7. A Horse of a Different Color
A Horse of a Different Color
Rumor Malefic
The field where my sister was supposed to be wed lied stained with twilight ghosts.
Ghosts of her and I playing with our parents when we were young. Ghosts of the happy wedding ceremonies had… and ghosts of the old and forgotten ceremonies of women taken by monsters instead of men.
All the while, Willowspire lies wounded in the shadow of a castle hiding men who couldn’t be bothered by either woman lost or monster thief.
I could, though. I could be bothered by it.
I could be bothered enough to do something.
What sort of something? Before the incident with Birch and his stallion, I would have said nothing.
Before stumbling upon a mysterious grimoire, my possibilities were limited to spells for banishing vermin.
Now, however… now I’d done something. Perhaps even something of a darker and more wicked sort.
I should have been disturbed by how easily I veered off the path of the light of the coven that raised me.
I should have been frightened at how little I cared about showing kindness and love and instead thirsted for vengeance.
Vengeance would carve a ragged but quicker path to my sister than love and light would.
Love and light waited like a doe in a trap.
Revenge hunted like a ravenous wolf.
And I was so freaking tired of being the doe.
My mind shuffled through lies I could tell the coven.
How much did they know already about the book in my sanctum, the spell I’d crafted against Birch, and my wayward desires for more drastic measures?
Growing up surrounded by witches had taught me, well, that I couldn’t get away with shit.
Empath would have a dream, Charm—a premonition, my mother, a green witch-sense.
Someone knew what I’d done, they had to. So, how would I explain it?
They’d be mad. They’d likely punish me. I’d be cleansing and blessing their cauldrons for a month, or something. Whatever my beatings, I’d take it. I didn’t care. Prism was gone, and I didn’t fucking care.
More importantly, most importantly, what was the coven’s plan on how we got my sister back?
What could we do to save her? If the withers did anything deathly wrong in their pursuit of my sister, it was pissing off a coven near the solstice.
We could use our magic, if only for a day, without the threat of the rapture plaguing our town.
Though, I had a rapture of a more personal nature always haunting me.
The spider in my head, ready to immobilize me at a moment’s notice.
That, and the force that would drag me six feet under into an unmarked grave on the Blackthorne property.
However related, each of those ailments were sand in an hourglass that I couldn’t see, waiting to render me helpless once more.
What if next time the spider attached to my temples, it never let up?
What if I remained a captive to the pain until my body gave out and I joined my mothers on the other side of the veil?
The same was true of the burying. The burying that my coven crone refused to acknowledge.
Time after time I’d stumble into my crone’s bakery, covered in wet soil, my hair matted to my forehead, shoes squeaking beneath me, and she’d place a pastry in front of me like it were any other day.
It was a plague ignored, untended, a mouse in the house no one cares to stop leaving crumbs for.
What happened when I could no longer dig myself out? What if the spell or compulsion decided to render me paralyzed and the next time I opened my eyes beneath the earth there was no way out for me? Would anyone come with a shovel?
Unwelcome emotion tightened my throat as my body realized the answer to that last question.
It was a good thing everyone in Willowspire was either sheltering indoors or accustomed to ignoring my existence, because I was quite a sight to behold as I made my way back to my cottage.
Soot trotted ahead of me, and behind me was Birch-the-horse, neighing, squealing, and occasionally hitting me between the shoulder blades with his snout.
Somewhere between the tenth and twelfth time he nipped at my elbow, I whipped around and pointed an accusatory finger.
“Bite me or hit me one more time, Birch, and I swear to every goddess above and below I will turn you to ash in my fireplace. Take a moment and be thankful you have the body of a horse and not a dead man right now. This was a mercy. Oh, and I hope your stallion leaves you a body to come back to. For all you know, he’s floating down the Willow River right now.
So, maybe you’re neighing and nipping the wrong person. Ever think of that?”
Despite my scolding, Birch-the-grumpy-stallion, stood swaying outside the door of my house as my kitty cat shadow and I went in and locked the latch behind us. The hair on my arms rose as my skin prickled with goosebumps.
