Slices of Midnight Chapter 11
A witch’s trial begins in blood and ends in revelation.
Midnight had come by the time I emerged from my secret lair.
It had taken nearly an hour to regain consciousness after Pearce’s bite.
The hellish pain had finally faded, and with my reagents stowed away and the spider settled for the night, I could breathe again.
There was no swelling around the puncture wounds—just two perfect marks above my thumb. But the ordeal had left me ravenous, despite the meal Sir Isaac had provided earlier.
As I neared Assembly Gardens, my stomach let out a low, insistent growl.
Not that it mattered.
A realm of the dead beckoned.
And in the next instant, hunger was forgotten.
“Kor’tak! Kor’vek! Tal’karon vyr!”
A thundering female voice shattered the silence just as I stepped into the Gardens.
I jolted, snapping my gaze to the far wall of the courtyard.
As I’d predicted at the slaughterhouse, snow had begun to fall. A thin layer of white coated the statuary—and the speaker of the incantation.
A hooded specter knelt on the stone floor, twenty paces away.
Before her, the corpse of a black ram lay upon a freshly erected sacrificial altar. Steam curled from its exposed entrails, the blood still warm from the kill.
She had just slaughtered it.
“Tal’valin vyr! Tal’vek kor!”
I’ve never been one to panic.
Still, I took a careful step back, my eyes darting around the courtyard.
Empty.
No witnesses. No one but me, the black-clad woman, and a dozen frosted stone martyrs, their lifeless gazes fixed upon us.
“Val’krov!”
At the word, a torrent of hot blood burst from the ram’s corpse.
Crimson poured from its mortal wound, spilling over the altar, melting the fresh snow beneath it.
I took a few cautious steps toward the courtyard’s archway—a slow retreat.
The woman rose.
From the folds of her robe, she drew a wickedly curved dagger.
Her hood concealed her face, but one feature burned through the shadows—
Eyes like twin flaming orbs.
I ran.
I sprinted for the courtyard’s exit, my pulse hammering in my ears.
Just before crossing the archway, I risked a glance over my shoulder.
She was following.
Dagger in hand, the hooded figure glided around the altar, her movements eerily smooth—unnatural.
A chill shot down my spine.
The hairs on my neck stood on end.
“Help!”
I sprinted down the hallway toward Miss Margaret’s quarters.
“Someone, help me, please!”
My heart pounded as I tore through the corridor—but then I saw her.
A scream ripped from my throat.
At the far end of the hall, she materialized.
Like a ghost emerging from the nether, the black-clad woman stepped from a haze of drifting smoke.
A thin layer of snow clung to her hood and shoulders—a specter of winter and death.
I whipped around, nearly losing my footing.
Somehow, I stayed upright—and ahead of her.
Not that she was trying to match my frantic pace.
“Help me!”
With the way to Miss Margaret cut off, I veered toward the adjoining hallway—
Prior Shambling’s quarters.
I doubted he could stop this hooded menace, but at least he was nearby.
Most likely snuggled up with his wife after finishing his fling with Nyomi hours ago.
“Prior, wake your ass up!” I barreled around the corner. “Sound the alarm!”
She was already there.
Not at the far end of the hall this time—but just a few steps away.
She stepped into existence, crossing from whatever nightmare realm had birthed her.
I stumbled. Fell.
My knee slammed into stone, pain jolting up my leg.
But I didn’t stop.
I scrambled backward on all fours, desperate to escape.
I scrambled to my feet and bolted.
Still, she didn’t lunge. Didn’t grab me.
She could have—when I was sprawled on the floor like a newborn calf.
But she hadn’t even reached for me.
That fact nagged at me as I ran for the priory’s main exit.
Logic cut through the fog of terror.
This chase, this nightmare—why wasn’t she trying harder?
A new fear crept in, colder than before.
Was this even real?
I didn’t know if this was a dream—but it didn’t feel like one.
I’d suffered countless nightmares, endured every kind of terror.
