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Chapter Twenty-Six
Rowan
I rise through blackness, my consciousness clawing its way back to reality. I must have passed out after the horned beast snatched me from the bathroom in the sheriff’s office. Panic rushes through my veins. How long was I out for? And where am I?
The second question is answered almost immediately. I’m in the woods somewhere. And I’m tied to a tall wooden post.
Terror pulses against the inside of my skull, but I force myself to slow my breathing. I can’t let fear take over or I have zero chances of survival. This time I keep my damn eyes open. So, I see the horned beast right away when it steps out from behind a nearby tree. Had it sensed I’d awoken?
It approaches me slowly, making a deep snuffling sound. Like it’s smelling my scent on the air. My perspiration. My horror. I shiver as it makes a low growl and stops before me, only inches away. At this close a proximity, it towers over me. The thing has to be eight feet tall. A putrid smell comes off of it, like rotting flesh. Its eyes are huge and solid black like an alien, and it stares at me and snarls.
I can feel dried blood on the side of my face where it clapped a hand over my mouth with those claws. Nothing deep, but it stings. That, however, is the least of my worries. The beast leans in even closer and sniffs the side of my face, my neck. Its hot breath blasts over my skin, and I can hear the movement of its tongue in its mouth. My heart skyrockets again. Is this thing about to eat me?
And where is its master?
“She is not for you,” says someone behind me. A low voice, deep, threatening, and unfamiliar to me.
A figure in a red cloak walks around from my left side. The person from my vision of Sybil’s death, who I know now is a man because of the voice. He’s tall, not as tall as the beast, but an impressive height for a mere human. Of course, maybe he’s not that at all.
He turns and faces me. I realize, then, that it’s quite by design I couldn’t see his face before. There are only shadows where his face should be. Whether it’s a spell, or he is not actually flesh and blood, I don’t know. But it’s not Xander, that much is obvious. Does he have an accomplice? Or is the sheriff just wrong about him?
“Who are you?” I ask, trying unsuccessfully to keep the tremble from my voice.
“I am a bringer of justice,” the man says.
“Justice?” A wave of anger burns up my fear. “Murder is not justice.”
“Perhaps not in this day and age,” he says. “But I come from a time before. When blood called for blood, and humanity was not entrapped by rules and laws. Justice was something simpler, something everyone understood and respected. If you took, you would be taken from. If you claimed a life, you could expect to watch your own back.”
“And what have the witches done to you?” I growl. “What did my aunt do to you?”
The figure goes still for a long moment. A cool breeze blows down from the sky above. “What have witches not done? They are evil incarnate. A blight upon this planet. The devil’s own tools.”
The guy sounds like a zealot. I wiggle against the ropes binding me to the post, but they’re wrapped multiple times and pulled so tight my skin burns when I move. I stare into the empty space where his face should be. “That’s interesting coming from someone who summons a demon to do his dirty work.”
“I don’t expect you to understand.” The cloaked figure clasps his hands behind his back and paces slowly in front of me. “I am sorry to bring you into this. If only you hadn’t decided to join with the witches, claim the forces of darkness for your own. But Stonecroft blood runs in your veins, and now that you’ve called upon your black magic, I have no choice.” He somehow manages to sound both sad and condescending at the same time.
“Everyone has a choice. You’ve chosen to call upon demons and murder people. That makes you no better than what you claim to be fighting against.”
He stops pacing and turns to face me again. “I’m afraid I don’t have time to indulge in futile arguments. I must complete what I started.”
Adrenaline spikes through my veins. “Complete what?” The way he said it, something in his tone, made it seem like something more than killing me. I just want him to keep talking. I need more time.
“Know, Rowan Stonecroft, that your death fulfills a great purpose,” the figure says. “You are the fifth. You complete the shape of the devil, the shape that witches claim as their own. Ironically, and rather poetically if you ask me, that same shape can also condemn you.”
“Condemn us? What do you mean?” I work my wrists against the ropes, trying to loosen them.
His voices rises as he speaks, edged in the passion of his conviction. “When the ritual of the five-pointed star is performed over Raven’s Roost, with the aid of a horned devil, it will put an end to every witch within its boundaries, and every witch who shares their bloodline. That’s why your aunt had to be first. So that the rest would come here.”
“An end?” I whisper, horror tickling up my spine.
“Yes.” He takes a step closer to me, and I can feel his breath on my face. “Stripped of magic, dead within a year. It’s like a slow poisoning.” Another step. I’m staring right into the place where his face should be, but it’s just swirling darkness. “Many witches came for the funeral. With all of them gone, as well as all of the witches in their lineage, the Raven Society will be almost entirely wiped out.” He raises a finger and runs it down the side of my cheek. “It’s a pity. You are such a beautiful woman, Rowan.”
Rages rips through me. I’m beautiful? And that’s why it’s a pity? I pull back and head butt him in the forehead as hard as I can. He staggers away from me, clutching his head. When he stops and straightens, a deadly calm comes over him.
“A seductress, like the rest of them,” he hisses. “Making men feel sinful things. Eve was the first witch, bringing darkness to the world, tainting Adam and the garden with her lustful wanton behavior.”
“You’re a sick fuck,” I say slowly, biting off each word. “Don’t pretend to be some kind of martyr.”
“Oh, but that’s exactly what I am,” he says, and he chuckles. “No matter. It’s time for you to burn, like the ones before you.”
He raises a hand, and without turning, he gestures for the horned beast. It lumbers toward me and stops several feet away. Another gesture from the cloaked man, and the thing raises its hand. Flames crackle from its outstretched palm, shooting toward the pile of wood at my feet. They spring up instantly, faster than any normal fire. Heat races up my body like lightning.
Terror washes through me as I look down, as I feel the first lick of heat hit my skin.
“Now,” says the man in the red cloak. “I want to hear you scream.”
