“Let’s go,” King said, wanting to get it over with.
The three moved out from under the tree. King had barely stepped into the open when a crash of thunder rent the relative quiet of the night. He jumped involuntarily, catching the looks of surprise on the other boys’ faces in the flash of lightning that followed. It had been quietly raining all day. It seemed like it was always raining in Scotland, but he didn’t remember any thunder and lightning earlier in the evening.
Rory gestured for King to move forward, and King dragged his feet out of the sucking mud and forced his legs to carry him closer to the hovel. Now that he was close enough, he saw the hovel was a little more than a rickety collection of boards amassed into a wobbly structure. He could practically see the low light from the hearth through the cracks in the wooden beams. He moved closer, keeping an eye out for movement. This time when the thunder rumbled, he ignored it. He ignored the crackle of lightning too, though it was so close he could smell it and all but taste the acrid smoke of it.
Suddenly, something smacked him hard across the face. He raised a hand to ward off the blow and caught the clothesline. It had come lose from its mooring and whipped about in the wind. King’s cheek stung from the slap, and he thought he could feel the heat of blood running down his cheek. If he’d been alone, he would have turned back now. But he’d never backed down on a dare before, and he wouldn’t do it now. Instead, he kicked out at the nearest pole anchoring the line and kicked it over. The ropes went down, landing in the mud.
Thunder boomed again, startling King, but also urging him into action. He and the other two reached the eaves and leaned against the boards of the hovel. In the next burst of lightning, they had a clear picture of the whiskey cask. Rory moved to the other side and gestured to Henry. The two of them hoisted the cask, and King moved forward to help steady it on their shoulders. A grown man might have been able to carry the cask on his own, but at only thirteen, none of the boys could manage it alone.
King led the escape, picking his route to avoid puddles and fallen tree limbs. Rory followed, grunting with the effort of it. Thunder boomed, and King turned to make certain his friends hadn’t jumped at the sound, but they were trudging along. Lightning flashed, and King turned back to the yard before him then yelped as he saw the figure illuminated by the flash of light.
It was the witch.
“Holy hell,” he said as he took her in. She was dressed in rags, her tattered dress reaching only to her calves. The ends of it were lifted by the wind, showing pale legs and bare feet. She had one bony arm outstretched, her thin finger pointed at him. Around her head, white hair flew about, seemingly dry and impervious to the driving rain. King’s gaze met hers. Her face was thin and her cheekbones prominent. Her nose was long and crooked, and her eyes—her eyes were as black as a moonless night.
The lightning receded, and she was cast into darkness. King took a step back, colliding with Rory, who swore. Then he looked up, saw the witch, and dropped his end of the cask. Henry called out, “Hey!” but it was cut off by the sound of the wood splintering as it hit the ground. Dimly, King was aware that whiskey splashed over his legs.
Thunder boomed again. How the devil could it thunder so often? Lightning lit the sky again, and now Rory and Henry swore at the sight of the witch. Her face was twisted in what Kingcould only describe as rage. He knew why. The whiskey flowed like a small stream over the dirt yard. He could smell the sweet tang of it. A cask that size was worth a great deal, and since whiskey had to age for months, if not years, it would not be easy to replace. Belatedly, he realized that the loss of the whiskey would probably mean the loss of many pounds, dooming the witch to worse poverty.
Not that he cared if she starved to death. But he could see the anger on her face and hear it in her voice as she screamed, “You!”
Her voice seemed to open the heavens. Rain poured harder, the drops painful as they hammered at his head and shoulders. Thunder boomed and rumbled incessantly. Lightning lit up the sky in jagged zigzags, and King swallowed hard when he saw the sky had turned a sickly greenish color. His gaze flicked to where the underlings were hidden, but he didn’t see them any longer.
They’d fled, leaving Rory, Henry, and himself to the witch’s mercy. “Ye will pay for this!” the witch screeched.
Rory, the bravest—or perhaps the stupidest—of the three of them, stepped forward. “Send the bill to my father.” And then he pushed past the old hag. King and Henry did the same. King tried to hold his head up and show no fear, but his skin crawled as he passed the old crone. In front of them, lightning crashed down from above, striking the upthrust branches of one of the bare trees. The sound was so loud, and the burst of flame so hot, the three boys jumped back. King threw his arm up as the branch hit the ground, spraying tree bark and charred wood over him in a wave. The dead limb blocked their path, slowing them.
Dread filling him, King looked over his shoulder. The witch was right behind him. How had she moved so quickly? She reached out and swiped at him with a long, bony finger. He jerked back, but it was too late. The crimson splash of his own blood marred the paleness of her skin. King trembled, and it wasno good to lie to himself that his shaking was only from the cold and wet.
He was scared witless.
The old crone raised her hands, the trickle of his blood running down her arm in a sickly pink ribbon. Above her arms, the green sky was lit with blinding bolts of lightning.
King felt Rory’s hands on his elbow, pulling him away, and he stumbled back. The three boys stood in a line, retreating. King didn’t know about the other two, but he wasn’t about to turn his back on the crazy woman flinging her arms to the sky. Just as she opened her mouth to speak, another figure burst from the hovel.
“No!” the other figure screamed.
“The witch’s sister,” Henry said, his voice filled with awe.
The sister might have been older or younger. Who could tell? They both looked ancient to King. But the sister had long black hair streaked with white, and she wasn’t quite so bony, though she was still thin as a stray cat. She took in the broken cask of whiskey and let out a small cry. Lifting her gaze, she looked at the boys, accusation in her eyes.
A strange sensation tugged at King’s chest. Was this guilt? He could barely remember ever feeling remorse for any of his actions. In the beginning, they had the benefit of catching his father’s attention. And now his misdeeds kept him at the top of the school hierarchy.
“Oh, boys,” the sister said, sounding sad and disappointed. “How could you?” This seemed a rhetorical question, because she turned to the witch, whose hands were still raised, even though the thunder and lightning had ceased momentarily. “Sister, nae. They are but weans.”
“Evil weans,” the witch answered, her black eyes meeting King’s. He felt cold pierce him under her gaze and was relieved when she slid it to Henry and then Rory.
Thunder crackled and hissed. The sister attempted to pull the witch away, but she was wiry and strong. She shook her sister off. Then she lowered her arms and began to move her hands as though turning a large, invisible ball between them. There was nothing between her hands, save air, but King might have sworn he saw smoke and the glow of…something else emanating from that dead air. The smoke seemed to form into the shape of a cup with a thin neck, almost like a wide bottle.
Then the witch opened her mouth, and the sound that came out was otherworldly. It wasn’t a voice, and yet he could understand the words.
“Take tooth of giant; seize nail ofdragon.
Unite with holy water in thisflagon.
Hear me now, oh great lords ofnight.
Give me my revenge; ease myplight.
