Page 139 of Bound By Fury

I don’t need a weapon.

I am the weapon.

If the ghosts of witches past don’t sabotage me again, that is.

The kitchen opens before me. In here the large window facing the backyard is just big enough to let in the smallest stream of moonlight. Besides a mess on the floor, spilled flour and toppled countertop junk, there’s nothing. Turning around, I reenter the darkness.

Something skitters in front of me. It’s getting easier every time, the way I call my magic to my hands and thrust them out. At the tips of my fingers and surrounding my palms, the static is just barely visible, like the sparks off a live wire, or a fickle plug in an old outlet.

I’m in awe of myself, but the feeling is fleeting as something brushes against my leg. Shrieking, I jerk away from the touch and slip, my legs flying out from under me. I land on my back, a rush of air leaving my lungs, stunned by the sudden pain. Twisting, I push onto my hands and knees, my jaw aching where my teeth slammed together. My hands are covered in something congealed and sticky. Scrambling to my feet, I hold back the roiling in my stomach as I flee to the wall, groping until I finally find a light switch.

A whining noise keens from the depths of the darkness, and my heart slams against my ribs as I hold my breath, flinching against the light as it flashes on. For a moment I can see nothing beyond the sudden brightness. Blinking rapidly, I take in the room in snapshots.

First, it’s a mess.

Then, I barely suppress a surprised bark of laughter as I spot two beady, terrified black orbs. Petunia is hunched and shaking in the middle of the rug.

Lastly, the world is awash in red.

Smeared in his fur, over his face, on his paws, pooled at his feet.

I glance down at my stained palms—sticky and wet from my fall—and scream.

FORTY-SIX

THEY KILLED HER.

They killed Maureen.

And now I’m covered in her blood.

They killed Maureen, and I’m next.

I’m all alone. Again.

I’m sobbing.

Big, all-consuming gasps of anguish. Fat, wet rivulets running down my face.

Her blood is caked under my fingernails, staining my dress, coating my thighs and fishnets where I fell. Petunia stands in a pool of sticky burgundy gone black against the pink carpet. I can’t tell where it originates. I stumble toward the dog.

“Petunia? Hey, boy.” My voice cracks as I nearly fall across the crimson-soaked shag. “Are you okay?” I reach toward him, but he bares his teeth and growls at me. I halt, crouching down. “Are you hurt? Let me look at you. Where’s your mom?”

Is her body still here? Growing cold and stiff and swollen?

This time when I look around the room, it tells a different story. Red. Sprayed against the walls, the overturned furniture, the windows. Slashes dissect the couches, stuffing in piles like snowdrifts. Books are strewn about, and several figurines are smashed. Blood streaks toward the front door in a wide arc, as though someone has been dragged out of the house. I offer my hand to Petunia again.

“Please, Petunia! We need to get out of here!” I snap at the dog. I can’t stay here—whoever did this is probably monitoring the house.

The walls are closing in on me. I’m beginning to wobble and fall out of my crouched position. My palms slam against the ground.

I lose control of the magic curled around my fingers, and a spark singes the red that puddles beneath us. A small tendril of smoke drifts into the air, the rancid smell of burnt blood making me gag. I watch Petunia as he lifts his nose and sniffs, his snout wiggling. A look of recognition crosses his horrified, onyx eyes. Slowly he backs away, whimpering all the while, before turning and darting out of the still-open door.

I scramble to my feet and follow him. “Petunia!” I yell. “Stop! Wait!”

I skid to a halt on the front porch, looking out into the ink-black night. The air is dense and unseasonably humid, the sky crackling above, streaks of lightning still zipping through violet clouds.

With the light on, I can finally see that the blood trail winds straight from the door and down the steps. There’s a disturbance against the gravel driveway, tire tracks dug in harsh twin gashes.