6. Six, Six, Six
Six, Six, Six
Rumor Malefic
Despite my disappointment, something possessed me to toss the black book of nonsense into my bag and bring it with me on my outing.
The good witch in me said to hand it over to the coven.
Maybe they’d find some hidden property within it that could lead us to Prism.
No doubt that would be the order of business for our solstice meeting.
We’d devise a plan, they’d help, we’d figure it out.
The thought kept my feet moving, my new little silver shadow of a cat prancing behind me.
Willowspire appeared to be drifting slowly from its gloom.
It felt the same as it did after a rapture.
Our foundation shaken. The fragility of our survival made terrifyingly evident.
Every rapture or every brush with the evil withers that plagued the woods, was like discovering a nest of snakes beneath the foundation of a home.
The realization that the evil from hushed legends weren’t mere tales buried in campfire stories but a real and tangible thing lurking just below our feet, just outside our walls, herding us like a pack of wolves, and we were the helpless sheep awaiting their teeth.
And my innocent little sister was trapped within the maw of a beast—if she was even still alive.
No, no, no. I couldn’t think like that. Prism was soft and kind, but I’d taught her how to survive.
Malefic women were clever, and even without magic running through her veins, she’d still be looked after by the Malefic spirits beyond.
They’d look after her until I could. I had to believe that, or I’d lose it and succumb to the despair clawing within my chest.
The bakery was closed.
Bishop Quarry’s chapel was also closed and the bell didn’t ring on the hour.
A little boy ran barefoot through the square, slashing the air with a wooden sword before his mother yanked his arm, ushering him back to some hidden place of perceived safety.
As if the monsters couldn’t find him. As if the rapture wouldn’t take him should he show any magical ability beyond digging holes or mending fences.
As cobblestones trailed behind me, a dirt road greeted me—the rolling hills of the thorny graveyard rippled up to the jagged onyx castle beyond. Anger roiled within me, and I was grateful to have it replace my sorrow, so I tended its blaze as I marched toward the stables.
“Hey, little boy, ya know what could have protected us better than a wooden sword?” I said lowly to myself. “Those wretched, good-for-nothing, Blackthorne Boys.”
The cat meowed.
“That’s right,” I repeated, glancing at his two different colored eyes: one copper, one green.
“Lords should protect their own. Provide, defend, manage. What do ours do? Disappear for over fifty years. I bet if they wanted, they could have Prism back to me in an instant—what with their resources and power. But no, they’re sitting on their asses doing nothing while we all drop like flies at their feet. ”
Lords had more magical permissions than us common folk.
Lords ruled over townships and had an arsenal of protective abilities at their disposal.
They were entrusted by the great and wicked Asunder to use their wicked wiles over their given towns.
Though, apparently, no one gave a shit about Willowspire—evil overlord Asunder included.
Soot trotted ahead, seemingly knowing exactly where I was going. Smart cat smelt a rat.
Pushing through the swinging gate, I marched onto the Viper Farm.
A part of me wanted to be like the witches within my coven, always focused on the light, the beauty, and gentle way of life and magic.
The softness that Prism embodied. The gentleness of Charm’s songs or the tenderness of Chicory’s green enchantments.
Even the life giving love of Empath’s kitchen witchery, or the formality of Whimsical’s ceremonial witchdom.
Those traits evaded me like water through open fingers. Instead, there was a fire inside me. Raging, churning, ruthless and desperate for oxygen and a bit of a breeze on dry grass. Goddess, the way I wanted to torch the Viper Farm to the ground, burning Birch and his despicable brothers with it.
The sounds of a gallop and neighing horse floated over the ring of a man’s scolding.
Birch chased after the umber stallion, lunging for its reins and stumbling forward as the horse evaded him.
Swearing as sweat pooled down his back, he marched to the enclosure gate and grabbed a riding crop, snapping it to the ground in warning.
The horse reared back, careening for its freedom.
Before he could strike, I called out, “Guess horses aren’t fond of cowards either, huh? ”
Birch spun around and looked at me with a pale expression.
As I neared, two of his brothers sauntered out from whatever barn hole they were lurking in.