But pain? Real, searing pain?
Never.
And my knee ached like hell.
She wasn’t blocking the exit.
I didn’t question it.
Ignoring the pain, I bolted, tearing through the priory’s double doors—
Out into the night.
Snow swirled around me as I stumbled into the cold.
This had to be the venom.
I stood in the snow, breath coming in sharp gasps.
Then, fear kicked me forward.
I took the cart lane toward Dowling, half a league away.
Had I imagined her?
Could it really be that simple?
Maybe the spider’s venom didn’t just let me see the dead—maybe it twisted reality itself.
I kept telling myself that.
I kept running anyway.
No one had passed this way since the snow began falling.
No tracks. No signs of life.
Beyond the priory’s warm gaslight glow, the night swallowed everything.
I could see nothing in the inky darkness.
A shiver ran through me—not from the cold.
I forced my thoughts away from the cloaked woman.
Muriel. I had to get to Muriel.
I had questions.
Were she and Morgan witches?
That would be the first thing I asked.
“Val’zhar!”
The word—spoken in High Demonic—ripped through the trees.
But it wasn’t her.
The cloaked woman’s voice had crackled with power. This one swallowed the night.
It wasn’t just loud—it was vast.
I froze.
Whoever—or whatever—had spoken was near.
The foliage to my right shuddered. Twigs, branches, and logs snapped in rapid succession. Then—an explosion. A molten-orange blast ripped through the woods, chasing away the darkness. Fire billowed skyward, evaporating the freshly fallen snow from nearby trees. Heat rolled over me, and in its glow, I glimpsed the beast that had summoned it.
A pair of spiraling horns rose from its head. It might have passed for a gnarled, twisted man—if not for its monstrous size.
The beast’s roar jolted me into motion.
But I didn’t make a frantic dash back to the priory.
Instead, I veered into the woods, away from the fiery monster.
Branches lashed at me as I tore through the undergrowth, unseen limbs whipping my face and arms. Behind me, the beast bellowed—a guttural, earth-shaking sound.
This wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t some venom-induced hallucination.
I had felt the heat of its flames.
And just like the woman with the dagger, this creature could have caught me—could have killed me—if it had truly wanted to.
The more I thought about it, the more certain I became—someone was trying to frighten me.
And they were succeeding.
Now off the lane, I planned to cut a wide arc through the undergrowth to reach the village. I’d spent my childhood playing in these woods. Even in the dark, I could navigate them.
But then—another demon stepped into my path.
The first had wielded smoke and fire. This one commanded lightning.
Bolts of jagged energy arced from its body, branching wildly. Smaller sparks danced up and down its ancient horns. Trees exploded on impact, sending splinters whizzing through the air. Yet somehow, none struck me as I ran.
Thunder rolled through the woods.
The demon pursued—but half-heartedly.
Someone was toying with me.
The thought solidified in my mind, stopping me in my tracks—even here, in the dead of night, surrounded by horrors beyond imagining.
I didn’t know exactly who was behind this elaborate attempt to terrify me, but I had a good guess.
“I’m done with this charade!” I panted, catching my breath. “Muriel? Morgan? Are you out there? I grow tired of this game!”
I waited.
Only the distant roars of demons answered, their echoes filling the night. But by now, the creatures had repositioned themselves—blocking the road to Dowling.
Silence stretched.
No reply came.
I scanned the darkness one last time, then turned for home.
Luckily, my winding path through the trees had led me close to the small cottage my father and I shared. Before long, I recognized a familiar landmark.
Decades ago, a terrible storm had torn through Indamar, toppling trees and ravaging the Isle’s far-flung hamlets. Now, a dozen fallen giants lay around me—colossal oaks, their decaying trunks wider than I was tall, scattered in heaps like the bones of some forgotten beast.
Years ago, Sir Isaac had led me to these fallen trees. When we were younger, he, I, and dozens of local children had spent countless hours playing among the shattered boughs of these once-mighty oaks.
