To Kill a Witch (ONC 2024 SHORTLIST)

Chapter 11

All was still. Thea opened her eyes.

The Night-fog had drawn back, and it was regarding her with a curiosity and a fear it could not hide, because Thea knew it now better than it knew itself. She sheathed her dagger, and stared at the wall of shifting, scattering now-grey. "I'm not afraid of you."

Tendrils of it curled around the edges of that great mass, flicking out here and there as though tasting the air. It reminded Thea of an animal that had been backed into a corner, still baring its teeth. It reminded Thea of herself.

They stood there for a moment, watching one another. Ceridwen and Wilf remained quiet, Wilf curling himself around her legs once more in solidarity. Then the Night-fog shifted, swirled, and took shape.

Thea found herself looking at a woman, wearing a cloak and a strong pair of boots, with a smile etched on her rippling face. And the woman spoke with that same voice that had been calling her since That Night. "Hello, Thea."

Her voice shook. "Grandmother."

She could not quite believe it. There was something shockingly familiar about the way the woman stood, left foot just in front of the other, shoulders squared. The shape of its face mimicked blurry half-formed flashes of Thea tracing her father's sharp jawline, her fingers small and still-there. She had that jawline. Her and Ridoc. It was like looking at the reflection of herself in the window, lit by a small circle of fire – the one that the night did not want. Good. Because it already had its own.

Wilf stepped forward. "Des."

The Night-fog caricature smiled even wider and stretched out its arms. The cat hesitated, then leapt forward, curling up against the Witch, purring contentedly. He's home, Thea realised.

Ceridwen leant forward, probing a lock of Thea's hair away from her face. "Is that truly you?"

The Night-fog's smile dropped to a frightened crease, she made to move forward, looking worried. "Ceri – your wing!"

Ceridwen reared back. Thea's hand jumped to her dagger as the Witch stretched out one hand to touch the crow, ghostly fingers grazing her cheek to slide across her beak. There was a moment of thick, sickening silence, before Ceridwen leant forward into the touch, making a small noise of happiness. Thea thought of the young girl lost in the Woods, calling for her mother, meeting that grisly end under the claws of a demon's pet. The Witch had saved her. Her grandmother had saved her. With a story.

She'd taken Ceri's dying soul, and made it into something beautiful.

"It's okay," the Witch was saying, scratching just underneath her beak. "I can fix it."

Magic. This was the kind of magic Pa had adored, the magic that had made his eyes light up, that had made him the laughingstock of a village that no longer wanted stories. And now Thea knew why. Because no one could tell a story like her grandmother – the Witch that had been stealing people's emotions for years and replacing them with a hollow, empty craving. Stealing from her son.

"That's why you left." Thea said.

The Witch stilled and turned, properly, to face her. Thea swallowed. Her mouth was impossibly dry, her arm radiating pain, her mind still wearily pulling itself back together. "You stole from Pa."

Her face softened, her eyes seemed to droop. She bent her head as Wilf raised his, wary once more. "I am not proud of it."

"Did you know?" Thea whispered.

The Witch sighed. The Night-fog plumed in front of her lips like a breath. "Not at first."

Thea lifted her bad arm to her chest, cradled it to ease the pain, and asked the question that had been fighting to get out of her. "Why?" she breathed, and it sounded huge in the space between them, like a true monster. "Why did you make a deal with that... with the demon?"