Outside the carriage, it’s dark as a blind man's sight and silent as a dumb man's speech. I know I sound like I’ve been drugged, but it is what it is.

I can see nothing. And I mean absolutely nothing. I couldn’t see my own hand if I waved it in front of my eyes.

Rasthrum. He must know what’s going on. So I step back to climb into the carriage . . . only there is no carriage. Only darkness, dark as pitch.

I grope with my hands, hoping to touch something, but my efforts are in vain.

ES! I yell, then discover that my voice has failed me. I test again, by screaming her name. ES!

Still nothing. Either I have expired my vocal cords, or my ears have gone deaf, or this . . . this is sorcery.

Everything is black. Have I gone invisible? Have I become a spirit?

ES! I cry – literally cry – but again it is a fruitless exercise.

I weep. I cannot feel my tears.

Then I hear something. A rustle.

ES! IS THAT YOU? THIS ISN'T FUNNY, YOU KNOW!

Speaking is of no consequence, but as they say (I have no idea who ‘they are), old habits die hard.

I wheel my immaterial body around. My balance tips and I fall.

But I do not fall to the ground.

I just fall, and keep falling, darkness – no, blackness – all around me.

Then the rustle. I hear it again. I think I hear it again.

I try to wail. I fail.

(No, I am not trying my hand at poetry here. I am far too scared for that.)

I think of my mother in her last days, how she had been. Bald. Her blood impure. The tumor reaching her brain, squishing it into nothingness . . .

I think of my father, and I think of how I drove my temporary fangs into the stretch of his artery. It aches my chest. The ache is dull, but the ache is bad. I think then of Dad's smile, and that gives the ache more strength, and it intensifies.

I weep. I cannot feel my tears. I try to wail. I fail.

I think of –

(sleep, child . . . )

The rustle. It’s saying something to me.

(you are born of me, you will die of me. birth’d of curse, death of ash, bone of flame, blood profane . . .)

WHO ARE YOU? I shout. Get no response, of course.

(gossamer realm, leaf of elm . . . )

WHO IS SPEAKING?! WHERE IS ES?!

Silence.

Another rustle. Then a voice, a note above the rustle, different from the one than before. Malicious.

(doom empiric, spirit, spirit . . . )

I close my eyes. Not that it makes much difference. None, in fact.

I think of what Bee would do if she were in my place. Something strikes, and I hope against hope my plan will work.

I hold my breath, wishing at least I can do that. Turns out, yes, I can. I hold it. I hold it until I am spinning amongst the stars. I hold it until my non-existent cheeks are red as radishes, until I feel the soul slipping out of me like grains of sand from a grasping clench . . .

I hold my breath until I die.

Yes, I am proud.
______________________________________

Usually, as you know, I end up in the Void after I die. This bleak, bitter place I don’t like to talk of.

Not this time.

Well, technically, this is the Void. But I’m not alone here.

This time as my eyes open, I see several old ladies gathered in a circle around me, the gap between each one of them evenly spaced. Trust me, I am as clueless about what in the seven hells is happening here as you are.

Now, let me explain to you what I mean by old. Sometimes when cheese rots, we say it’s old. When some Chinese Chi-master lives for over a hundred years, we say they’re old. When archeologists find an artefact from hundreds of years ago, we say it’s old.

When I say these ladies around me are old, I mean “when dinosaurs walked the earth” old. Get it?

This is strange, even by the standards of my weird life. This is freakin' strange!

And I highly doubt they’ve made this ring just to play Escape-The-Circle with me.

I know precisely who they are. At least, I think I do. I assume you do, too.

I count the number of ladies to confirm my suspicions. They’re all hunched and cloaked and leaning on a moldy staff, everything just as I always imagined it would be – but there’s only twelve of them. Just to be sure, I count again, because I don’t trust me math. There’s still only twelve. One short.

Before I can question anything, a chant goes up amongst them. Twelve voices speak as one and have a chilling impact on me: “We are of the Coven Thirteen. We are the terror in the night. We are the fire in the dragon's jaw. We are the dagger in the glov'd hand.”

