Chapter 21

Kate

I scramble to my feet, shoving my metal mask into place. My eyes dart around in search of another flash-toad or gore-bear. There’s nothing but gray fog, sparkling mushrooms, and a glowing stag with too many candle-antlers that bounds off into the massive fern-y undergrowth.

Well, other than the bodies. And believe me, there are plenty. Young women in trendy outfits, and men in baseball caps and hoodies. An older guy with a fedora on his decapitated head. Someone with a GoPro still strapped to their headless body. Pretty sure that body doesn’t belong to that head though.

These are the people that came because of our viral videos. We did this. In part, this is all our fault.

I’m a smart woman though. There are times and places to get upset, to break down, to think hard about life and all its strange and horrible nuances.

This is not that place.

The men are seconds behind me, slipping their own masks into place as they’re vomited out by the tree. Tanner hauls me up in his arms and starts running which is fine. They’ve spent months/years in this place training to be as fit and hard as possible while I’m still catching up.

A horrible sound cracks the woods behind us, and I make the mistake of looking back.

The Hag Wytch’s mammoth head is crowning the hole in the tree, bringing Brooks’ earlier analogy to mind. It really is like watching a baby come through a birth canal. The Witch’s Tree groans, and the bark splinters like old, dry bone.

“ Be gone, demon!” the Hag screams, bursting through and sending wooden shrapnel into the forest. Her wings stir the branches overhead as we sprint for the cottage. Brooks gets there first, using the secret notch to open the door. He waits for us all to climb in before he follows, dragging it shut behind us.

There’s a violent shaking in the walls as the Hag makes contact with the wood outside, and a piercing shriek follows that’s so loud, it makes my ears hurt even in here.

Tanner sets me on my feet, signing something to Brooks that I wish I could understand. Marlowe is already halfway down the stairs, and the smell of stew is fragrant in the air, something gamey like venison.

I follow after Lo only to find three startled faces peering up at us from the bottom of the stairs.

Detective Gilley. Officer Viv. And some young guy with a missing arm and a t-shirt that has the handle @hoaxesuncovered printed along with the words follow, like, and subscribe. Um. I see.

Joke’s on him this time.

He’s got a bloody bandage wrapped around the spot there his elbow should be. There’s nothing below it, obviously an injury he received after entering the woods. While I feel for him, he’s lucky compared to that pile of bodies outside.

“So, you’re back.” Viv sounds annoyed, moving away from us and into the boys’ kitchen. She stirs the cauldron and then tests the brew inside with a wooden spoon. I watch as her shadow perches on the wall behind her, resplendent with flat, wide antlers, like a moose. A south.

My attention shifts back to a red-faced Gilley. His shadow also has antlers, little nubs that remind me of a young buck or something. I can’t help but look over at Brooks as he saunters into the place, like, well, like he fucking owns it. His antlers are as tall as the detective’s entire shadow.

Brooks ignores the humans squatting in his cottage, turning at the entrance to the hallway and gesturing for us to follow.

I feel trapped in place.

It’s one thing to condemn people to the fate of these woods in the abstract. It’s another to stand there and look them in the eyes. I turn to the YouTuber guy again, his mouth gaping open as he takes in the half-naked witches in the leather pants and the sentient hats.

His shadow has a tongue, long and curled at the end. A pair of tails, too, like the hindwings of a butterfly. An Eastwoods. So, two Souths and an East. Bummer.

“They won’t talk back,” the detective huffs out, nostrils flaring. I imagine he’d attack us if he felt like he had any chance of inflicting damage. All that would happen is that he’d end up dead or maimed. I search around for the chalkboard, finding it hung on the wall with the chalk attached by a piece of sinew serving as twine.

“These are the witches?” the influencer chokes out, clutching his hand over his bloodied arm. “Can you help us? I just want to go home.”

“They won’t help. I already told you that.” Viv sets three bowls on the counter and spoons stew into them as Marlowe grabs onto my arm. I’m already shaking my head. His dark eyes narrow over the harsh metal lines of his mask, but he doesn’t drag me away—yet.

I scribble a message on the board and turn it around to face the humans. Viv squints her eyes to read it.

