Season Of The Witch • Steve Harrington

Prologue

Martha knew the moment that her mother was going to die. There was an unmistakable shift in the atmosphere as her fading life crossed the threshold of no return -- a moment in which the scales tipped too far in one direction and would never balance again. Martha felt it like a punch to her gut, like a hand clenched around her heart without mercy. There was too much blood, too much, too much. Yet she knew her mother's fate before the first cut opened and scarlet spilled onto the forest floor.

It was not a murder, not a freak accident. It was a choice. Silvia Labelle had chosen this fate, just as those before her. It was she, who dealt the gaping wounds along mahogany skin, she who let it fall like rain to water flowers at her feet. It was she who would save them all.

Martha watched from a distance among her sisters and brothers, those who cared for her as their own. Her hands clasped tightly on either side. A low chorus of voices filled the forest and melded with the rustle of wind through leaves. Her lips formed the incantation without thought, just instinct as her coven's power melded together as one. Shadows danced across tree trunks cast by flickering candle light. Perhaps the spirits of their ancestors had come to collect the newest soul to the afterlife.

Martha's mother was a gaunt picture of blood-soaked clothes awash in scarlet and painted in light and shadow. Silvia stood with her back to her daughter, and Martha wasn't sure if this was part of the ritual or if her mother simply couldn't bear to see the tears streaming down her face. Instead, she faced her fate head-on — the gaping hole in the fabric of their universe.

The tree towered over her like a goddess, with a chunk savagely ripped from its trunk. The bark hung like melted rubber in heat, stringing across a glowing fiery cavity that pulsed with the rhythm of their hearts. This was a portal to someplace sinister. A rotting, festering wasteland of death and horror. Even a mortal could sense the evil lurking within, just waiting for an opportunity to reach out and take their world for its own.

Goosebumps trailed along Martha's arms as she felt the sickening plummet of her heart. Her mother was not long for this world. As if hearing the thought, Silvia took a shaking step forward, then another. Martha's throat constricted, her vision blurring with tears and devolving into nothing but blotches of red and orange. A hand squeezed hers with a ferocity that was less for comfort and more for restraint. But Martha would not try to run after her mother. A healing spell would do nothing but waste the sacrifice her mother made. There was nothing to tether Silvia's soul to this plane any longer.

So, Martha stood with her feet anchored to the ground and watched. Her mother looked over her shoulder for a final moment, and the ghost of a smile flitted tiredly across full lips. Her expression was soft, unafraid, so content in her decision that Martha felt her knees quake. Silvia faced the gaping hollow and pushed her way into the unknown.

Martha tasted blood, saw nothing but scarlet, felt wetness on her skin, and watched as the shredded, pulsing hollow of the tree grew smaller. The threads of its edges knit together and rewove the fabric of ordinary tree bark.

As the gate closed to only a tiny crevice in the wood, the unmistakable light of celebratory fireworks lit the sky above with a sharp pop, pop, pop. No one cared that Silvia Labelle was gone. They didn't know that while they celebrated, Martha grieved for the woman who'd given everything for a town that would never understand.