Here, we built forts and castles. Here, many a make-believe damsel found herself in distress.
Handsome heroes—hailing from distant lands so peaceful and wondrous they could only exist in a child’s imagination—managed to rescue a few.
But most remained firmly in the clutches of a most excellent fairy tale villain—Miss Marissa Bonifay.
By now, the snow had tapered off.
Lightning, born of the demons scattered across the Isle, crackled through the midwinter sky. The otherworldly storm cast enough light to reveal the regal white layer blanketing the twelve fallen oaks.
In passing, I gave one a fond pat.
I had made this trek home countless times before. The fallen giants, silent and steadfast, would see me home—just as they always had.
To my surprise, light shone through the cottage windows.
Father was home—a rarity these days.
Maybe he was even awake. Maybe he wasn’t passed out drunk.
The night had turned bitterly cold, and I stepped through the door, eager for the warmth of the hearth. But I moved with caution.
Father could be difficult.
Especially if he’d been drinking.
“Father, I’m home,” I called.
The cottage was warm, and as usual, I tossed my coat over the back of a wooden dining chair. But something was already draped over my favorite seat—something unfamiliar.
Not a coat.
A hooded robe.
A black one.
“Father?” I took another step inside.
Scattered throughout the room, more unfamiliar garments caught my eye—a silken shirt atop the kindling box, long, luxuriant stockings near the hearth. In the hallway, a garter belt lay discarded, matching the silk hosiery.
The meaning was clear.
My father wasn’t alone.
And from the sounds coming from his bedroom, I didn’t need to guess what was happening.
“Oh, hello, my dear. Do come in.”
The words greeted me as I peeked into Father’s bedroom.
“Yes, Auntie,” I said and dutifully obeyed.
“You’ve done well, Marissa,” Muriel said.
She wore nothing but a collection of blush-worthy tattoos along her arms and lower abdomen. Straddling the man I called Father, she gripped his shoulders, riding him with the hunger of a jockey chasing a race-day win. Her breath came quick and shallow.
“Unlike some, I knew you had the backbone to become a first-rate witch,” she continued. “Still, I needed to test your courage—to see if you’re ready for training.”
She let out a slow, satisfied breath.
“As of tonight, I am.”
“Thank you,” I said, keeping my face as neutral as possible—a challenge, given the circumstances.
But beneath my composure, excitement simmered.
Muriel and Morgan were indeed witches.
And yet, it was impossible to ignore the scene before me. Muriel was grinding atop my father, who looked utterly entranced—his eyes rolled back, lost in some spell or hypnosis.
If Muriel had expected to see her favorite niece blush at the display, she would be disappointed.
This wasn’t the first coupling I’d witnessed.
I’d seen Shambling and Nyomi go at it a hundred times.
I’d spent more nights than I care to admit peeking through the back windows of the Jolly Grubb Inn, watching the village prostitutes turn tricks.
And that was just for starters.
“Ah, there you are.”
I turned.
The hooded woman from the sacrificial altar—the one with the wicked dagger and fiery eyes—stepped into the room.
“Morgan,” I said matter-of-factly. “Hello.”
Rather than sheathing her dagger, she stabbed it into the door frame. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, she lowered her hood, letting a cascade of rich black locks spill past her shoulders.
“Good evening,” Morgan replied.
In an instant, her blazing red eyes faded to their customary brown.
“I knew it was you all along,” I said, tilting my chin with practiced confidence.
Morgan wasn’t impressed.
In response to my impertinence, she reached into her robe’s sleeve and produced a spider—a perfect twin to Pearce. Without a word, she tossed it at me.
The creature moved fast. Too fast.
Before I could blink, the hairy tarantula struck my face, eclipsing my vision. And, like Pearce, it wasted no time sinking its fangs into my flesh.
Pain erupted.
I reeled, crashing to the floor.
Darkness swallowed me.
A moment later, my eyes rolled back into my head—just like my spell-stricken father.
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