Hellfire

Chapter Thirty-Nine

September 1994

My hand was held by another. It was slightly larger than my own, clutching at my chubby fingers still soft from youth. The hand that clutched at mine was my oldest sister. Bella. Her dark satin hair stained with pink was streaming behind her, dyed in a way I always wanted to mimic but was always denied. I thought at first this was when we played. She often just scooped me up and told me to run and race her. But those fingers of hers never let go of my hand and, when she turned, casting her oval eyes to me, the eyeliner streaked with tears, I knew something was wrong.

A cry echoed in the dusk sky. Bloodthirsty. Mad.

I glanced over my shoulders. I could see flashes of light, pinks and oranges as hellfire burned through the aspens. I remembered that this wasn't a game. My mother was back there with my oldest aunt, Theodora, and the sick stranger they'd taken in. I had snuck after them, hidden in a brush as I tried to spy them. I hadn't liked I'd been left behind while they were doing witch things. I'd wanted to see. But my sister found me and scooped me up, scolding at first. Her pierced brow furrowed as she dragged me away.

Then we'd heard it. A shout. Heat spilled out. Danger thickened in the air so heavily I choked.

And then she'd pegged it, urging me to run. I did. I had a little knot in my belly, wondering what was happening back there, but I focused on Bella's back when I nearly tripped and fell. Bella helped correct me before surging onwards, her lips mouthed at me to hurry, her breath rushing from her frantically. So, I did.

Soon, I was bundled into the little house we lived on in the woods around Bath. It was big, at least to the little seven-year-old me. I remembered my dad at the doorway, rushing forward to snatch at Bella's hand and haul me into his arms. He had never been a big man, short and dumpy. He wore glasses, had been bookish and slightly balding, and took care of me and my three sisters while my mother took on jobs or dealt with threats. I loved my father, his slight chubbiness, his laughter and the food he'd cook. He was the warmth to my mother's rigid, explosive nature. But he wasn't laughing when he grabbed me. His brow was set, his mouth in a thin line, and he dragged us inside where my aunt Ethel slammed the door shut, fire slipping over her black witch-suit.

I tried to ask what was happening, but my dad just hauled me towards the cellar door in the middle of the kitchen. He yanked the hatch open with a loud bang and swept down the steps before plonking me on my feet beside my middle sisters, Jane and Anna. He told me to stay. To not breathe. To not speak. Not until someone came to collect us. I was to be quiet as a mouse.

Jane and Anna argued, clutching at their blades tight, but they fell quiet when Ethel shadowed them, snapping at them to stay put. Clearly, she intended to trap my dad, a mortal man, down here with us, but he shoved his way passed her, declaring his intent to fight beside his daughter and wife. With a soft look, Ethel reminded Jane and Anna to protect me and keep me calm. Make sure I don't blow up. That was their job. Then she was gone and we pitched into darkness.

My sisters dragged me into the dark, one tense with anger, the other trembling with fear. But they held me close, letting me take comfort from their heartbeats, stroking my thick hair and securing earmuffs over my head. Don't listen, stay calm, and breathe with them, they told me. Don't explode.

I tried. It was easy at first. I felt warm, protected, that dark a comfort, and I sang in my head as my mother always instructed me to to stay calm. Nothing was heard upstairs. At least at first.

Then it happened so loudly, so quickly, my jaw locked against the surge of fire. Shots of gunfire blazed. Screams. Crashing furniture thundered above, violent steps and shouts rumbled, glass tinkling from windows and mirrors. A roar so bloodthirsty, so bestial and demonic, I felt my hellfire ripple dangerously and a little squeak of fear to slip from my lips.