“ Last chance to leave or you stay here forever. Put hand in tree while we cast.” She lifts wrathful brown eyes up to me as I toss the chalkboard aside and follow Tanner and Brooks before Marlowe makes me follow them. Asshole. I’m definitely spanking him again when we get home. “Wait, that’s it? That’s all you’re going to say? How are we supposed to get out with that fucking owl screaming outside the door?”

The men and I file down the curved staircase to the bottom floor, and the humans rush to follow, their hot food abandoned on the counter.

We make our way to the cave that I bathed in on my first day here. Marlowe waves his hand, clearing the water and revealing a grated hole on the far wall of the cave. Brooks tears the grate off and tosses it aside, getting to his knees in the mud and crawling through.

Tanner holds out his hand to help me in as Lo turns back to the humans.

He leans in toward them, throwing his shadow up the wall and onto the ceiling, a wicked thing with wide wings. With his eyes as dark as pits, he leans in and lifts a single finger to his mouth in a very clear shut the fuck up motion.

I duck down and drop to my knees, my hands sinking into the muddy earth at the bottom of the cave. Bone necklace clanking, I crawl after my husband’s ass until he disappears into pitch-black. I don’t slow, moving after him with my breasts hanging and swaying, and me telling my stupid body that this is nothing like what we do at home in the dark.

Sex is a great distraction from violence though. From the fear of what’s about to come. I just tell myself that I’m looking forward to the ritual we’re about to perform because I can get on my knees just like this and have my entire coven under the guise of doing a spell.

How am I supposed to enjoy any of that with the Hag Wytch hunting us?

My fingers slide into thick dirt, moist but not slick like the mud inside the tunnel or whatever it is that we were just crawling through. My forehead bumps into a dirt wall, and I struggle to hold back a curse.

Tanner’s head knocks into my ass just before Brooks grabs me by the arms and hauls me up and out of the tunnel. Seems to be a sump or something? It descends vertically before curving into the horizontal space we just crawled through. It’s narrow and claustrophobic, with stone pressing in on all sides. Without Marlowe around—or another Westwoods, I suppose—it’d be completely impassable.

Brooks keeps me close by his side, one arm around my waist, his right hand clutching the hilt of his machete. I have another machete in my possession, sheathed and attached to the leather belt at my waist.

Tanner and Marlowe appear beside us, and even though it’s hard to see (our only light source is a cluster of glowing mushrooms at the base of a humongous tree), I can see smudges of mud on their foreheads and masks.

The humans—with Officer Viv in the lead—emerge behind us, their breathing loud. A stray curse here and there. Marlowe gives me a nasty look, but I couldn’t leave without at least offering them a chance. They haven’t been able to approach the Witch’s Tree for fear of the Hag and, I’m sure, all of the other beasties in this forest.

I have no idea if putting their hands in the tree will work, but it’s worth a shot. This is their one and only chance to leave this horrible place behind forever.

Tanner and Marlowe swing their bows over their shoulders as Brooks risks clacking two of those stones together. Violet light flares in the tight cluster of trees around us, throwing our shadows up their massive trunks. It almost looks like the four of us are dancing in a circle while the humans’ shadows sit in fetal positions off to one side.

Well, except for Officer Viv. Her moose-antlered shadow has its hands on its hips, observing.

Brooks sticks one of the stones into the eye socket of a skull that’s hanging from his necklace. The other, he hands to me. He signs out some things to the men, and they sign back. The conversation goes on for several minutes, modifying our plan in real time.

Because nothing in our world or any other ever goes entirely to plan.

Brooks takes the lead with me just behind him, Tanner and Marlowe flanking me. The guys don’t care about the other people with us, but when one of them makes a sound, Lo turns his bow on the poor guy. The influencer goes very still and holds up his remaining hand, palm out.

He’s much more careful after that.

We take a roundabout way to the Witch’s Tree, stepping over severed body parts with smartwatches on their wrists or phones clutched in their dead hands. It truly puts life into perspective for me, how insignificant those sorts of things are. What’s trending, who’s trending, how many followers someone has … none of that matters when your life is over and that phone is a cold, useless brick in your stone-dead fingers.

