Hexed

“Bishop, do something!”

 

 

The double doors burst open again. An irritated Jezebel stands in the doorway, one hand balled on her hip. Bishop smiles at me, and the look he sends me now distinctly says “I told you so.”

 

“Frederick, release the woman,” Jezebel commands.

 

“Nah.” Frederick drops into one of the red seats facing the screen. “I think I’ll watch this one through to the end.”

 

Jezebel starts down the aisle with heavy-footed steps, until a large dog—a huge, slobbering rottweiler—appears just feet in front of her, blocking her path. I instinctively hide behind Bishop, but Jezebel doesn’t even flinch. Not when the dog growls, a low rumble from deep in its chest. Not when it pushes back its pointed ears and leans back onto meaty haunches, as if about to attack. Not when it leaps into the air with a startlingly loud bark. Nope, Jezebel continues walking, as if putting one foot in front of the other is such an inconvenience, and holds up a hand. The dog hits an invisible barrier inches from her face, then goes flying to the side, landing against the mural-covered wall with a whimper before dropping to the ground.

 

I’m torn between awe at her power and disgust because it’s a dog! Sure, it was going to kill her, but couldn’t she have placed it in a magic cage or something else less brutal?

 

The dog licks its wounds, not even attempting to make a second attack, while Jezebel continues down the aisle. She doesn’t make it two more steps when hundreds of arrows shoot from out of nowhere, whistling as they dart through the air, poised to land in her chest. She flicks them away with a wave of her hand, and the arrows fly up toward the ceiling, stabbing into the starburst mural and shattering lightbulbs in the chandelier. A rainstorm of glass falls to the carpet. I look at Frederick, wondering just what he’ll throw at Jezebel next.

 

The red-and-gold carpet rumples up, and Jezebel nearly loses her footing, but then she lifts into the air as if suspended by wire. “Seriously?” she says. “That’s the best you’ve got?”

 

Frederick laughs. “Those were just the previews. I think you’ll particularly enjoy the main feature.”

 

I hear their caws before I see them. Birds. Hundreds of black, beady-eyed vultures, owning the air around Jezebel. I thought it wasn’t possible, but there’s fear—terror, actually—seared into the delicate lines of her face.

 

“Oh no,” Bishop mutters.

 

“What? What?” I tug at his arm, but he ignores me and watches Jezebel.

 

She recoils left, then right, whipping her head around as the birds circle her, their wings flapping so hard and fast, it’s the only sound in the auditorium. One bird tries to peck at her with its hooked beak, and she swats it away. The bird smacks against the wall just like our dog friend, but I can see that it was an effort, that Frederick has found her weakness.

 

“Something the matter?” Frederick looks over the seat back and smiles, then twists around to drape his legs over the row of seats, fingers laced over his stomach.

 

Bishop scoops me up around the middle and lifts into the air.

 

“What are you doing?” I cling to him, not because I worry he might drop me, but because I really, really don’t like my sudden proximity to the birds. One flies so close to my face that its feathers brush my cheek. I let out a squeal, burying my face in Bishop’s chest.

 

I make a promise to myself that if I somehow, miraculously, make it out of this mess alive, if I somehow am a witch, I’m going to get good at magic. Because aside from my mother’s life being in danger, I can’t think of anything I hate more than this helpless, useless feeling.

 

Bishop grunts and mumbles under his breath, swatting at the air with big sweeping gestures, until the birds are pushed back and there’s a space around Jezebel.

 

“Snap out of it!” Bishop yells.

 

Jezebel peeks out from around her arms, held up in front of her face, and her shoulders relax a fraction.

 

“Do it,” Bishop urges. “I can’t hold them off for much longer.” And he isn’t lying. The birds flap angrily at the circle holding them back, inching forward bit by bit.

 

Jezebel takes a deep, shaky breath, and with one flick of her hand, the vultures smack against the wall, landing in a black heap forming a perimeter around the theater. The sound, like hundreds of football players running into defensive dummies one after another, sends a shudder down my spine. But no guilt, I note, unlike when the dog got hurt, because somehow it’s different when I felt my own life in danger. In fact, what I feel is a thrill—we’re winning. We’re getting out of here alive!

 

But when I look at the screen again, a choked sob catches in my throat, and my heart sinks down to my stomach like it’s weighted with lead.

 

Mom is slumped forward, pale and lifeless, and a steady flow of thick blood drips around the hilt of the blade buried deep in her temple.

 

 

 

 

 

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