Magic.
Unfamiliar magic.
The cottage was so small, every room could be seen from the doorway.
My room to the right, Prism’s to the left, and the living room that held the hearth and tiny kitchenette spread out before me.
I’d memorized every notch in the wooden walls, every slab of gray stone, and each part of the flooring that creaked under my weight.
I knew every entry point, every draft in every worn window.
I knew when Malefic magic seeped from the walls and danced in my soup pot and wove itself within the braids of Prism’s golden hair.
The Malefic magic that warmed my shoulders when I awoke from a nightmare, the magic that chilled cool rags from warm water on hot summer days. Hedge witch glory that once mended a broken glass Prism had dropped. We marveled as each shard found its mate and melded the cup back together.
Malefic magic was beautiful, timeworn, and soul stirring. Its presence in our modest home was a comfort and small joy. A reminder that we were more than the sum of our days’ tasks. A hint that something beautiful was lurking beneath the mundane.
This magic that pricked my skin was not that.
This magic slithered against my skin, scraping against my consciousness like the scales of a molting snake.
The wood beneath me groaned as I made to step forward, when suddenly, a loud boom sounded behind me.
Stumbling forward, I held my chest, feeling my racing heart beneath my palm.
Soot laid his ears back and slinked behind my ankles as the boom sounded against the door again. It was then I realized who’d come.
With an exhale, I turned the copper knob, letting in a rush of chilly air.
No taller than my knees, the stump with short legs and arms stood.
Upon my acknowledgment, the bewitched stump, also known as a loom, marched inside.
The wooden creature had no face, aside from the grooves in the bark that Prism and I would pretend were long eyes, a notch for a nose, and a crooked mouth.
Despite its lack of any real human features, aside from branchy legs and arms, I could have sworn it was offended that my door was locked.
The loom dutifully took its worn place next to the fireplace and began pulling wooden logs from a sack on its back.
Prism and I used to hide from it when we were little.
Back then we were the same height as the stump and well, seeing a stubby little tree sprout legs and push you out of the way to stack logs by the fire was pretty terrifying.
Prism held my arm tight as we hid in the closet, fearful, because a Viper brother had told her once the creature ran out of wood for the fire, it would come for her next—to throw her in.
There was no telling which Malefic witch had acquired the loyalty of the creature. From what I understood, it took a lot to gain their trust, but once a witch did, the loom remained loyal to that witch’s family line forever.
“Hey, were you the one tending the fire while I slept?” I asked as I pulled out a stick of cured meat from the cupboard.
Leaning against the countertop, I watched the loom complete its task, dutifully stacking six hefty logs, before poking at the fire with its feeble looking arm.
Crackles exploded as the fire transformed into a robust orange once more.
Looms couldn’t speak. Or, maybe, they just didn’t want to. It marched past the skeptical gray cat, who arched its furry back as the stump exited. The door slammed behind it. Yeah, it was pissed about being locked out.
I never locked the door. There was no need.
My wards were strong enough for the common thief or predator, and if the rapture came…
no latch was strong enough to keep that away.
Thankfully, the withers didn’t historically come into homes—though there were plenty of campfire stories of them scratching against windows at night…
I shivered despite the renewed warmth from the hearth.
Breaking off a bit of the meat, I tossed it at Soot, who eagerly gnawed on the offering. I guess I had a cat now. Weird.
The sun was setting, and it was finally time to make my way to the coven’s solstice circle.
My answers awaited me there, my path to Prism.
The coven would know what to do, they’d have a plan formed by the time I arrived, I was sure of it.
That thought alone kept me breathing and not throwing myself off the nearest cliff in the agony of my inadequacies.
What was Prism doing now? Had the wither hurt her?
Appetite gone at the renegade questions that scattered in my brain, I tossed the remaining jerky to the feline at my feet. I gave myself a quick assessment in the old silver sheened mirror. Mother used to cleanse and bind it once a week. I couldn’t recall the last time I did that easy witchcraft.