29 Dáinn
DáINN
Gods, you could cut the tension in this kitchen with a scythe. All around the room, the witches whisper, glancing sharply over their shoulders. Their auras, which moments before pulsed with a lovely array of colors, now flare with heat as they instinctively draw on their magic.
“What wraith?” says the anxious witch with the lemon-yellow aura. I think her name is Ruby, the farmer obsessed with her tomato plants. “Jasper, what does he mean?”
The ancient witch with the periwinkle aura glances over her shoulder at her son. “Jonah, this isn’t the time for one of your silly little jokes.”
“It’s no joke,” the ghostly witch replies. Jonah has been watching me since he came in the room. I’ve smiled at him several times. He hasn’t smiled back, which is frankly rude. Perhaps he can’t see my smile through my cowl . . .
“Jasper, is it true?” calls the tall, angry witch. Francesca. A lovely name. Her aura is a golden brown, like a glass of whiskey, or the bright points on a grizzly bear’s face.
All the witches now talk at once.
“What do you see?”
“Where is he, Jonah?”
“Is it in the room now?”
“Jasper, what’s happening?”
“We have a right to know!”
Next to me, Jasper stiffens. My noble witch. He wants to spare them all the truth of me. After a lifetime in this form, I well understand his hesitation. All mortals fear death. I am the personification of death. So, all mortals fear me.
But we don’t have time to coddle their silly mortal feelings. And we simply don’t have the time to do things Jasper’s way. Glaciers are more decisive than this witch. Pressing myself through the thin veil of the void, I appear at his side in a swirl of shadows.
The other witches all shriek and stumble back, many of them rising from their chairs, hands raised in protective poses as they pull a string of spells to their lips.
“No!” Jasper steps in front of me. “Do not attack him! That’s an order!”
“He’s a wraith,” Mercy snarls, both hands raised defensively. Her aura is a swirling crash of blue. Oooh, a water witch? How rare. This could be fun.
“Jasper, do you know this creature?” Ruby cries.
“We deserve some answers!”
They all shout at once, their auras pulsing with the strength of their collective magic.
They glow and spiral, twining together, colors blending, proof of the witches uniting in purpose.
There’s enough magic in this room to level the entire house if they unleashed.
The house, the land it sits on, and a few acres of surrounding woods.
“He’s a friend,” Jasper shouts over them, still shielding me with his body.
I bloom under his praise, my shadows curling out to wrap around his legs.
“An ally,” he quickly corrects. “Well, more like an informant.”
I slink back. I suppose we’ll practice his words of affirmation later.
“He’s my source,” he goes on. “He works for Ludmilla and he’s here to help us.”
The fierce witch by the stove looks like she wants to tear me apart. “Is this the creature who attacked you last night?”
Sighing, Jasper nods. “Yes.”
More shrieks and cries of confusion.
“My gods, how did you survive?”
“Jasper, he’s a wraith!”
“He’ll kill us all!”
Hortense now stands near the coffee station. “Jasper, has it been here the whole time?”
He winces, glancing her way. “Yeah, he came last night.”
She shrieks, clapping both hands over her mouth. “Sweet Jupiter, I slept with a wraith in my house? Oh, no wonder Pickles was in such a state this morning! Jasper, you should have told me—”
“Yeah, well I’m telling you now,” he shouts over her.
Then he points an accusing finger around the room, his magic swelling within him as he simmers with authority.
“You all voted me to be your high priest. I never said I’d be any good at it.
In fact, if you remember, I said it was a totally shit idea.
But I am high priest. And I can only protect this coven in the ways I see fit.
I am choosing to trust this wraith. He’s not here to hurt us.
He’s here to help us. As you trust me, I expect you to put your trust in him. ”
At this proclamation, the other witches settle somewhat.
Jasper turns to me, his expression anxious. “Well?”
“Well, what?” I rasp.
Several of them gasp and lean back, terrified at hearing me speak.
Gods, mortals are so easy to haunt.
“Tell them what you told me this morning,” he presses. “Tell them what you know about Ludmilla and her plans. Tell them what’s at stake if we fail to kill her.”
Oh, he wants a spectacle? I can do spectacle in my sleep. A funny turn of phrase seeing as wraiths don’t sleep.
Turning to face his coven, I take a deep, rattling breath. Raising my skeletal hands, I splay my fingers and let loose my shadows. They creep up the walls and across the floor, plunging the sunny kitchen into unnatural darkness. All around the room the witches cry out. Chairs scrape. Dishes smash.
In my raspiest wraith voice, I call out, “Hear me now, witches of Burr Island, the hour of your reckoning has come. Join me in my fight to slay the witch, Ludmilla Latchko. Join me . . . or face your doom!”