Hemlock, always clumsy and brash, was the shortest of them but still taller than me, and despite the good eighty pounds he had on me, I could take him down if I needed to.
Adder, on the other hand, the eldest Viper brother—well, he gave me some pause.
Tall and muscular in an unappealing way that made his arms and chest look like a sack of hammers, he was the best hunter in town.
Skilled with a bow and sword—though he didn’t need them.
One summer on a boar hunt, he brought down a three-hundred-pound animal with just his bare hands and a pocketknife.
No doubt the once-over he gave me as he approached was to assess where he’d slice his dagger first.
When we were children, we’d play together.
My mother had even suggested we’d make a good wedding match.
She was often right, but that time she was very wrong.
While hate might have churned within me, violence ruminated within Adder.
His need for it, his search for blood, any blood, animal, human, innocent, guilty, whether it be by hunting, fighting, or butchering animals on his family farm, he found an excuse to kill.
Maybe I hated him because Adder was me if I were born a man. Thank the goddess he didn’t possess any magical abilities. At least, none I was aware of or he was public with. Though his skills at snaring could have been considered beyond the ordinary luck of the arrow.
Where’d they been during the wedding? Why hadn’t they fought for Prism, fought to protect the town from the withers? My life was a constant lament against weak men who did too little and boasted too much. Blackthorne Disappointments. Viper Weaklings.
In my determined pursuit, I hadn’t considered landing upon the entire Viper brotherhood, but I should have known they’d all be sticking together like the weak little insects that they were.
“Rumor,” Adder Viper greeted, leaning on the worn fence post between us. “How’s your sister?”
A huff left my throat, and I fought the red building in my vision. “Better she be with a monster than a coward.” I cut Birch a withering stare.
Hemlock urged his older brother. “Don’t waste your time on her. Rumor’s always been nothing more than a barking, toothless, old dog. Just a stray bitch, you could say.”
The men laughed, though Birch stayed back a few steps beyond his pacing, agitated horse.
“If I’m so weak, why does your gutless brother need two bodyguards?
” Ignoring their steeled glares, I climbed the fence, not caring if I looked ridiculous doing so in my purple dress.
I made to walk past Adder when his hard grip landed on my shoulder, firmly stopping me in my tracks.
It was then I realized I was alone with three large men, on their farm, on their turf, far outside town.
No one would hear me scream. No one would immediately come looking for me.
The mounting terror as that awareness sank in under the palm of Adder was an ancestral key that unlocked a new level of hate.
Men always got away with entirely too much while accomplishing entirely too little.
And the fire within me burned.
Something pulsated against my back, and I was suddenly cognizant of the book that accompanied me on my trek. Likewise, my cat companion stood a few feet away, its eyes as fierce as a predator five times its size as it watched our interaction.
A book and a cat shouldn’t have comforted or emboldened me—perhaps I was delirious from pain and loss—I no longer had anything to lose. Death lingered over me and would be drawn in any tarot deck life would hand me.
There’s a peace in accepting death.
There’s also a hysteria in accepting death.
I think this was the hysteria part.
Turning on my heel, I kicked the back of Adder’s knee while grabbing his fingers and pushing them upward with all my might in a move my matri taught me when I was a child.
“ Men rely so much on their strength that they forget balance ,” she said.
She was right, and the eldest Viper boy stumbled backward, falling on a knee as I shoved his hand upward. Hemlock grabbed his brother then as he grunted in outrage and lurched forward. Dust kicked up around them as if he were now the errant, unbroken horse.
“I might be a bitch with a bark, but I most certainly bite.” I grinned, sure to flash my toothiest smile. “I’ll only be a moment with your brother. I’ll leave him in better shape than I left you, don’t worry.”
“Malefic whore ,” Adder spat, finally shrugging off Hemlock and dusting off his pants.
“Go, say what you wish. Your moms are dead, you’ve let your sister be slain, and you’ll be dead next.
” Anger clamped my teeth together as my nails plunged into the whites of my palms. He stepped closer and pushed a finger into my chest. “Your filthy, nothing, family line dies with your incompetence.” He smirked.
“You couldn’t even get Birch to show up to fuck the good-looking one of the easy, harlot, Malefic sisters. ”