Page 4 of Soul of a Witch

Her face fell as a warm hand came to rest protectively on my shoulder.

“You should go home, Everly.” My father’s voice was calm, comforting me the moment I heard it. Papa always knew what to do, what to say. He knew that the right path was not always the easy one.

Sometimes, it was frightening. Sometimes, it required one to do wicked things.

“It was you!” Juniper screamed, teeth bared, weakly thrashing her head as she was laid on the stretcher. “You did it! You left me down there! You’re a monster, Kent Hadleigh! You and your bitch daughter!Victoria!” Juniper laughed after she screamed my half-sister’s name, hysteria overtaking her terror. They pushed her stretcher into the ambulance, but that didn’t stop her from looking back at me again and saying viciously, “You watched. Youwatchedand didnothing.”

The courtroom was full that night.

Ever since the old courthouse was converted into the Abelaum Historical Society, the courtroom had only been used for meetings of Society staff and benefactors. At least, that was the ruse we maintained. The two dozen people gathered there were indeed benefactors of the Society. They’d all donated time, money, and loyalty to my father’s goals.

Loyalty to my father meant loyalty to the Libiri. Children of the Deep God, worshippers of Its great power. We alone would reap the benefits of Its mercy when It was unleashed. When our goals were fulfilled, our God would be free, this world would change, and we would be granted Its favor.

But tonight, those goals had been shaken. Shattered.

As the congregation huddled in fear in the courtroom below, my family gathered in the attic. The tension in the air was palpable, as if I could sense the wringing hands, shuffling feet, and uncomfortable whispers drifting through the stale air from below. The rumble of distant thunder made me quake, and I stared at the ceiling, expecting it to collapse at any moment.

We had no idea how terrible the Deep One’s fury could be. Not yet.

Casting my eyes upward allowed me to avoid the horrendous sight at my feet — my father’s captive demon, Leon, writhing in a binding circle as the wrath for tonight’s failure fell on him.

Kent Hadleigh had always been a calm man. Composed, collected, eloquent. It made people trust him and put their faith in his leadership. But those of us who were closest to him knew rage simmered just below the surface. Righteous anger that he would unleash the moment he was behind closed doors.

Demons could heal from almost anything, but Leon’s flesh was raw, crisscrossed with deep gashes. The words my father used to inflict pain sounded so ugly, so full of hatred.

“Scissa carne,” he chanted again, and Leon made a sound like a throttled scream. “Cum ardenti sanguine.”

The smell of burning flesh made me nauseous. My eyes flickered quickly toward my mother as she stood beside the demon’s binding circle, muttering. She’d drawn the circle herself; rings, lines, and runes, carefully assembled to contain the powerful hellion within. The spell she uttered bolstered my father’s power since he had none of his own.

There was a brief silence, filled only with Leon’s labored breathing, before my father snapped, “She’s fifteen! A fuckingchildgot away from you! You expect me to see this as anything other than defiance?”

Beside me, my step-brother, Jeremiah, smirked with sadistic satisfaction. My step-sister, Victoria, looked bored, and her mother, Meredith, did too. The suffering in front of them had no impact, as if the wretched screams didn’t even penetrate their ears.

“Scissa carne!”

Across the binding circle, I met my mother’s eyes. Her blonde hair was tied back, her blue eyes dark with power as she wielded her magic. My mother could craft spells without words; with mere intent and focus, she could summon the elements, make objects move and charm them to behave how she wished.

Meanwhile, to use any magic himself, my father needed the little book currently clutched tightly in his hand. A grimoire, passed down through the generations of our family, allowing each subsequent patriarch to not only wield magic, but to control the demon whose sigil was written within.

No one except a few trusted worshippers knew what Leon truly was. He looked almost human; demons usually did. Given the opportunity, demons would kill us in a heartbeat and revel in our pain. Or worse, they would trick humans with irresistible bargains in exchange for ownership over one’s soul.

Once your soul was sold, there was no going back. You would become theirs for eternity, bound to a demon and destined for Hell.

Father said it was a fate worse than death.

Outside the family, people thought Leon was hired by my father from a private security firm. They’d thought the same thing when he served my grandfather, and his father, and so on, all the way back to the source of all this: Morpheus Leighman. The man who started our worship, who discovered the Deep One’s presence.

Like my father, Morpheus had not been a witch. Magic did not come inherently to my father’s bloodline. My mother could use it, but I had been blessed with mere whispers of magic, tangled threads of power that I could scarcely unravel, let alone control.

But as my father often said, a young woman did not need power. She needed an obedient mind and a submissive heart.

Finally, Father stopped. He drew in a deep breath, stroking his hand over his short gray hair.

“Return to your room in the house immediately,” he said, his voice hoarse as he spoke to the demon who lay curled in a bloody heap on the floor. “You are not to leave your binding circle unless I instruct you otherwise.”

Leon’s golden eyes squeezed shut before he vanished with a wisp of smoke. My shoulders slumped, tension I’d been unaware I was holding finally flooding out of me. As Mama knelt down, using a rag to swiftly wipe away the chalk lines of the binding circle, Meredith watched her, nose wrinkled in disgust. She detested us. I was proof of her husband’s infidelity, proof she could never avoid.

Having my father’s wife and his mistress in the same room was a recipe for disaster. Doubtlessly, it was only Father’s foul mood that kept Meredith from saying something rude.

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