I tuck that revelation into my heart for later.

Detective Gilley is walking in a half-crouch, meaty hands banded over his much-smaller-than-it-used-to-be belly. He’s been eating, but it seems that Viv has done well rationing out the food that my men left behind. He’s the first to the tree, but he surprises me by holding out his own hand for the young guy’s, helping him over to it and inserting his wrist into the hole.

My breath catches. The world seems to go still around me. In the space before my next inhale, the YouTuber is gone. The detective steps aside for Viv, letting her do the same. She doesn’t so much as look at us before she shoves her hand into the trunk and disappears.

Brooks ignores it all, directing us to our positions around the tree. A bonfire explodes from the earth, a beautiful display of Southwoods magic. Flames crackle, casting strikes of heat through the cool, damp woods.

In unison, we fall to our knees, hunch over, and begin to draw sigils in the moist dirt.

My finger traces out the sigil for North, a shape that I’ve practiced enough times that it feels like second nature. Hell, it’s easy without having to concentrate on a zombie situated in an entirely different world.

We only have to draw our own sigils this time which shortens the casting time drastically. Rather than dozens of repeats, it’s just that single slice of my finger through the Witchwoods dirt.

“ Careful, she hunts!” The forest spirits have our back, as always. But, just like before, I can hear the flapping of wings as we start our spell. Unlike before, the Hag is perfectly corporeal and absolutely capable of eating all four of us. “She’s so lonely. So lonely.”

The triangle I just drew flares to life with glowing green vines as I look up and over at Marlowe, copying the sign language he’s using to chant our spell words without making any sound at all. Our hands move frantically in the darkness, signing the phrase that Brooks taught us last night.

“ We beg you, Northwoods. We implore you, South. We beg help from the East, and we prostrate to the West.”

Everything we cast here feels ten times more powerful than it does back home, like whatever our magic really is, the cache on this side of the gate is richer, stronger, darker.

Brooks tosses a handful of the spell items into the flames as we rise to our feet and start the dance. It’s one of our most difficult dances yet, and I know that we danced longer last time because of me, because I wasn’t hitting all the steps.

This, too, I’ve been practicing. In my head. With my fingertips on table surfaces, drawing out the positions. With my feet, when I wake up to pee in the middle of the night. During all the little empty spaces in the day when I might have otherwise been scrolling my phone.

Brooks—still dancing—signs something else to Tanner.

Even though I fucking told them I hate it when we split up, Tanner peels away from the dance, shooting an arrow into the trees and making something scream. The heavy flapping shifts gears, heading toward the animal that Tanner just shot.

He disappears into the darkness of the woods, and other sounds follow. Roars. Hisses. Shrieks. Oh my God, he’s shooting the plants, isn’t he? He’s shooting the weird screechy Witchwoods foliage and creating a trail for the Hag Wytch.

Since Marlowe and Brooks keep dancing, I do the same. We pass in circles around the tree, the fire crackling at its roots. Their faces are alien, feral, arcane. I hope mine looks the same, bone necklace clacking, breasts bouncing, braid catching the air like an orange and black Halloween streamer. We continue to sign that phrase, over and over and over again.

“ We beg you, Northwoods. We implore you, South. We beg help from the East, and we prostrate to the West.”

Brooks continues to feed ingredients to the flames, causing it to grow larger, stranger, like orange and red tongues licking up the side of the Witch’s Tree. Our shadows spin with us, turning in circles, throwing their hands in the air, swaying from side to side.

We hunch over, throw our arms forward, lifting them up, turning in another circle. The woods spin past me, magnificent trunks and radiant plants, the forest spirits imitating our dance with their twig-like limbs and leaf-like bodies.

Massive moths are drawn to the fire, their three-foot wingspans like the canvas of a disturbed artist, like moonlight spilling across a craggy, wave-swept shore. They glow blue and silver before diving into the fire and catching, moaning wails tearing from them as they’re consumed by the flames.

Animals creep to the edge of the wood, and Marlowe—who never stops dancing—turns and shoots a stag in the neck with an arrow. It collapses right where it stands, spilling blood across a luminous mossy carpet. He fires off another shot, taking out a crow that looks similar to Ebon, but with green eyes instead of purple ones.

