Page 57 of Blood Coven

“Summum hoc imperii,” Sorin whispered. She closed her eyes, holding the scroll in her hands. She repeated the words again. “Summum hoc imperii!”

Alina grabbed the blade and placed it against Red’s palm, where the cut she made was now a scar. Red lifted her other hand and gripped the Wolf’s. With fingers interlocked, the warmth spread through their collective grasp. Red held her left hand over the circle, Alina hesitating for only a second; she did not want to harm Red but knew she had to.

Lilianna joined the chanting, followed by Tatiana. Their collective voices rang out like a choir, starting quietly as they felt the words dance over their tongues. Then they chanted as one, their voices filling the entire house. They linked hands to create a stronger power, feeling it surge through each of them as they focused on a single goal—freeing the Wolf from his torment.

Alina spoke the words, and just as the blade dug into Red’s flesh, the front door flung wide.

Everyone jerked to a halt, the chanting and energy disappearing like a candle being blown. Heads turned towards the intruder, a bulky man whose frame filled the door and blocked out almost all the light. His eyes darted from the young women to the man kneeling on the floor. There was no confusion as he studied them; it was only too obvious what was going on, especially with the corpse of Red’s father lying right outside the house.

“Witchcraft!” the man shouted.

The Wolf went to stand when Sorin shouted, “No! Stay there. You will break what we have started.”

Alina was the only one armed, so she stepped away from Red and the circle. Red reached for her, only managing to grab her skirt, the sleek fabric sliding from her fingers with ease. Alina approached the man with the dagger high. In response, the man raised the ax he held and brought it high over his head. Blood lust took over his expression as he had no trouble killing a witch: he would be hailed as a savior if he killed Alina where she stood.

Red jumped to her feet. I can’t let her die for me.

Screams sounded all about the room in protests and shrieks. As the ax came down, Red shoved Alina out of the way. The thunk of metal penetrating flesh and bone instantly silenced the shouting. Everyone stood stunned by what they witnessed, unable to believe it was real.

Red stumbled back, her hands reaching to her chest to feel the ax embedded there. She looked up at the man who killed her, blinking in disbelief. Her head lowered. She stared at the ax as she fell backward, a soft exhale escaping her lips before she slammed into the floor. He stepped forward, gripping the handle of the ax that protruded from Red’s body; he was ready to kill them all, yanking on the weapon to try and rip it from Red’s body. It was stuck, so he pulled again, harder.

The Wolf stood up, caring not about the witchcraft, for it would do no good now that Red was dead. Before he could launch his attack, Alina slipped in between them and plunged the dagger into the intruder’s throat as he leaned down for the ax. She withdrew the blade, and blood gushed from the wound, his artery severed. The man stumbled backward, grabbing at his throat in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding. He stumbled out the door and collapsed on the porch with a gurgle.

The dagger clattered to the floor.

39

OCLEAU

THE YEAR OF THE CURSE

AZALEA

It was a beautiful, ashen day. The gray clouds blocked the sunlight, and snow gently fell like tears for the lives lost overnight. The whole town was in mourning, though scarcely anyone knew what events occurred. As they woke for their morning tasks, begrudgingly leaving the warmth of their beds to face the chill of the winter morning, nothing seemed out of place. But already a body had been found, and the authorities had been contacted. Already they had discovered the culprit.

They did not come knocking gently; they pounded upon the door. Though Azalea opened the door to welcome them into her home, masking her shock at the intrusion, they were not gentle as they arrested her. Two large men grabbed either arm, one gripping her hair as they dragged her down the stairs. Stumbling over her feet and trying to retain her boldness and bravery in the face of peril, Azalea twisted her ankle on the stairs as they yanked her. Gritting her teeth together, she decided they would not get the satisfaction of breaking her.

She would not cry out; she would not beg. She would show them that no witch feared them, even if it were not true.

They did not bother dragging Azalea into town. It was too far, and Ocleau had not yet built a community pyre for executions as other towns had. They brought her Juniper's body; they had unearthed her from the snow that came over the course of the night and flipped her so she was on her back. Seeing the gaping wound in her throat gave Azalea no satisfaction. It had caused her great pain to desecrate Juniper’s corpse, slashing and peeling back her flesh so it looked like Blaez had done it. Seeing her daughter, frozen stiff and drained of life, she felt as though she was only seeing it now for the first time.

Beside her body stood her brother.

Azalea wanted to shout at him for being a traitor, turning his back on her the moment he could. She realized the mistake she made—the blood oath would last for as long as she lived, so Matthias plotted her death.

Azalea then spotted the Wolf, Blaez, his eyes now crow black. His hands were pulled over his head, twisted behind his back so that his joints might pop, and tied to a branch above him. He hung his head low. Stark naked, and covered in blood, on his knees. Next to him was a pyre.

They released Azalea, and she fell to her knees; a large clump of her hair was ripped violently from her scalp. Blood trickled over her forehead. Her breathing increased as she willed herself not to scream in agony. Throbbing pain in her head, hands, and ankles consumed her for a moment as they paused. She was yanked to her feet and forcibly tied to the pyre.

Over the cries of “Witch!” Azalea heard a softer voice.

Blaez was speaking so quietly, and only Azalea was close enough to hear him.

“Just kill me,” he begged. He did not seem to care that the one who had cursed him was there, he did not even seem to notice her arrival as blinded as he was by grief. He repeated the words over and over, like a chant that he was forced to speak for the rest of his days.

He had killed his wife; Azalea knew it. She could feel it in his agony rippling through the forest, as strong as the power within the earth. Yet, when she looked at her son, he looked smug. As though he knew something she did not. Her eyes narrowed into slits as she glared at him; what was he hiding?

“Blaez Kõiv, we hear your plea of guilt and place the deaths of Ana Kõiv and Juniper Luca at your hand. We also condemn you for conspiring with a witch and carrying out unspeakable acts that are forbidden in this town,” the mayor spoke. “Do you have anything to say to defend yourself, or do you still claim the guilt of such?”

---