The witch hurried west along the shoulder of the road. As soon as the trees thickened, she veered off into the woods, putting more distance between herself and the nasty surprise she'd found in the fort.
The indignity of it galled her. After all her careful preparations, after her first two glorious successes, to have this one ruined, with no warning...
And it was ruined, to be certain. For the first instant, she'd hoped the men were too late, that the girl was already dead. But then she'd seen her Dorothy's arms wrapped around the second man's neck, the one with the respectable haircut. By the end of the allotted time, she shouldn't have been able to wriggle a finger, let alone lift her arms. No, the spell was broken.
She frowned and balled up her bony fists. It was a vexing realization. They hadn't only turned the hourglass on its side. That would have kept her from dying, yes, but wouldn't have given her strength back. They must have found the hex bag and burned it. And if they knew to look for a hex bag, and knew to burn it...
Hunters.
Her mother had warned her about them ages ago, but she had never encountered one until today.
And she'd encountered not one, but two.
A thorn bush caught at her skirt. She ripped the fabric free and spat a curse, withering the branches and their tiny, early spring buds. The plant turned brown and curled in on itself.
She wasn't finished with her exhibitions. This was a production several years in the planning, and she'd be damned if these meddlers were going to spoil her hour of glory.
Perhaps a poor choice of words, since she would be damned if the hunters dispatched her.
A presence jangled the alarm bells of her carefully honed subconscious. She stopped, fully alert. Something was near, watching her.
"Show yourself," she commanded.
A rustling, to her right. She turned to see a husky, bearded man emerge from behind a tree. Except he wasn't human; she was certain of that much. He was one of the mongrel breeds of monster that masqueraded as human when it suited them.
He approached slowly, his unremarkable brown eyes fixed on her, his hands raised unthreateningly. "I won't hurt you," he said. "I just want to talk."
"What are you?" she demanded. "Shapeshifter? Skinwalker?"
"Werewolf."
She wrinkled her nose. She had little use for such creatures. "What do you want?"
"To help."
She narrowed her eyes at him. "Why would I need your help?"
He raised his unkempt eyebrows. "Lady, do you have any idea who those boys were?"
She bristled at the implication that she was ignorant, as well as the realization that he'd been following her. "Of course I do. They're hunters."
He nodded slowly. "Yeah. They're hunters. They're the hunters. The Winchesters. The most feared hunters in the whole damn country."
She stiffened, disliking this conversation more by the second. "And?"
"And, I think we can help each other. I've been tracking those two for months now. I've got a group of like-minded individuals ready to take them down when I give the word. Today was supposed to be the day. I had everything ready. I set the bait, but you disrupted things when you took their pretty little assistant for your art project."
The witch drew herself up to her full height. "Are you accusing me of spoiling your plans? I do not consult with every vagrant monster before carrying out my own designs."
"Uh-huh. And how'd that work out for you today?"
She was tempted to curse him for his impudence. But she was far too old and too cautious for impetuous decisions. She would hear what else this beast had to say.
"The Winchesters were already hunting you before today," he continued. "You're why they're here in Reeds Spring. And now that you tried to kill their girl..." He raised his eyebrows and gave a low whistle.
Her intuition told her he was telling the truth. Her first instinct was to run, to flee into the woods and never return. Let the werewolf and his monster cohorts face these infamous hunters whom she'd inadvertently crossed. Only the fervent desire to complete her series of works kept her feet planted. "What is your proposal, wolf?"
An unpleasant, yellow-toothed grin spread across his hairy face. "I'm glad you asked."
#
Mitchell Cross climbed another rung before turning his head to shout down to his partner. "Hey, Pete. Toss me that granola bar, will you?"
Fifteen feet below, Pete fished around in Mitchell's bag and pulled out the green-wrapped bar. He chucked it underhanded, and Mitchell caught it with a gloved hand. "Thanks." He tucked it into his pocket and resumed climbing.
It was his third time up this tower in a month. The darn thing kept having transmission issues. Customers didn't like it much when their cell phones started dropping calls, so back out to the tower the company would send him. Mitch was starting to suspect that the replacement parts they were supplying him were faulty. He knew his repairs weren't the problem.
Halfway up the tower, he paused and looked down at Pete, who was prepping the first batch of tools and supplies for Mitch. They'd hoist them up with cables once he reached the top. Sixty more feet. While he climbed, Mitchell thought about Andrea, and wondered what sort of wedding gown she'd picked out. She'd look beautiful no matter what. Sometimes he still felt like he needed to pinch himself, to make sure she'd really said yes, and it all wasn't a dream. Three more weeks until their wedding, then Grand Cayman. He couldn't wait.
He puffed with each upward push now. He sure hoped this would be his last time up this danged tower until the wedding. Although he had to admit, the view wasn't bad. The Ozarks spread out beneath him and out to the horizon, blanketed in the light green of early spring. Table Rock Lake sparkled in the distance to the east, surrounded by trees.
Just another few rungs now. But something from the corner of his eye set off alarm bells in his head. Two frayed strands poked out from his safety rope. What the heck? He checked all of his equipment daily. It had been fine that morning. He put a hand on his carabiner; it felt sturdy. Well, the rope would still hold him, but he'd rather not test it. And he'd have to get it replaced after this job.
Another, more careful step up—
Out of nowhere, a furious wind gust blasted him head-on. It knocked him backward. He barely managed to keep his feet on the rung, and all his weight now hung from the damaged rope. A hundred and ten feet below him, Pete shouted unintelligible words. Mitch reached for the nearest rung, stretched his arm and fingers, nearly had it.
The frayed rope twisted inches before his face. Another strand snapped. He watched in horror as another, then another broke, severed fibers swaying in the breeze like cobras.
Like dominos, the remaining strands gave way under the pressure of his weight. He made a final, desperate grab at the tower, but the rope broke in two. The tower lifted off into the air, in slow motion at first, then shooting up away from him like a rocket. His stomach lurched; the wind rushed up past him. Pete screamed.
Mitch didn't look down. He kept his eyes on the blue sky, on the puffy white clouds. He thought of Andrea, and wondered which cloud most resembled her wedding gown. The gown she wouldn't be wearing in three weeks. The gown she'd never wear.
YOU ARE READING
Turn the Page -Sequel to More Than a Feeling
FanfictionSam, Dean, and Ruthie are on the hunt. A killer leaves their victims dressed in costume and inexplicably dead. A vengeful werewolf lurks in the shadows. A new, unprecedented threat stalks them. But the greatest danger may come from within their own...