14. Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen

Pitch Black

Trees loom above me, their bare branches clacking like skeletal fingers, whispering secrets in the cold wind. I stand rooted to the spot, my heart thudding in my chest, my breath misting in the chill air. This is the Society’s doing, their twisted game, and perversely, even though I despise them, I can see the appeal. There’s something more real about Shakespeare here.

Are the witches students?

They’re draped in black cloaks, faces obscured by heavy hoods, moving with a fluid grace around the roaring fire. Their chants fill the air, haunting and melodic, the words winding around me like a spell.

The fire casts eerie shadows, dancing and twisting on the gnarled tree trunks, creating monstrous shapes that seem to reach out for me. The witches toss ingredients into the cauldron —a shriveled root, a vial of dark liquid, a small pouch that rattles with unknown contents. Each addition sends the flames higher, the fire roaring like a wild beast.

I take a deep breath, the cold air stinging my lungs, grounding me. I square my shoulders, lift my chin. I won’t be their pawn, their plaything. I’ve dealt with worse than them—my parents’ abuse, their lies, their cruelty. I’ve survived, grown stronger. I can face whatever the Society throws at me.

The chanting stops abruptly, the sudden silence deafening.

The witches turn to me, their faces still hidden by dark hoods, their bodies bent as if they’re really old crones. Anticipation hangs heavy in the air. I steel myself, ready for whatever comes next. I won’t back down, won’t show weakness. This is their game, their test. And I’m ready to play.

One of the witches steps forward, her cloak billowing behind her like a dark cloud. She extends a hand, a small, intricately carved wooden box resting on her palm. Her voice, when she speaks, is low, husky, laced with a power that seems to vibrate in the air. “Open it,” she commands, her eyes glinting in the firelight.

I hesitate, my heart pounding. Whatever’s in that box, it’s not going to be pleasant. But I can’t refuse. I reach out, my fingers brushing against hers as I take the box. Her skin is ice cold, sending a jolt up my arm. I take a deep breath, my thumb tracing the carvings on the lid.

The box is heavier than it looks, the wood dark and smooth under my fingers. I trace the intricate carvings, feeling the grooves like a secret language against my skin.

The witches watch me, their eyes gleaming in the firelight, their bodies tense with anticipation. Nestled in velvet, the color of midnight, is a dagger.

It’s not just any dagger—it’s a work of art, a tribute to violence. The hilt is gilded, adorned with jewels that wink malevolently in the firelight. A ruby the size of my thumb sits at the pommel, surrounded by a circle of obsidian stones that seem to absorb the light.

The blade is thin, wickedly sharp, with a groove running down the center, designed, I know from a research paper I read once, to make the blood flow faster. This isn’t a prop, a plaything.

This is a weapon meant for killing.

I recoil, my hands shaking.

The box clatters to the ground, the dagger falling onto the dirt.

The fire roars, the flames reaching higher, as if fed by my fear.

The witches step closer, their cloaks billowing, their faces still hidden. I can feel their eyes on me, their excitement, their hunger. This is what they wanted, what they craved—my shock, my terror.

“What do you want from me?” I ask, my voice shaking only slightly.

No answer. Only the crackle of the fire, the rustle of the leaves, the distant hoot of an owl. The witches circle me, their movements fluid, predatory. I feel like prey, like a rabbit surrounded by wolves. My heart hammers in my chest, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps. I’m in way over my head, drowning in a game I don’t understand, a game with rules I never knew.

“Pick it up.”

The witch’s command still hangs in the air, the small box heavy in my hands. Before I can make sense of its contents, a rustling sound echoes through the forest. The witches turn in unison, their cloaks billowing like dark wings. My heart hammers in my chest, my breath hitches. What now?

Branches snap. Leaves crunch.

And then, suddenly, Brandon is dragged into the clearing, his arms gripped tightly by two more cloaked figures. His usually perfectly styled dark blond hair is disheveled, his brown eyes wide with fear. My stomach drops, a cold dread washing over me. This is bad. Really bad.

He struggles, trying to get free, but the figures hold him tight.

His eyes dart around the clearing, taking in the fire, the witches, me. When his gaze lands on me, he freezes, his eyes widening in disbelief. “Anne?” His voice is a choked whisper, filled with fear and confusion.

I’m rooted to the spot, my mind racing.

He cheated on me when we were dating. He insulted me when I was with his father. Then he turned his back on me when I wanted closure.

Despite everything, I don’t want him to be hurt.

“What are you doing here?” I whisper.

He swallows hard, his eyes flicking to the witches, then back to me. “They took me from my dorm. I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s not good.”

That’s an understatement.

