Chapter 66 - Asha
Asha
“You can’t keep talking about your property being haunted by the ghost of a witch, Abner. The townspeople are reporting seeing things. You and your family are wreaking havoc in Adams. Our small community can’t handle this type of uproar,” the silly preacher spouts.
If only he knew that I do exist and I’m behind him, hovering over his shoulder and twirling his cinnamon- colored locks around my index finger as I stare into the terrified emerald-green eyes of Abner Bell right now.
“P-P-Past-or M-m-m-marcus,” Abner stammers. “She—she’s behind you.”
I audibly moan, feasting on the fear of the sick bastard who’s done more than enough unspeakable things that it’s almost silly that he’s scared of little ole me.
My nails sharpen, and I slide my hand down Marcus Tate’s chiseled jawbone to his neck, grazing the column of his throat. “Abner, we’ve had this conversation before,” I hiss. “You seem to be incapable of following simple instructions.”
Fear rolls off Abner in waves that are almost insurmountable, but I don’t let up. “It’s almost like you’re a masochist.”
Pausing, I bare my teeth, my fangs on full display, ensuring he understands the hell he just walked into by coming to this Pastor, again.
“Neither your pastor nor your God can protect you. No amount of praying as you hold the ridiculous cross, rubbing at the worn beads, will prevent your demise by my hand.”
“You can’t keep allowing your delusions to create panic in our small town. Children are so terrified that they can’t even sleep in their own beds at night,” Pastor Marcus practically growls, but Abner can’t hear him. He’s not even paying enough attention to pretend he’s listening.
His words trigger a vision, and I’m transported to a familiar location.
The wooden house with the navy blue shutters and brick chimney, from which clouds of white smoke waft.
A thin layer of snow covers the ground, and a large Christmas wreath with the quintessential pine cones, berries, and a red bow hangs on the front door.
But why am I here?
This is where Pastor Marcus lives with his child bride, Sara Jean. He didn’t marry her until she turned eighteen, but she’s lived with him since she was twelve. Betrothed—sold by her family in exchange for fifty acres of the Tate family’s land.
Daughters being sold off in exchange for financial or social gain is not uncommon but repugnant. It doesn’t lessen my confusion about why I’m at the pastor’s house.
Thrust across the threshold, I fight bile rising in my stomach. Ever since that night in Salem, my visions are a hundredfold more painful.
“How many times must I tell you to stay out of my bedchamber, Sara Jean?” The question shot like a poisoned-dipped arrow with hooks to ensure maximum damage.
“And how many times have I told you that you should wipe your ass better after you shit?”
I snort, barking out a peel of laughter. Miss Sara has a spicy backbone—one I didn’t expect of a “good Christian girl,” in this godforsaken town of hypocrites.
Running his palm down his exacerbated face and rubbing his beard, Pastor Marcus’s lips thin, remaining silent for another three beats before he finally addresses her. “You will not speak to me like that.” The weak rebuke is ignored as Sara proceeds to sling her own choice words at him.
Thoroughly entertained, I momentarily watch as the barely five-foot teenager chastises the dear old pastor for his uncouth behavior before turning to exit the room.
“I shouldn’t have to tell you these things, Marcus. “You’re over thirty—.”
A hard thwack echoes in the bedroom, followed by a slight groan of pain and a thud.
Whirling around, I watch in horror as the so-called pastor ordained by their God hovers over his wife.
Frothing at the mouth, he pummels her body with a mixture of punches and slaps until he must tire.
He huffs, spittle flying across the room as Sara fights back, clawing at his hands, body, face—anywhere she can claw, drips in his blood.
I can see the skin under her nails, but she’s no match for his six-four, two-hundred-pound pounds of muscle.
Sara Jean’s left eye swells shut, her right—filled with blood from the force he uses to strangle her, as she fights for her life.
Just as I think Pastor Marcus is going to choke her to death, he releases her only to stand, grip her hair by the root, and drag her towards his bed.
