Page 145 of Bound By Fury

Curiosity gets the better of me, and I approach it. The light is catching on the clasp of a brown leatherbound book. Picking it up, I wipe the coating of dust from the cover. Etched into the clasp is a symbol I’ve grown to know well. The mark of the Cardinal. The edges of the pages are dark and charred in some places, like someone tried to burn the book but failed.

I tuck it under my arm and climb out of the basement, grabbing a glass of water before crawling back into Gigi’s bed. Obviously the weirdo ghost lady wants me to look at this. I pull my hair into a bun. When I search for a lever to undue the clasp, I find that there isn’t one. I run my fingers along the metal, hoping that maybe there’s a button I can’t see.

I’m about to give up when I realize the necklace sitting against my chest is warm and getting warmer the longer I hold the book. Intrigued, I unhook the chain and press the twin symbols together.

A golden light swims across the etching on the small pendant before the faintest click separates an invisible seam, and the journal pops open.

The book smells old. Like, really old. Many entries have been torn out, but a shaky, slanted cursive fills line after line. Musings from a woman named Nora. Dated all the way back to 1926.

I begin to read.

I read until I am a sobbing mess, my fingertips numb from the pressure of leaving permanent indentations on every page.

I read until I am sick of it.

Until I am cleaved in half, cursed by the hands of fate.

NOVEMBER 3, 1926

Twelve nooses. Twelve bodies. Twelve chanting mouths.

One desperate call to the stars.

One sacrifice made anew.

Days ago, a twelfth witch was marked.

Tonight she met her sacrificial end.

Tonight I called upon the essence left behind by Mama Mae, her blood and magic spilled upon the dirt-packed earth of the tunnels beneath us.

Tonight I prayed to the stars that their call was true, that our gift would be received.

That a bargain could be struck.

I convened with the many kindred souls left behind in them tunnels, their memories flooding me, their final moments, their fight, imbuing me with the power to help bring our wish to pass.

When the hunters came to the burning clearing, donning crimson cloaks and masks of night, the schoolhouse was in flames, and twelve women, one from each sign, linked hands and hearts.

They chanted through smiling teeth.

“Evil,” the men called the new Twelve. “Heretics.” Because who can look certain death in the face and smile?

From the surrounding trees the rest of us chanted with them.

We drew upon the power of the River.

Where we wielded earth, we traced the lines down deep, followed them to the ends of the mountain where they erupt, hidden in the deep gulch of Appalachia.

Where we had fire, we fed the blaze, sending embers flying toward the approaching countrymen.

Where we held air, we forced the men back again and again, buying time for the ritual to complete.

Where we could call upon water, we spoke to those of us past, collecting our ancestral strength as we got blessing after blessing for a future won.

Twelve women faced the Midnight Guard.

Twelve women.