Interlude

Council of Witches

Megiddo National Park, Jezreel Valley, Megiddo, Israel

A t the back of the cave, Hesteia stood close to Thea and Chloe, surrounded by the witches that opposed carrying out the prophecy.

“Where do you think she went?” Hesteia overheard a new Shenandoah elder ask, but another member of her coven quickly shushed her.

Carys, a round Welsh witch from the Gwydir Coven, finally spoke up. “Who should present our case?”

“Why would Hesteia not present it?” A Romani witch, Lavinia, turned to Hesteia. “She knows the issue better than anyone, given her closeness to Evie.” Several witches nodded in agreement, but a number of them shook their heads.

One of the latter group, a French witch with the Landes Coven whose name Hesteia thought might be Fleur, interrupted. “That is just it. She is, perhaps, too close to the situation.”

A rumble of disagreement rose around them, but Hesteia shook her head, holding up her hand to stall any arguments. “She’s right.” Voice quiet, she let her concerns spill out to the elders surrounding her. “I’ve known Evie since she was a toddler. Helped Chloe raise her and saw her grow from a determined infant to a talented and caring adult in spite of everything this Council agreed to put her through. I love her as a daughter, and, unfortunately, I know I can’t maintain a neutral viewpoint when it comes to her. It was bad enough that the initial edict allowing Evie to join the coven required measures that harmed her so very badly. The Barataria elders struggled with this every time we performed a memory reversion in accordance with the edict, knowing that if we didn’t, Medea herself would rain fire down upon us.” Pausing, she carefully considered her next words before continuing. “I’m not sure I can be civil when arguing against people who are trying to condemn not only Evie herself but a world full of Evies to death based upon a prophecy issued millennia ago that we no longer have any written record of.” Thea wrapped Hesteia in her arms, rubbing her back in long soothing passes. On the other side of Thea, Chloe sat on the floor crying.

Before she could say anything else, a shout rose across the room. Hesteia stood on her tiptoes to see over the other’s heads. The hair on the back of her neck lifted in unease just before the glowing orbs overhead flashed from glimmering white to a deep bloody scarlet. Her eyes flashed upwards to the color she knew they could emit but had never seen.

Lavinia glanced up, terrified face bathed in the grim lighting. When she spoke, only one word emerged: “War.” If anyone would know what color the orbs took before war, it would be the Romani witches. They were hunted, almost to the point of extinction, by the superstitious local villagers.

Another shout sounded by the Judiciary table. Hesteia pivoted sharply towards the sound.

Medea’s hands were raised over her head, golden magic filtering through her fingers, sparkling in the light. Circe stood beside her, her appearance calm but for her eyes, which were roiling pools of ocean blue. Around them, witch elders crowded. Old, young with every color and ethnicity represented, different but for the singular, polarizing cause uniting them. They were chanting something that Hesteia couldn’t hear. Discordant voices raised in ever-increasing volume.

The witches opposing the prophecy were now blatantly staring at those across the chamber. “What are they doing?” Carys breathed, eyes wide with concern.

Somebody whispered back, “I don’t know,” but it was drowned out by Medea’s shouted, “Burn the opposition!” Plumes of fire rocketed into the air, and then the chambers exploded into action as the witches favoring the prophecy raced towards them, murder in their eyes and fervor splashed across their faces.

Hesteia gathered fire, drawing upon the magic contained in the glowing orbs surrounding the chamber, but she and the others were too late, too delayed, in their response to the unexpected charge. Curses were streaming around them, felling witches as they hit their targets, intended or not; fiery trails of flame plunging around them, setting ablaze the witches who couldn’t escape from beneath them. To Hesteia’s left, a witch fell to the ground, shriveling away as a curse struck her. Her mummified body fell to the ground before she could even cry out. Burning bodies surrounded her, the smell of flesh cloying in the space.

The chamber’s only portal was in a recessed room behind the Judiciary high table so there was no use trying for it. Coven elders raced towards the only physical exit from the chambers, which sat behind them, but smoke and roaring flames obscured their escape.

Screams filled the chambers. Their attackers’ faces were lit by the fluid glow of magic and fire and their own malice. They had taken up Medea’s battle cry of “Burn the opposition,” their eyes maddened and fervent, their voices unified. The traditionalists were now close enough for hand-to-hand combat and, although the magical deaths were horrifying, watching a middle-aged witch from Florida plunge a machete into Chloe’s chest was a special sort of torture. Hesteia drew upon the fire filling the air around her and forced it into a gale wind that swept the Everglades Coven member into one of the chamber walls. Her body fell to the floor, crumpled and broken; she lay still where she landed.

As if in slow motion, Chloe dropped to the ground, eyes gone dull staring at the machete hilt extending from her chest. Blood seeped out around the blade, but it was embedded too deeply for much to escape.

Hesteia choked back a cry, hopelessness weighing heavily on her chest as she ran to her sister’s side. She was too late by seconds, Chloe’s chest rising then falling on a final exhale just before Hesteia fell to her knees next to her. Chloe’s eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. There was nothing Hesteia could do besides shut her sister’s eyes with her fingertips and murmur, “Blessed be” to the lifeless corpse on the ground in front of her.

Struggling to her feet, gasping for air, she searched desperately for Thea’s golden hair. Fire and spell work obscured any visual of the room. Terror filled her, her stomach weighed down by dread. The new generation of witches weren’t fighters in the traditional sense, and they certainly weren’t prepared for a war with their own kind. It appeared, though, that the traditionalists had been readying themselves for this as they launched attack after attack, executing coven elders ruthlessly and efficiently.

From behind her came a deep hissing sound. She frowned but was too busy lunging away from a witch swinging an athame with alarming precision. The sacrificial blade glanced off Hesteia’s side, sending an arc of her blood to the ground, before Hesteia was able to funnel another plume of smoke, throwing the attacking witch away from her. She sank to her knees, exhausted from the near constant use of magic over the last several minutes, but her head raised once more at the sound of a loud scrape near her. Turning slowly, she scanned for the source of the noise but was completely unprepared for the sight that greeted her.

Two massive golden drakes, heads flared like cobras, slithered past her. They tore witches apart with their fangs on their journey, crushed them under their bodies as they moved quickly past the slowly dwindling number of coven members defending against the traditionalists. Gasping, Hesteia froze, convinced that if she didn’t move, didn’t draw attention to herself, she might be able to find Thea, Bernadette, and Adelaide—wherever they were—and get them away from here. The serpents were almost fully past her when a tail the size of a mature red oak smashed across her back, knocking her to the ground. Pain seared through her as her head smashed to the ground, and the world went black.