He kicks Sara Jean in the side before tossing her on the bed and ripping off her clothes.
Banging against the barrier, I wish like never before to be able to reach through a vision and kill—to tear him to shreds. Only the lowest form of a man thinks that overpowering a woman a fifth of his size makes him powerful.
Fury burns bright and hot, well past boiling, the strands of my hair levitating as my powers surge through my bloodstream, crackling over my skin.
“Stop, please, stop.” Sara Jean’s bloodcurdling cries, begging him not to take what wasn’t given.
The pastor’s hands wrap around her throat again. “I’m tired of your disrespect, Sara Jean,” he barks. “From now on, you’ll do as you’re told. This is only a small fraction of what’s to come for you.”
Her hands fly up again. This time, she digs her nails into his forearms and rakes down until she screams in pain.
“You shrew! Why must you continue being a crooked rib?”
The brutality of the rape reminds me too much of my last moments of freedom before my soul was trapped. Unable to break through the barrier, I feel like I’m chained again.
“No,” I scream with a force deep from within, and the room shakes. Hope springs in my chest that I’ll be able to save Sara Jean. But before I can reach deep, calling to all elements, I’m catapulted back into the room of the church office, where Abner stands just as stuck and non-responsive.
Agitated at Abner’s lack of a response, the Pastor stands. “Why don’t you go home and rest, Abner. You must be overworked,” he says, placating the idiot as if he’s a child.
Pastor Marcus’s arm extends, and the sleeve of his white shirt raises, exposing fresh enough nail marks on his forearm.
Tilting my head, I study the pastor’s wounds, realizing this isn’t a future incident but a past one.
My eyes flash white. Abner gasps, probably even more scared because he’s never witnessed what’s about to happen.
“P-P-Pastor-r-r Mar—.”
Sitting, Marcus waves him off, putting him just where I need him to be, saving me the trouble.
“Sh-sh-she’s—.”
“I don’t want to hear it, Abner. You need to go home,” Pastor Marcus reprimands.
Smiling, teeth bared, I rest my hand on the top of Marcus’s head, digging my claws into his skull as I snake around to his ear while not taking my eyes off Abner. “You should’ve taken his warning seriously, Pastor Marcus,” I hiss.
The pastor stiffens, trying to turn his head, but that only forces my nails deeper into his skin. “Who—who are y-y-you?”
Cackling, I whisper, “Your fucking reckoning. Consider this your Judgment Day, Pastor Marcus.”
My gums itch, wanting to rip out his trachea, but his rapist’s blood in my mouth would be poison in my veins. “And you are not written in the Book of Life, and Hell refuses to take you. So, you’re mine.”
I don’t give him a chance to reply. I sink my claws deeper until I burrow through his skull, and he wails. Abner’s in shock, his eyes so wide, I think they burst. The smell of piss fills the room, and I look and see that both men have soiled themselves.
Rolling my eyes, I twist Marcus’s head up until he can finally see me. “I wanted you to meet your executioner.” Then I reach around with my other hand and grab his disgusting appendage. “Next time, use your words,” I seethe, ripping his dick from his body.
Still not satisfied, I tear out his heart. “You obviously don’t need this since you were a heartless bastard when you were alive,” I mutter.
I feel the shocked and mortified gaze of Abner boring into the side of my face.
“What?” I challenge, arching a charcoal eyebrow. Then, I toss the heart at him. It seems to wake him from his stupefied state, and he finally finds his ability to function after it hits him in the face.
Shrugging, I stare down at the waste of human flesh, angry that I didn’t prolong his death.
“You seriously need to work on your impulsivity,” I murmur, mimicking something Enitan would say to me. My heart hurts at the reminder of our centuries-long time apart.
Shaking my head, I chastise myself. You’ll see him again soon enough, Aya.
Present day
What the fuck is that annoying noise?
The siren-like sound blares again, knocking off my last vestige of hope to return to the sleep that allows me to see her—Aya.
