Page 24 of A Time of Witches

Witch.

A word cut clearly through the din. A single, simple word, barbed with a need to control any woman who lived her life without a man to keep her in order. Women who learned too much, whose wealth and land were their own, women with tongues that would not still when challenged.

Hag.

Devil’s servant.

Witch.

Lightning split the sky above.

Brixton remained steadfast despite the chaos and the unnatural storm whipping the world into confusion. Sybil was not so calm, her mind racing through the horrors of the past and what could unfold in the present as she frantically searched every face they passed.

Where was Jacinda?

A kestrel sat atop a cart, shifting restlessly from foot to foot.

And where there was the kestrel…

A glint of red-gold hair showed in the crowd.

Sybil leaped from her steed, leaving him where he stood, secure in the knowledge he would not wander off, and hastened toward Jacinda.

She grabbed the girl’s arm, and Jacinda turned to her, eyes wide in her small pale face.

“We must go,” Sybil said quickly.

Jacinda shook her head.

Kill the witch.

Thunder growled overhead and lightning flickered in the rolling black clouds.

“Cease at once,” Sybil said under her breath.

“I can’t.” Jacinda’s lower lip trembled. “I can’t.”

She reached for the girl’s hand. A current buzzed over Jacinda’s skin with an energy that nearly burned Sybil’s fingers. Sybil did not let go. Instead, she pushed her focus into feeding her own energy into Jacinda’s.

The connection between them opened Jacinda’s emotions to Sybil, the same churning wild storm inside as brewed in the sky above.

“Concentrate,” Sybil soothed.

Jacinda’s shaky breath grew even and the burning power on her skin cooled.

With a low rumble of protest, the clouds slowly broke apart.

The kestrel made a soft chittering from where he remained perched on the cart.

But even as the intensity of the storm abated, a new charge crackled in the air, and the crowd surged forward. Jacinda dropped Sybil’s hand as they both followed the stares.

A woman staggered down the middle of the street. Her bare feet caked with dirt, her face obscured by strands of stringy gray hair. Mud coated her cloak, making its color and design indistinguishable.

Sybil gaped in mute horror at the poor woman bent beneath her suffering, wilting beneath the hatred of the inflamed mob.

“Hang her,” someone shouted.

Cheers of approval chorused the suggestion.