Following the River Styx

Chapter Nine

With a loud puff of breath, Cordelia reentered her body, sitting bolt upright. Her back throbbed dully from the time she had spent flat upon it; her head spun out of control, vision hazy with exhaustion and hands quivering and clammy. Beside her, Queenie scrambled upright and grabbed her phone to check the time. "It's been—It's—It's—What day is it?" she stammered. "Zoe? Zoe!" The last witch remained, head thrown back and hair splayed, unmoving save for the slow rise-fall of her breasts. "What the hell? Why isn't she back?"

"She was right behind me—" Before Cordelia could speak, Zoe gasped back into her body with a dark flare. "What took you so long?"

"He grabbed my ankle. I had to kick a bitch." She rubbed her ankle. "What time is it? How long were we gone? It felt like days." Her eyes roamed the room, Cordelia to Queenie and back again. "Queenie?"

"It's Sunday evening. We missed a whole day." She rubbed the bridge of her nose. "Where are Nan and Misty? Where are they supposed to come from? We brought them back out, didn't we?"

Cordelia opened her mouth to respond, but before she managed any words, a shriek arose from downstairs. "We left the others all day." She stumbled to her feet, legs stiff and ankles reluctant to support any weight after the long period of disuse. "We're lucky they didn't burn the house down." Several other screams rolled through the walls and floor so that the younger witches pulled themselves back upright and staggered like drunks through the door and onto the stairs.

The rest of the coven, a cluster of girls, stood in front of the wide open front door and huddled to watch the front lawn. Some were crying; some pointed and whispered; others merely stared. The Supreme headed down the staircase in a series of awkward fumbles as her body remembered itself. She felt almost blind again, just as clumsy, but no one regarded her differently as she called out, "What's going on down there? Girls?" She landed firmly upon the floor and approached, and they parted to allow her passage, Zoe and Queenie immediately behind her.

One of the older girls piped up, "There's a retarded girl digging a hole in the front yard!" She stuffed her hands deep into her sweater.

Cordelia strode out onto the stones of the front porch. Already, a shallow grave had been vacated as Nan flung soil from a place only a few feet away. "Bitch," Queenie addressed the witch who had spoken to Cordelia, "she is not retarded!" At the scolding, the teen mumbled an apology and ducked her head, shrinking back into the crowd.

The voices attracted Nan's attention, and she lifted her head to regard the others. "Help me!" she pleaded. Soil layered thickly in her hair and clothing, streaking her face and nose like plastered makeup. "She's got a broken arm! She can't dig herself up!" She shoveled at the earth some more with bare hands; blackened tears and snot smeared her face. "I can hear her! She can't breathe!"

The witches needed no more encouragement to leap off of the stone front of the porch and dive upon the overgrown lawn with their hands fastened like talons to fork at the ground. Queenie landed hard on her knees beside Nan while Cordelia dug above them, Zoe below. As the layer of soil grew shallower, it began to tremble with effort from below, and then one elegant arm shot forth, still buried at the elbow. Cordelia raked the soft, dry earth from the top of Misty's chest and neck; her filthy face surfaced last as she snatched the blonde witch's arm and hauled her up.

Misty sputtered a mouthful of dirt and coughed forcefully. Her thick hair held globs of clay clinging to it, pale skin marred by the filth at every turn. Only her blue eyes marked her apart from any unearthed corpse, eyes which fixed wholly upon Cordelia even as she struggled to free herself from the soil that she had inhaled. Her broken arm hung limp in front of her as she lashed her feet and legs against the pinning pressure of the grave. "Misty," Cordelia panted. "Are you alright? Talk to me, baby."