Chapter Three
The city was ablaze. Black flames incinerated everything they touched, racing faster than any fire I had ever known, and filling the air with an overwhelming smell of sulphur that made it hard to breathe as I darted through the streets, trying to outrun the scorching heat that hunted me down with as much ferocity as the wolves at my heels.
Past the Olde Pink House, across Bay Street, hurtling down the steep cobblestoned street to Factors Walk, they didn’t trip or stumble the same way I did.
Grey fur, golden eyes, claws sharp enough to tear a soul in two, the wolves gave chase, howling louder than the end of the world.
My bare and bloody feet left a bold trail, as if they couldn’t follow the scent of my panic alone.
But there was no time to check for injuries, no time to search for a weapon.
I’d been sentenced to death by the pack, declaring themselves judge, jury and executioner all in one.
If I could get back Bell House I’d be safe, but there was no way I was going to make it that far, not even with my magic.
One hundred wolves and one witch, what chance did I have?
Over the roar of the pack, I heard terrible screaming, true mortal fear made manifest. Someone, something, was feeding on it.
Not wolves, not witches but another entity entirely, darker and more devious.
Whatever it was, it was expecting me, having waited centuries for this moment.
And if the wolves had their way, I would be delivered right on time.
The Savannah River roared at my side as I took off down River Street, following the disused streetcar tracks, and I felt the charge of the water, surging forward, pushing me on.
Not far now, just a little further. Something sharp sliced into the bottom of my foot, embedding itself in the tender arch, and I gasped, falling to my knees.
Before I could recover myself, they were on me, fangs and claws, red hair and red blood in front of my eyes as I held my arms up to defend myself.
The scream that tore from my lungs blasted through the city like an explosion, black fire filling the sky, and in the near distance, as the wolves tore into my flesh, I heard someone laughing …
I woke with a start, tethered to my mattress by bedsheets turned into ropes. Covered in cold sweat, I disentangled myself, peeling away the damp fabric to free my arms and legs. It was just a dream. I was home, I was in my room. I was safe.
But I wasn’t alone.
Between the bookcase and the bathroom I saw a shuddering in the shadows.
A shape, a hunched figure, faced the wall.
Long strings of matted hair fell down its back as it clawed at the wallpaper, emaciated arms stretching up, jagged, yellow nails leaving scars on the walls.
I tried to call for help but couldn’t, all the air suddenly sucked from my lungs, silencing my cries.
It was so much worse than the wolves, so much more terrible than the invisible threat, only I didn’t know why.
As the figure slowly turned to face me, its face bone white and hollow, I finally snatched in a breath and screamed so loud it tore up my throat as the thing flew out of the corner and across the room towards me, screeching a single word.
‘Onginnan.’
My eyes snapped open.
I was still anchored to the bed by my sweaty sheets. A dream within a dream, a nightmare wrapped up in a nightmare.
Panting for breath, I tore off the bedclothes and slid to the edge of my four-poster bed, uninjured feet finding the soft rug.
Safe and unharmed. At least until my knee collided with the open drawer of my nightstand.
Rubbing the injury with one hand and cursing myself under my breath, I switched on my bedside lamp and inspected the contents of the open drawer.
The silver filigree pin with its glowing moonstone centre, the smooth pebble of glinting black arfvedsonite, my ice-blue cell phone, and a pouch of protective herbs; lavender, bay laurel, mugwort and yarrow.
I flicked off the lamp, somehow safer in the dark, and pulled out the pouch, nursing it to my chest. If these were the dreams I had with protection, I hated to think what my mind might conjure up without it.
Across the room, my window seat called to me, drawing me away from my bed to leave the nightmares behind.
It was a beautiful night and the all-but-full moon lit up Lafayette Square and cast a milky luminescence over the sleeping fountain at its heart.
The quiet was unnerving, so, almost without thinking, I encouraged the pipes that ran beneath the square to ignore the settings on their timer and spring to life a few hours early.
I stared blankly out my window as water began to burble from the fountain, the soothing sound calming my frayed nerves.
The window seat was one of my favourite spots in Bell House, somewhere that felt wholly mine.
I loved to sit and watch passers-by or stare up at the stars.
Wrapping a strand of wavy red hair around my forefinger, I looked up.
It helped to know I wasn’t alone, not really.
Wherever Wyn might be, he was under the same moon, maybe even counting the same stars.
I reached out for him, my search featherlight, and found his calm, restful energy. He was sleeping, like I should be.
It was nothing, just a nightmare, my own mind playing tricks on me, no reason to think it was anything more.
I hadn’t experienced a vision in weeks, that soft fall backwards into velvet black, a scene from the past or future waiting for me on the other side.
It was difficult to explain, even to myself, why they didn’t feel quite the same.
My visions were crystal clear, all of them brought about by something specific, induced by a herb, a ritual.
This dark dream was more chaotic, an ugly blend of fears and feelings.
My dad had always told me facts are the enemy of fear, seek out the truth and you’ll see there’s nothing to be afraid of.
Of course, he was talking about political and societal unrest rather than waking up in the middle of the night to freak out about being chased by a pack of vengeful, bloodthirsty Weres.
But it still applied, kind of. The not knowing of it all was the thing that scared me the most. I’d been raised by a historian, a man in search of the truth, and research was second nature to me, every source and first-hand account checked, double-checked and verified.
Problem was, my ancestors hadn’t left me much to go on.
Witches, Catherine had told me, were forbidden to write down anything that might give our enemies power over us, and that included a list of our abilities and a detailed account of our history.
There were journals in the Bell House library, diaries, but they were full of day-to-day musings rather than thorough accounts of the lives and times of the Bell witches.