Sacrifices.

I don’t like it, but the men might’ve killed all three of the humans I just sent back, so I can’t complain. Nature is neither cruel nor kind. It’s not black or white. It’s a million shades of gray, heavy rewards and high costs. Temperance. Gluttony. Brief. Endless. Everything.

“ We beg you, Northwoods. We implore you, South. We beg help from the East, and we prostrate to the West.”

Tanner rejoins us, and my heart sings at the sight of him. He’s dancing before he even re-enters the circle, like he might’ve been darting around the woods as a distraction for the Hag without skipping a single step.

Brooks draws the athame, cutting into his wrist with the feral brutality of a woodland artist. Tanner is next. Marlowe. Me. It hurts like hell, but I tilt my head back and let the rush of blood on my skin become a song, from me to the woods. It’s a plea. It’s an offering.

Magic is not free or cheap or easy. There’s always a price. We keep signing.

“ We beg you, Northwoods. We implore you, South. We beg help from the East, and we prostrate to the West.”

Brooks drives the athame into the tree.

Our eyes meet.

It doesn’t matter what order we do this in, only that we all reach climax with our wrists still bleeding. We can’t heal the cuts until we’re finished fucking, which makes it tricky. Last time, I was lightheaded but giddy, caught up in the spellcraft and the esoteric thrill.

Tonight, I’m genuinely afraid.

I don’t know where the Hag Wytch is, when she’ll come back, if we’re going to be ambushed mid-coitus.

My attention shifts to Tanner. He crosses his arms in an X shape, palms flat on his pecs. He pats his chest gently a few times while looking at me. Somehow, I get the idea that he’s trying to tell me to relax.

I nod, reaching for him first.

He comes to me, pulling me into his arms even though he knows we’re short on time.

This particular spell that Brooks created requires that the chalice climax as well, which is one of the reasons it works. A female orgasm is worth more in the eyes of spellcraft because it requires more effort. If the men try to rush me through it, it’s likely that the spell won’t work.

It’s hard to shut out the horror of the woods around us, but I’m fairly certain that’s the point.

Sacrifice coupled with sex.

And all of these people who stumbled into the woods? They are the sacrifice.

Our coven brought them here, even if by accident.

Tanner helps me push my pants down, turning me around so that I can press my palms to the trunk of this cursed tree. I close my eyes as he yanks his mask down, skating his lips across my pulse, my shoulder. His hands knead my breasts.

With my eyes closed, I can keep my focus entirely on him and the spitting, hissing, crackle of the fire. Tanner’s natural scent, like a hot summer day after a fox rain, takes over, blinding me to the copper stink of blood and the earthy decay that surrounds us. I tell myself that more people will die if I don’t do this right, if I fuck this up.

I tell myself all sorts of things to keep my focus, but it’s Tanner that distracts me from it all. He guides the head of his dripping cock to my heat, easing himself in while keeping one palm on my rib cage, the other on my hip. He signs things against my skin that I don’t understand, but that keep me calm anyway.

Slowly, gently, like he has all the time in the world, my Eastwoods husband fucks me nice and slow against the tree.

It’s like that first spell we did, the one that bound us all together as a coven, but in reverse.

It’s not hot and messy and insane, but slow and tender and gentle.

If we were anywhere but here, doing anything but this, I might’ve cried happy tears.

He edges me good, my hunter, making himself come as quickly as he can while ensuring that I’m nice and warm and wet for Marlowe.

They trade places, and my Westwoods husband isn’t quite as nice. I can feel the tension in the way he wraps my hair around his fist, pulling back and causing me to arch my back. But that’s okay because I like this, too, and the sting of his punishing hips is a nice contrast to the sweetness of Tanner’s body. The sound is nice, an echoing of flesh on flesh that I realize only belatedly that the Hag might hear.

Marlowe is merciless with my nipples, and I have to really bite my lip to keep from crying out. It feels so good that I end up shoving my ass back, pushing him even deeper into me. He bites onto my shoulder when he comes, his metal mask digging into the naked skin of my back.

And then it’s up to me and Brooks.

