and slay a wither… my confidence waned on the other side of the death and destruction that thrummed within my bones.
Spade had once told me that dark magic asked for more than it gave.
The eldest Blackthorne had warned that darkness came with a price…
and if making a bargain with the mystery grimoire on my kitchen table were any indicator of truth, that piece of wisdom from Spade hadn’t been a lie.
I guessed somewhere inside him he was capable of telling the truth.
I wondered what him, Riot, and Twenty were doing at that moment. Were they back to life as normal within their castle walls? How could they lay waste to my home and my heart and walk away as if nothing happened? Leaving me buried in dirt and anguish once more.
As the cottage warmed from the fire and the meat filled my belly, my thoughts drifted back to the basement of the Blackthorne Castle.
The daimons behind bars… their opposing dark and light, their horns and massive frames…
I recalled the ferocity they unleashed on Willowspire and the monsters that plagued us.
That’s what they’d been hiding the whole time, wasn’t it?
They’re hidden selves, the daimons inside.
An affliction, a midnight curse, all the hidden clues the boys had dropped over passive conversation all made sense under the gloom and quiet of my witch house.
What a formidable pairing any one of them would be for me. Too bad they were each wretched, self-serving liars and cowards. Burying me alive and running away. Assholes. I hoped to never see them again.
No sooner did the thought enter my mind did my gaze drift to the heavy pile of muddy garments on the floor by the murky water basin.
Riot’s dagger and Spade’s watch clanked heavily to the ground as I got undressed.
Reminders that they were real, they’d existed, and they’d left me—leaving behind their stupid trinkets.
What was the point in giving them to me just to discard me so quickly?
And what of Twenty? He was supposedly my familiar.
Could a familiar do something to harm their witch?
I’d never heard of such a thing and thought it impossible.
Though, I supposed I’d never know what was truth or fiction when it came to those enigmatic men.
It had seemed I’d been played, betrayed, and cast aside.
All of such would have been worth it if Prism were in her rocking chair by the fire—where she belonged.
But no, she’d been played as well. Her fragile mind warped by a band of evil, monstrous beings.
My sister’s soul had been twisted into knots by withers to such an extent she’d turned on her own family…
turned on me… the only person truly looking out for her.
I’d done all of this for her. This was all for her. How could she?
Fresh despair squeezed at my chest. Tears threatened me as my throat constricted.
I wouldn’t cry. I certainly wouldn’t cry in front of the looms. The little, creepy, stumpy bastards would enjoy it too much.
They never liked me, even as a child. I wasn’t too fond of the nubby wooden creatures myself.
Eventually, the wall was patched—boards now covering where the front window once was. At least it was warm and looked more house-like rather than the semblance of a house. Still, the Malefic cottage fared better than most of Willowspire. That, apparently, was all my fault.
Thunder sounded as the looms slammed the door behind them, leaving me alone again.
I’d done nothing but thrum my cowardly fingernails against the binding of the grimoire.
I wanted to open it, use it, harness its spells to my benefit…
but I couldn’t shake the feeling of unease.
Like I’d done something wrong. Well, of course I’d done something wrong—I was right back where I started.
My sister was gone.
Back in my arms for but a few hours before I lost her again.
Not even killing the monster kept her with me.
Now Prism was lost to the fog, either literally or metaphorically, I couldn’t know yet.
As I awaited the coven’s call, anxiety crept into my consciousness like the thump, thump, thump of the rain droplets from the leak in the roof.
What if my coven casts me out?
What if Prism were dead?
What if the Blackthorne Boys locked themselves away for another fifty years… leaving me here alone to simmer in my hate and inadequacy?
My plight was worse than it had ever been.
However, now… now instead of cowering in fear, I waited like a bear in its cave.
Intentionally or not, my time with the dark lords had unleashed my magic.
Something ancient prowled within my blood.
Power pulsated beneath my skin. Temptation to use it hissed in my ears.
I’d exercised a great deal of power, and the fog of Asunder had indeed come… but it hadn’t taken me.
What could that mean?
Like a bear in a cave, I waited to find out.