I look at the witches, their faces still obscured, their bodies tense. This is a test, a sick game. They want to see what I’ll do, how far I’ll go. I clench my jaw, my resolve hardening. I won’t let them use Brandon to get to me.

I won’t let them win.

“Let him go,” I say.

The witches don’t move, their grip on Brandon tightening. He flinches.

One of the witches steps forward, her voice a low hiss. “Kill him.”

My stomach churns, bile rising in my throat. The witch’s words hang heavy in the air, a death sentence echoing through the forest. I look at Brandon, his eyes wide with terror, the charm replaced by a raw, primal fear.

Fuck. They want me to prove my loyalty, to show that I’m one of them. In doing so, I’ll also give them the strongest blackmail they could have against me. I would be their puppet forever. Even if I were willing to hurt another student, it would be a devil’s bargain. Of course, I’m not willing to do it either way.

I won’t let them use Brandon as a pawn.

Won’t let them control me.

Won’t let them hurt William Stratford through his son.

The witches circle us, their chants filling the air, a haunting melody that sends shivers down my spine. The fire roars, the flames licking higher, casting eerie shadows on the gnarled trees. The cauldron bubbles, the liquid inside churning, spitting, hissing like a living thing. It’s an important reminder. Because I’m not superstitious, but I do love Shakespeare.

Which means I know what’s in that cauldron, if they were accurate.

As I once told Professor Thorne, humans cause enough evil without magic.

My gaze flicks over the pile of ingredients. Some questionable looking herbs. Some dark apothecary bottles that might hold anything, really. And there…yes. Some alcohol. Something high-proof, I hope. Their stunts have only gotten more dangerous, and more dramatic, since the masquerade I first attended. But these people still like to get drunk, to gamble, and have sex. And if they used the actual ingredients from the play, there are several flammable ones.

I take a step forward Brandon, holding the knife. His eyes widen.

A blink. It’s all the warning I can give him.

He stares at me, his brown eyes so like his father. And I think he understands?

Though there’s no time to find out. I make a dash for the pile. Before they can grab me, I smash the bottle against the heavy iron rim of the cauldron. Flames roar from the mouth. With my foot, I kick the hot container over, letting the boiling liquid pour toward them. There’s screaming. Someone grabs my arm, and I flail, fighting them, until I hear Brandon’s voice in my ear, “It’s me.”

We run together, dashing deeper into the woods, hearing cursing and shouts behind us. We keep running, my breath unbearably loud in the empty woods. It feels like a red flare, as if they’re sure to catch up, to find us, to murder us both.

My lungs burn from the exertion.

And then my legs.

And still we keep running.

Finally we reach some edge of the woods, a break into a long, winding road.

We both stop, bent over. I gasp for breath.

It feels like it’s only been a few seconds since we started running, but the stitch in my side says it’s been longer. I haven’t heard them in a long time. I glance back. “I hope it doesn’t set the entire woods on fire.”

Brandon looks back. “Unlikely. Though it would serve them right to get caught in it.”

“You know what just occurred to me? What they did back there, the costumes, the chanting. It was technically a performance. And it turned out pretty bad. Maybe the play is cursed.”

He looks blank. “What?”

“You really never cared about Shakespeare, did you?”

“No, and after this, I’m never reading another play again. I don’t care what my mom says, I’m never going to read another fucking old word again. I’m going to become a finance stockbroker dudebro who makes a shit ton of money.”

That makes me smile. “Good.”

“I think campus is that way,” he says, pointing with his thumb.

It’s pitch black. “How can you tell?”

“I was a boy scout for ten years.”

“How did I not know that about you?”

He shrugs, and even in the darkness, he looks like he might be blushing. Or maybe that’s just the exertion of running for miles to save your life. “I guess I didn’t really open up to you. I mostly wanted to show you off to my friends and then make out. I was pretty shallow.”

“Well, you’re planning to be a dudebro. That’s kind of a prerequisite.”

“Thanks for not killing me.”

“Yeah, well.”

“It would have made things awkward for you and my dad, that’s for sure.”

“It’s already awkward, what with him being dead.”

Brandon raises his hands. “He told me I couldn’t say anything.”

“That pisses me off, that neither of you trusted me.”

We start down the road for the long, long walk.

“I think he trusted you,” he finally says. “He was trying to protect you.”

I roll my eyes. “Right.”

“Man, I don’t know why I’m arguing for him. He stole my girl.”

“We weren’t together,” I remind him. “Because you cheated on me. And besides, you should be on his side. He cares about you. It’s part of why he took the job at the university, so that he could spend time with you.”

“I know they used me to get to him. My mom helped them.”

A pang in my chest. “I’m sorry.”

“Families are fucked up.”

“Yeah. Families are fucked up.”