I glance over my shoulder as they switch places, and the heavy warmth of my Southwoods husband drapes over me. His massive hands cradle my hips, and if he weren’t wearing his mask, I think he might be smiling at me.

Brooks swats me in the ass, shattering that silly illusion. This motherfucker. I’m so fixated on how much he’s pissing me off that I forget very briefly that we’re in the Witchwoods.

Very briefly is more than enough.

Edged by Tanner. Edged by Marlowe. Fucked to climax by Brooks.

He tugs on my hips, bringing me to him. Bottoms himself out in my hot, needy pussy. I’m swallowing moans as he rocks me back and forth, just like my naughty little witch brain went to when we were in the tunnel. Breasts swaying. Metal masks clanking. Bone necklaces rattling. Fire crackling.

I’m fucked like a wicked, inked beast by three other wicked, inked beasts, and I am the one who comes first. My body locks down on Brooks, a prison of hot heat that grabs hold of him, pulsing and squeezing and demanding that he blow his seed in me.

He comes with me, punishing my hips in a tight, possessive grip that has me howling behind my mask.

Good thing a howl doesn’t count as talking in this fucked-up place.

Brooks collapses against me, and we fall into the tree together, his massive form shrouding my own. He sneaks his hand around the trunk and puts it inside the gate.

Nothing happens.

Nothing. Fucking. Happens.

Brooks slides out of me, yanking his pants up as I do the same.

I don’t have to be told twice: it’s time to haul ass.

The fire goes out as Marlowe throws me into his arms, sprinting full tilt into the darkness of the woods. It takes my eyes a minute to adjust, but even with the night vision of a witch, it’s not easy to see.

Doesn’t matter.

These men know the woods better than I ever will. If luck holds, I’ll never have to come back here again.

Flapping wings follow along behind us, the Hag in hot pursuit.

I’m nervous, but not freaking out, arms wrapped around Lo’s sweaty neck. I’m watching for the Hag, but I don’t see her. She can’t just appear out of nowhere. I will see her before she can get to us. Unlike back home, she’s totally corporeal here, and her wings brush the trees, shake the limbs. The trunks themselves are an issue, creating narrow passages that she has to slow to navigate.

We’re going to make it. We’ll make it.

I might not know the layout of the Witchwoods as well as the guys, but I know where we are in relation to the street back home.

We’re halfway there when the survivor leaps out in front of us.

It’s a woman, probably about my age, wearing tattered, bloody clothes and a broken expression, like the Witchwoods has thoroughly reached inside her brain and snapped it right in half.

“Please!” she screams, surprising Marlowe so much that he skids to a stop and goes down to his ass with me still in his arms. “Please, please, please. I need help. I need help so bad.” She’s sobbing and yelling and drawing the Hag Wytch straight to us.

Talking in the woods is always a bad idea.

Talking at night is a worse idea.

Tanner and Brooks each take one of Lo’s arms, hauling him up. We skirt around the girl like she isn’t even there, and my heart shatters into a million pieces as I watch her struggle to keep up with us. She has one pink and white tennis shoe on her right foot. The left is bare and badly mangled.

“Don’t leave me!” she cries out, reaching for us. I’m crying, silent tears tracking my cheeks. But there’s nothing I can do. The gate is closed, and if I speak, I’m just as trapped as she is.

If we stop running, we’re all dead.

“My parents—” she starts, and that’s it, her last words.

The Hag swoops down and takes her head off like a guillotine. With wide eyes, I watch the woman’s body slump to the ground … and then I see the Hag coming straight for us.

Vines lash out from the earth, wrapping the Hag’s feathered body like a net, but it barely slows her down this time. I’m drained from the spell we just cast, like an athlete who’s finished a triathlon, an uphill hike, and a 5k on the same day. I simply don’t have the energy for a sprint.

Marlowe throws us to the ground, and the Hag sweeps over our heads, raking her talons down his back and drawing blood. He barely slows, shoving back up to his feet and heading to the right instead of straight forward.

I don’t see what happens to either Tanner or Brooks, but I hear the sounds of a fight before Marlowe comes to a stop in front of a hollowed out tree trunk, pushing me inside of it, and then holding up a palm when I try to come back out.