Once, I found an ancient book containing details of a binding spell but, true to Catherine’s promise, it caused more problems than it solved, and after I confronted my grandmother with it, I never saw that book again.
All of our history, our knowledge, was handed down from grandmother to granddaughter, shared over a lifetime.
Except Catherine and I only had a few weeks together, not decades, and I couldn’t be sure the things she’d told me were the truth.
And so I kept records for myself, reciting a litany of my abilities when I lay awake in bed at night, adding new ones whenever they expressed themselves.
Some abilities were common to us all, according to my grandmother.
I was stronger than I had been before my Becoming, faster too.
All witches were closer to the natural world than the average person, attuned to Nature’s messages.
Beyond that, each of us was gifted with a single special connection to the blessing, a distinct ability, something that would assist our world in its time of need.
Catherine was able to manipulate the elements: water, earth, air and fire.
The first Emma Catherine Bell, who crossed the Atlantic in 1733, was an English apothecary.
She intuitively understood herbs and plants and used them to help the earliest Savannah settlers survive in their new home.
Catherine’s grandmother had been a conduit, able to move through people’s dreams and communicate with those who’d passed over.
Her grandmother’s grandmother was a healer who saved endless lives in the early twentieth century when the Spanish flu came to the United States.
I was different. I was an apothecary who could see into the past and see visions of the future.
I could influence the weather, manipulate the elements, slow my perception of time, heal injuries, sense the location of my loved ones, and I could talk to ghosts – when ghosts wanted to talk to me.
According to my grandmother, I was the witch spoken of in a prophecy passed down through our family for centuries.
A witch who is born and Becomes under a full moon and a king tide, who will know every gift ever bestowed on her family line and awaken her sleeping sisters and their dormant magic.
A witch who must decide whether to save the world or end it.
And that was all I knew. I had no idea where the prophecy came from, no clue how I was supposed to find these sleeping witches or revive their magic.
Worst of all, there was no ETA on the incoming apocalypse, no explanation of the part I was meant to play.
And there was no one to turn to for help, not even in the form of a written record of our history, a guide to our powers.
I couldn’t even keep track of my own thoughts by documenting them in my Notes app.
Turning my hands over, palms down, I stretched out my fingers and stared at my fingertips.
Lyds had given me a manicure on her last visit and every nail was painted a different colour.
The pink, purple and blue polishes were already chipped, but the silver glitter on my ring fingers held fast. These were not the hands of a woman destined to end the world.
No one with a Sharpie-drawn heart on her thumbnail could be expected to bear that burden.
Which was why I needed answers, needed to understand my magic better.
Which was why I needed Wyn. Everything seemed to make more sense when he was close by.
A creaking noise across the room revived the memory of my nightmare.
‘There’s nothing there,’ I told myself. ‘It’s just a dream. Nothing can hurt you inside Bell House.’
But the darker corners of my room called me a liar and demanded proof.
My eyes fell on a scented candle sitting on my desk.
A belated birthday gift from Ashley, the same kind they used at her new favourite restaurant.
With barely any effort, I brought it to life, a spark igniting the paper wick, a flickering flame to illuminate the empty corners of my room.
Nothing there. The tiny birds in the tree branches painted on my wallpaper flocked towards the candle.
They chirped among themselves, used to being woken in the middle of the night but not in the least amused by it.
We should all be asleep, they seemed to say, we should pay no heed to tricks of the mind.
They were right.
Closing the window and lowering the blind, I sloped back to bed and shook out the soft cotton sheet before slipping underneath it. All was quiet, all was well.
Until it wasn’t.
A shadow, a cold threat against the warm candlelight, moved between the bookcase and the bathroom, just like it had in my dream. I sat up to see my breath clouding in front of my mouth, the air all at once bitterly cold as a low, sibilant hiss filled the room.
When the dead fight back. When the earth consumes. A lie becomes the truth. She will return.
The flame of the candle exploded into a burning orange fireball when I screamed, exposing the creature.
It was tall and slender with long, matted hair that fell in front of greyish white skin, and the empty hollows of its eye sockets seemed to be trained on me.
With one swipe of my arm, I sent the flaming candle towards the dark thing, but it was already gone.
All the painted birds shrieked at once, feathers flying as they took to the air.
My room was empty and my wastepaper basket on fire.
Leaping from the bed, I grabbed a forgotten glass of water from my desk and dumped it into the trash, extinguishing the flames, if not the fear that gripped me by the throat.
This time I hadn’t been asleep. The creature, whatever it was, had freed itself from my nightmare and found a way into my home, my sanctuary. The one place I truly believed I was safe.
The water glass in my hand cracked and split into three pieces, slicing into my palm, but I felt nothing.
‘Em?’
Bleary-eyed and wielding a pair of hair straighteners like a baseball bat, Ashley stumbled into my room.
‘Em, is everything OK?’
‘I saw – I had a bad dream,’ I said shakily, eyes fixed on the spot between the old mahogany wardrobe and the open bathroom door as blood dripped from my hand onto the rug.
Pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes, my aunt let out a frustrated sigh.
‘A dream? Great. Stay there, I’ll get the whiskey.’
I shook my head.
‘I don’t want a drink,’ I told her. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Good, because I didn’t say I was getting it for you.’
She left the door open, the hallway light spilling in and illuminating the darkest corners of my room. Completely empty. No one here but me. The birds settled back on their branches, a little higher than they’d been before, and all of them on the opposite side of the room to the bathroom door.
‘It’s gone,’ I said aloud, the words making the facts real as the cut on my hand sealed itself shut. ‘It’s gone and you’re safe.’
But I knew better than to lie, even to myself.