Page 38 of Witch
“You prevented the server meltdown three summers ago. We couldn’t figure out how it happened. The generators were down. The air conditioning wasn’t working. We’d had storms and floods. It was a nightmare. We were going to lose everything. You did that. How?” asked Ace.
“Because I’m a genius,” grinned the teenager. “I might be a dead one. But I’m still a genius. I’ll tell you the details later.”
“We’ve given ourselves too much credit,” said Ghost, shaking his head. “All this time, all the times we thought we were so brilliant, outsmarting the tangoes, and it was all of you.”
“Well, not always,” smirked Grip. “We, you did your parts. We just were lucky enough that it almost worked out.”
“Then why did you die?” asked Nine. “Why did Tony have to die? Why did Willa have to die? Couldn’t you have stopped it?”
Matthew stepped forward, the familiar glow of light emanating from his body.
“People must die sometimes, Nine. We hate it. We all hate it, but they live on in other ways. Grip and Tony lived on to help all of you, to guide you. Willa left her sons as a testament to her life and love. Sometimes moving on is what a soul needs to do.”
“And when you need to stay?” asked Gaspar.
“We stay because we want to, son. Because we know that you need us, and we need you.”
Everyone was quiet for a long moment, the team shuffling through their memories and wondering how many times Martha or one of the others was present, saving their asses. In the end, it didn’t really matter.
“What do we tell the girls?” asked Luc. Gaspar stared at everyone and nodded.
“Tell them to get ready.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Early 1800s…
Hopkins was dying. He knew it but couldn’t bring himself to admit it. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t happen to him. A witch must have cursed him.
He was a man known as a witch-hunter, who roamed the small, isolated villages, driven by a fervent belief in the existence of witchcraft.
He was a tall, imposing figure, often clad in dark, austere clothing that matched the somber nature of his mission. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, scanned the faces of the villagers, searching for any sign of the supernatural.
As a witch-hunter, he was relentless in his pursuit, convinced that the devil's work was afoot in these quiet communities. He would gather the villagers, speaking with a voice that carried both authority and fear. He recounted tales of dark magic and malevolent spirits, weaving a narrative that left the villagers in a state of dread.
With a fervor that bordered on fanaticism, he accused women of witchcraft, often targeting those who were disregarded or misunderstood. He would present his case to the local authorities, arguing that these women were in league with the devil and posed a grave threat to the community. His arguments were persuasive, laced with a mix of superstition and supposed evidence of witchcraft.
To extract the truth, he demanded the use of torture or trial by ordeal. He believed that only through pain and suffering could the true nature of these women be revealed. His methods were brutal, involving devices designed to inflict maximum agony. He saw this as a necessary evil, a means to cleanse the village of its dark influences.
The witch-hunter's presence cast a long shadow over the villages he visited. His accusations and methods sowed fear and suspicion, tearing apart the fabric of these tight-knit communities. Yet, in his mind, he was a righteous warrior, fighting a battle against the forces of darkness.
He’d had little luck in getting others to take up his cause. They weren’t witches, they were misunderstood, was what he heard. The ignorance of those around him astounded him.
“Sir, you must rest,” said the young man he paid to care for him.
“I can’t rest until they are all gone,” he said, falling into a coughing fit. This time, his handkerchief was laced with blood. “They’ve cursed me. They’ve all cursed me.”
“Sir, no one has been here except me,” said the young man, almost fearful to admit that. It wouldn’t be beyond his master to point the finger at him for all his ailments.
“Georgie, you must do something for me. In my bible, there on the desk, there is a letter written to my family and one to my future family members. Mail the first one to my wife immediately. By the time she receives it, I will be dead.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The second, the second is most important, Georgie. There is a map. Follow the map and collect all of my tools from the small cottage. Store them in crates and have them sent to my cousin in Boston.”
“America, sir?”
“Yes. In America. He has agreed to store them until my sons can take up this cause. You must send everything!” He began coughing again, and Georgie knew that his master was dying. As the night went on, he became worse and worse, his breathing so labored, he was choking on his blood and spittle.