He shakes his head emphatically, grabbing onto my shoulders and giving me a little shake.

Those dark eyes of his have never looked so serious.

Lo lifts up a finger, like he’s telling me he’ll be back in a minute. He reaches for his bow only to realize that it fell off when the Hag sliced his back. Blood is everywhere, coating his skin in red as he turns at the sound of the Hag’s scream.

“ I’m scared. I’m over here. I’m over here!” she cries, the words a mockery of her victim’s last moments.

Marlowe takes off at a run as I fret and grab onto the brim of my hat with both hands, pacing a rut into the dirt beneath my feet as my mind spins through possibilities. I’ve saved their lives in the past, haven’t I? I used my machete on the Hag, spared Marlowe’s life. What if they need me?

What if I run out there and become a liability?

Brooks warned me last night, over and over again. I would do well to listen.

I stay where I am, heaving out a massive sigh of relief when all three men come into view. Doesn’t matter how long we hunker down in this tree. So long as we don’t talk, we can go home.

In theory.

We did close the gate, so it’s hard to say if the rule is the same, but no matter what, we’re together and that’s what’s important. I’ll stay in this tree until our magic is recovered, fight our way back to the cottage, and live with these men in this horrible place.

Honestly, it wouldn’t be that terrible. The cottage is cozy. Brooks really does know how to make a good rabbit stew, and Tanner is an excellent hunter. Marlowe and I can start a garden on his goddamn hat.

Lo squeezes inside the tree first with Tanner following. Brooks is maybe a split-second behind, but it’s enough. The Hag Wytch looms out of the fog behind him, reaching for my husband with both of her mouths wide open.

Brooks turns, machete in hand, and jams it into her beak. Marlowe and Tanner are there to back him up, and that’s when she rears back, human lips splitting wide. Her jaw unhinges like a snake, bones cracking in her face.

She’s going to tear his throat out.

Tanner looses an arrow into her eye. Marlowe grabs onto Brooks, intending on pulling him back. Everything is happening in slow motion. Vines explode from the ground, but the Hag snaps them like they’re nothing more than unspooled thread. Shards of ice rain down. Flames claw at her feet. The wind pushes her back in the opposite direction.

Those teeth descend.

I unsheathe my machete.

I shouldn’t do it. I know that. I’m risking my own life, but I can’t let him die. I can’t lose him. Dying is okay, but losing the people I love is not.

I dive under Brooks’ splayed legs, come up in front of him, and I stab my own weapon into her human mouth.

The Hag swallows, somebody screams—me, I think—and then I’m being dragged forward by the wrist. My feet leave the ground as the Hag takes flight, and even though I try to let go of the machete, she’s got a hold of me.

“Kate!” one of the men is screaming after me, and my only thought is no, you idiot, be quiet! I don’t want them trapped here. What are they even doing?

Blood is running down my arm, spattering onto my eyes, blinding me.

The Hag bites my arm off at the elbow, and I wonder in a strange, abject sort of way if that’s what happened to the influencer guy. Oh, that makes sense.

My brain is a mess of pain and confusion as I start to fall, missing an arm and tumbling through the darkness of the woods, hitting branches on the way down. The Hag doesn’t let me go that easily, ignoring the barrage of magic and arrows and shouts from down below.

She snatches me up in her claws, tilts my body, and then she uses a single claw to split my throat open from ear to ear.

I’m falling again, slamming into the ground with a gurgle and a grunt.

My severed arm lands on top of me.

Nothing makes sense.

I’m hot and then I’m cold, and then I think I might be okay, but I’m not. I understand that. I’m anything but okay.

The men are yelling at one another, and I feel hands on my body. Somebody is picking me up. Blood is everywhere. I’m in and out of consciousness, head lolling, as they run back in the direction of the cottage.

Between one blink and the next, I’m in the woods and then I’m inside the warm house and it smells like my husbands, like the stew that Viv was cooking, like my own death.

I know that I’m not going to make it, not even when the guys slather cool, minty salve on my neck, when they put hands on me and start to chant.

It’s too late.

I try to inhale, but there’s no air. Just blood. I drown in it.

Between one blink and the next, I’m alive … and then I’m dead.