All of them simultaneously take a step toward to me. The circle shortens uniformly in radius.

I will admit, a little lemonade might have leaked from my blabber.

“We are one, and one are we.” Their voices rise together. “We are powerful, and might is we, resides in me, resides in me. We are the Coven Thirteen.”

They all take a step inwards again. Now the ladies are close enough that I can see their faces are . . . messed-up. And hairy. And all sorts of ugh. I won’t gag so bad if I saw a mountain of puke topped with bird droppings and dead houseflies.

If I had to describe them in one word: ew.

If I had to describe them in two letters: still ew.

In my heart of hearts, I’m pretty sure this is the end of me. They’ve found me before I could find them. I don’t think I’m in any position of making demands, am I?

Ah, well. Least I can do is ask them to leave my friends be. So I open my mouth to tell them how ugly they look and how their curses suck and how my friends don’t deserve anything remotely bad, and –

“We are of the Coven Thirteen. We are the terror in the night.”

Yeah, I heard you the first time.

“We are one, and one are we. Speak, and you shall perish.”

Uh, okay? I won’t? Pinkie promise?

After hearing that, all I can do is stand there, still. Well, I’m shivering, but still as I can be.

The twelve witches remain still, too. Appears they’ve ran out of their recital script.

I’m temped to ask them what comes next, but I don’t want to be 'demolished'. Fancy word for 'you’re dead meat,' I believe.

Then the circle breaks. Four of the hunchbacks side to create an opening of sorts.

I dart to run, but my feet are cemented to the ground. Tethered to something that doesn’t even exist. Wow. Great. Just great.

All the witches abruptly fall to their knees. I’m surprised these ancient oldies could manage that. Humph.
Seconds later, I see why they suddenly did that.

From the break in the ring, a woman walks in.

The thirteenth witch.

The Grahi witch.

The one that breathed life into me and made my life a living hell.

She is not like the others. She is not hunched. She walks straight and proud. She isn’t from the Cretaceous Era either (don’t look at me like that, Bee taught me). She’s young. She isn’t ugly, or hairy, or 'ew'. She’s beautiful, in fact. Quote possibly the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen.

(Not my type, though.)

I bet any living man would do anything to have her. And I bet she’ll have any of those living men for breakfast.

She’s dressed in red. All in red. Her garment is tight-fit, strapped onto her body by many brown leather straps. Pretty or not, this woman has zero sense of fashion. If she’d have had a Mom like mine, those clothes would see the dumpster before they made the closet.

Now she’s standing right in front of me, too close for my comfort. I can feel her breath – like mint, only so much better – on my nose. I can taste the smell of her on my lips. I’m willing to bet she brushed her teeth right before they decided to ambush me. The idea is kind of humbling, I’ll admit.

She lays a long-nailed hand on my face. The smell of mint is overtaking. I should feel adrenaline coursing through my veins, but I actually feel kinda sleepy.

The rustle enters my brain again, but this time it’s so sharp it could cut actual stone.

(poor child, no mother, no father . . . )

I clench my jaw. I want to scream right into her face. All that has ever gone wrong in my life was because of this gorgeous, fashion-less, vile woman.

I keep quiet, though. I need to keep my wits about me.

I remember something Aar once told me before going onstage for one of his stupid plays: how he wanted to punch certain members of the audience when they didn’t stand up at an awesome ending to an awesometacular play, but couldn’t. Had to maintain the dignity of the act.

Now I get how he felt.

(poor child, you come to The City Of A Hundred Haunts seeking us, and you think we will not foresee your every move. you and your companions are pawns before the queen who has seen mountains rise and fall, rivers fill and vanish, demons sleep and cry  . . .)

I see her full, blood-red lips curl into a full, blood-red smile. I’ve decided I hate her more than I hate airplanes.

(you think we will not find you first. you think we will not squash you like an unwanted bug, uproot you like an unwelcome weed . . . )

The rustling in my skull stops. I exhale finally.

The Grahi Witch smirks a smirk which practically reeks of evil. She says: 'Poor soul, you do not know. You are dead already.’

How was the chapter? Not too confusing, I hope.

Thanks for reading!