From behind the pillar, I dare to take a peek. I feel like Bond. James Cool-As-Ice Bond.

Rasthrum is there, alright. Raven-branded hands bound-wrapped in something like cellophane behind his back, head lolled down, lips pressed so tightly together they’ve nearly disappeared, yet blood flows freely from his mouth.

A couple feet ahead of him, that gaudy, evil woman, the Grahi Witch, dressed in her garish red outfit. I feel a sharp surge of resentment marathon in the form of a bead of sweat down the center of my back to the very base of my spine. Pooling there, and dotting my forehead, as my hate grows and grows with every second I spend staring at her.

This woman is going to die for all that she’s done. I’ll make sure of that.

No matter what.

‘Son,' she is saying – her voice . . . ugh, it’s like it fills your head with an intensity that is uncanny. Like, a speaker whispering inside your ear. ‘The time has come. I birth’d you by magic, and I shall slay you by my hand. You will set an example for the rest of Lakoswanion to never dare have the audacity of rebellion.’

As she says this, she balls her left hand into a fist, and I see even from this distance that her long nails dig into the skin of her palm – but instead of blood, a dark blue gust of flame seeps out. Then it’s gone as quickly and uninvitingly as it arrived.

Behind me, Aar stifles a gasp. Uncle's expression suggest he’s seen this particular trick before, and he does not like it.

I look at the witch and my stupid brain goes: Join a circus, woman. Or better yet, get on your broom and fly to Hotel Hell.

All fear seems to have left me. I feel . . . liberated. I suppose that must be the right word, for I cannot think of a better one.

‘You are no mother of any kind,' Rasthrum spits (blood).

I’m glad to see the survivor man hasn’t lost his temper. I mean, his ability to lose his temper. I don’t know, you know?

‘Oh, dear,' the Grahi Witch sings. ‘Aren’t you a soul to not be salvaged?’

Rasthrum grins his crooked, bloody smile. This time, I actually find his grin sort of charming. This time, the blood doesn’t (really) make me thirsty. Valor, in the face of death – rare, surprisingly invigorating. ‘You’re the one,' Rasthrum grits, 'whose soul will beg for salvation. Not me, not anyone. Someone, someday, will get you, and they’ll get you bad. And then . . . we’ll see what becomes of you, mother.’

The 'mother' comes out as mutterrrr, much the same way 'girl' comes out as gurrrl when Rasthrum is in rage.

Her Wickedness kneels with an articulate grace that I presume only she can rally – and find myself wondering how old the woman actually is (then quickly discard the question, because who cares?) – and whispers something in Rasthrum's ear. Immediately, the man goes limp as a plant that hasn’t been watered enough. It’s a miracle that he doesn’t create a resounding thud as he falls sideways onto the stone floor.

‘Someone like who?’ inquiries the Grahi Witch, and I sense the indignity in her voice. ‘Like your little carriage guests?’

And then she laughs.

And that’s when my mind goes: Yup, a witch she is.

Because her laugh is a cackle and the cackle is a screech and the screech is . . . I don’t know, I’m glad you aren’t here to hear it. We clap our hands over our ears, all of us – except Goof and Es, of course.

Her Wickedness continues: 'Your friends who are foolish enough to believe they can escape, abscond me. Your friends who think I am unaware of them listening to this conversation. Those friends? Are you talking about those friends?’

My breath hitches. My body freezes.
I suspect it’s not because of the shock factor of Miss Laugh-Your-Ear-Off knowing we are hiding here. I suspect it’s one of her dowdy tricks.

The voice of the Grahi Witch grows louder all of a sudden, and it appears that she could mine ores with that voice if she so desired: 'It is all because of that spirit! Come on out, you blithering wedge of scum!’

I see Es's translucent form shoot past me like a bullet. I want to throw a fit, I want to put that shuriken to good use – but I can’t. Invisible ropes truss, tighten, around me. You know? You know.

Anyway, I see out of the corner of my eyes as Es zooms right into the upraised hand of the Grahi Witch.

Holy Ghost Moon, she can touch her!

Her Wickedness (doesn’t sound all that funny anymore) hold Es's immaterial throat with her hands – hands which bleed flames – and traps her in an unyielding chokehold.
Es flails her glowing legs – I can’t see her face – what is happening – I can’t see anything – there’s black smoke everywhere – my face reddens as I try to defeat the invisible ropes – the rustle rises inside my eardrums – doom empiric, spirit, spirit – I don’t care, I don’t care if Aar is catatonic or Bee is wailing or Mr. Om might have a heart attack – this is crazy – I can’t even see Es, I should at least be able to see her –

The smoke clears, and now the twelve other witches stand in a ritualistic circle just like in my dream/vision around my Es, still struggling to rid herself of the Grahi Witch's grip.

“We are of the Coven Thirteen,” they recite together. “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.”

‘Es!’ I finally find my voice, but it makes no difference all the same. They’re going to kill her, they’re going to kill her or something worse –

Then the witches start moving along the boundary of the ring they’ve formed, and intermittently, I can see Es in that evil woman's chokehold . . . disappearing.

Between each interval of time where I can’t see her as the witches cross my line of sight, her colorful outline diminishes. Grows greyer and greyer, dimmer and dimmer. Her glow decreases at an alarming rate and I am distantly aware she’s about to depart this world for good.

“We are one, and one are we. We are powerful, and might is we, resides in me, resides in me.”

For a split second, I meet Es's fading doe eyes – she looks like a dimming fire – large and innocent and in pain – (and tearful? she can cry? no, she should always be happy, cheery, this is wrong, no, please, no) – and I clench my jaw, but it doesn’t help, nothing helps.

I see Rasthrum on the other side of the ring, twisting his hands free of the cellophane and reaching into his coat. The stones. The four rotten-heart shaped stones.

(doom empiric, spirit, spirit . . .)

The witches complete a second rotation along the ring, and by now Es looks like she’s about to throw up, like her gossamer body is vanishing but her eyes, they are fighting it, they want to stay, with me, with us –

And then, abruptly, she does throw up.

Simultaneously, Rasthrum throws the stones.

There is a blinding flash of light – or lights – and all colors of the spectrum, and more, scintillate before my eyes. Even colors I have never seen before. Sound is barely a side-effect. This dazzle of light lasts for a thousand years, and my mismatched, heterochromatic eyes take much time to register the verity that the onslaught of color is over.

I see tiny, hallucinatory beetles crawling and globular patches of remnant light skating before my eyes before I regain my normal vision.

Twelve of the witches are absent. The ring is gone.

Fading flakes of toxic black smoke curl and bend in a paroxysmal, unnatural manner.

The Grahi Witch stands right where she stood before the vomit of rainbow. Her face is ashen, and she looks like she has aged a decade in just the span of these supposedly few seconds.

And Es. I look for her all around the place. I don't even remember turning to my party. ‘Come on HELP ME WHAT ARE YOU DOING STANDING THERE?!’

The next few minutes are a blur. A vacant pen-drive, a black hole of memory in my mind.

Then I spot her. And I lose all sense of who I am. I feel like I am a man who has just recovered from a concussion.  I rush toward her. I fall along the way, hurt my knee bad, but I don’t stop till I am by her side.

Es just lies there, motionless and unresponsive.