Grumbling, I reluctantly open my eyes, angry at the offensive brightness of outside.
You should’ve closed your curtains last night, genius.
Even in the wee hours of the morning, when the darkness of night battles with the brightness of the day, the blizzard raging outside serves as a spotlight through my window.
Something that wouldn’t have mattered if you had just remembered to close the goddamn curtains, Asha.
Stretching, I accept defeat, kicking the four layers of bedding cocooning me before sliding my feet into my bed slippers and racing toward the bathroom.
“This is what happens when you ignore your bladder to keep your precious sweet spot on the bed,” I mutter, tugging down my gray onesie. I groan as the pressure on my bladder eases.
Now I can think more clearly,
Standing, I take the three steps to the sink and wash my hands, finishing my routine. Then, I take off my violet satin bonnet, sculpting the edge of my hair until it is perfectly swooped.
I’m humming Eve, by Pan Tèrra when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Bright brown eyes peer back at me, and not for the first time, I’m struck by how similar the energy surrounding Aya matches my own.
A rainbow of colors swirls around her, hers far brighter than mine, proving she’s not just an originator—she’s the mother creator.
But why is she appearing in my dreams? It’s a question that has wracked my addled brain for the last six years.
The first time I dreamt of her, I was in my third year of undergraduate program at Harvard. I’d just switched majors from Chemistry to Folklore and Mythology—a decision I made when I made up my mind to do something I love instead of doing something practical.
Glancing into the mirror, I recognize our matching barbell and septum piercings—hers on the left, mine on the right.
As similar as we are, there are distinct differences.
Aya’s skin is orche with rich golden and red undertones, compared to my ebony skin.
Her lips are fuller with a deep bow to them.
And where her inky-coiled hair flows down past her shoulders, while braided.
Each time Aya appeared in my dreams, I was awed by the divine power she wielded. She’s as beautiful and graceful as she is cold and calculating, meting out punishment to those deserving.
My obsession only grew as I read the story of a witch so powerful that on the day she was burned at the stake, she incinerated all the heckling spectators. Her trail went cold in the tomes before I found evidence of her in Tennessee in the early 1800s.
A knock sounds on my bedroom door, interrupting my trip down memory lane.
“Who is it?” I ask, partly hoping whoever it is will just go away.
“Professor Bailey, it’s me, Enitan.”
The name sounds vaguely familiar.
He speaks, not waiting for my reply. “I was enrolled in your folklore seminar. Recognition hits me at that response.
“Oh yes. I remember you now.” I pause, using that time to walk through the room and open the door. “How can I help—”
I lose the ability to speak when I take in the tower of a man who is at least six-foot-nine. He’s in jeans and a hoodie. “—You?” I finally manage when I remember to use my words.
Enitan studies intently. It’s not in a “you’re a creeper way” —it’s more like I’m the missing puzzle piece he’s trying to determine whether or not I belong.
“I know this is going to sound strange, but it’s not whatever you think it is,” he fumbles out, appearing more vulnerable than I’m expecting.
Crossing my arms across my chest, I retort, “Things that follow statements like that one are usually not wise to say out loud.”
When the turmoil brewing under his skin doesn’t wane, I realize my joke didn’t land.
“I need you to follow me to my quarters—room,” he states, gripping my wrist and tugging me down the hallway.
“Hey,” I bark. “Let me go.”
So much for not being a fucking creeper.
Raising my free hand, I prepare to slap him when he stops abruptly, causing me to slam into his back. “What the fuck?” I hiss, but he ignores me, only stepping out of the way of his open door.
“This is—.”
I lose my ability to formulate words when my gaze lands on the woman standing naked in the middle of the room, lit up like a Christmas tree, runes glowing as she chants.
“She is you, and you are she. Bind her to you, and you shall be free.”
Dry-mouthed and frozen to the spot, I take in my obsession before I croak, “Aya.”