The Luna Witch

As I turn my jeep onto the long gravel driveway, I already smell blood. Polaris, the overlarge timber wolf riding shotgun, sniffs the air, but I don’t need my familiar’s exceptional sense of smell to know that carnage lies ahead.

I pull to a stop behind my fellow guardians just as the farmhouse comes into view, taking care to close the door without making a sound. Under the waning moon, the night is dead silent, save for the sound of our shaky breathing and the crunch of the gravel under our feet as we move toward the building. Not even the crickets dare to chirp.

Lights are on in every window, casting a sickly yellow glow across the porch. We pause at the front steps as our elder guardian, Wade, points for Polaris and me to go in the front, leaving him and Fisher to take the back entrance. I tighten my ponytail and roll my shoulders to loosen the building tension. Part of me is hoping for a fight. The other part is terrified that we’re too late.

It had taken us 30 minutes to get here from the time the call for aid was sent, a painfully long amount of time, but fast when you consider the remote location. Every attack has been like this: vulnerable homes along the border of the coven lands, just far enough away that by the time the coven guardians got there, the murderers, along with any evidence of their identity, were gone. Five attacks in the last 10 months, but this was the first time I was on duty when the distress call came in.

I push my magic forward to the tips of my fingers, raw and tingling, ready to set it loose faster than a heartbeat.

The scream of the screendoor rips through the stillness, and we step into a house of horrors. Crimson blood paints over the yellow floral wallpaper. The furniture is overturned and broken. And there are bodies, grisly eviscerated bodies, everywhere. Young and old, just like all the other attacks, no one was spared.

“Goddess above, it’s worse than I imagined,” I say once the others reach us.

“I think I’m going to be sick.” Fisher slaps his hand over his mouth, eyes wide in horror.

“You’ll need to lock it in a bit longer, Rookie,” Wade says. “You and I will make sure the upstairs is cleared of threats. Caly and Polaris can handle it down here.”

He says that last part like a statement, but I know he’s really asking a question. Wade may be the elder guardian here, but I have three years more experience than him. Wade’s a good guy and a hell of a good guardian. I don’t blame him for getting the promotion I was passed up for, but that doesn’t stop these awkward moments from happening at the worst of times. I give them both a somber nod.

Whoever or whatever did this is long gone. The most they will find upstairs is more victims, I’m sure of it. I suppress a shiver at the thought; there is already so much death in this place. Still, I do my due diligence, scanning over the scene, hoping to find some clue — anything that can lead us to these monsters. From the looks of it, they didn’t even have a chance to fight back.

Forming my intention, I take the magic that eagerly waits to be used and cast a boomerang spell, a simple encantation that allows you to view the happenings of the not-so-distant past, as if in rewind before it swings you right back to the present. I watch Fisher and Wade walk backward out of the room, followed by Polaris and me. Once the screen door closes, there is nothing but the unending stillness of death. After a few moments, I see us reenter the room, and I know the scene has circled back. Whatever happened here happened too long ago for the spell to reveal anything to us.

“Revelare mihi,” I try an unmasking spell, a trick that shows the lingering traces of magic in a room and sometimes who wielded it. What is revealed is only small magic, everyday things like summoning spells and cleansing charms light up in white, followed by a yellow distress call, seemingly cut off before it barely left the caster’s hands. I was right; they were overrun before anyone could get a defensive spell off. The familiar feeling of icy dread creeps up my spine like a January frost. They didn’t stand a chance.

Without meaning to, I try to make out the victims’ faces through the blood to see if I recognize them from any of the coven ceremonies, but instead, what floats to the surface are painful, long-ago memories. Other dead, unseeing eyes. Another night smothered in lethal silence.

I gasp as it feels like all the oxygen is sucked from the room. My heartbeat beats like a caged bird in my chest. The weight of helplessness pushes me to the floor, and Polaris quickly pads over and nudges me with her nose. “Breathe in... breathe out...” she says through our connection. My hand goes to my rowan berry necklace, and I finger the scarlet beads one by one, forcing myself back to the present.

After a few steadying breaths, a creak from the staircase announces Wade and Fisher’s return, and I jump back to my feet. I already get enough concerned looks from well-meaning witches and warlocks, I don’t need to give them more of a reason to talk about me in hushed tones.

“Something doesn’t smell right,” Polaris growls, her ice-blue eyes narrowing in concentration.

Wade grunts as they reach the landing. “All clear. Upstairs is untouched. Find anything?”

I shake my head, not trusting my voice to be strong enough to respond.

Wade drags his hand down his face. “Shit. Alright, I’ll inform the Council.”

Polaris hears it before the rest of us. I watch her white-grey ears twitch toward the coat closet 10 feet behind us.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

Poor Fisher looks like he’s about to piss his pants, but to his credit, he doesn’t run. Since I’m the closest, Wade nods at me as I move to investigate.

Scratch. Scratch.

It’s faint but insistent. I step to the closet, magic licking at my fingertips, ready for whatever is hiding.

Scratch.

I swing the door open wide, hopping back with my hands up in casting position. Instead of a threat, a young boy, maybe 10 or 11, falls forward, hand outstretched.

I drop to my knees at his side. He’s so covered in blood, I can't even begin to guess where it's all coming from.

“Where are you hurt?” I ask, trying to keep the urgency from my voice. I take his hand in mine and clutch it tight. His eyelids flutter. “Can you tell us what happened?”

I can see him fading; his breath comes out in ragged gasps. “Stay with us! Who did this to you?”

At that, he seems to come back to himself for a moment as he haltingly moves the hand not clasped in mine towards me, balled in a white-knuckled fist. Then his head lolls, muscles all relaxing as his hand drops lifelessly across his chest.

I swallow a sob. “No, no, no, no!”

The crack of the hardwood splits the air as I punch the floor with all my might. I know I split my knuckles, but I don’t feel it, and I don’t care.

We were so devastatingly close to knowing who the bastards were that did this, but more importantly, we were so close to stealing a life back from their absolute victory. He was just a kid. It’s not fucking fair. I bury my face in my hands, but I don’t cry. I haven’t cried in years.

Behind me, I feel the weight of Wade’s hand on my shoulder. “He was too far gone, Caly. Not even the healers could have saved him.”

I nod slowly and let out a shuddering exhale. I know, he’s right. It doesn’t make the bitter taste of sorrow mixed with frustration go away, but at least the logical part of me knows what he’s saying is true.

I take the boy’s hand and gently move it to the other that already lies across his chest. That’s when I see it: a bit of black fabric sticking out from under his fallen palm. Tenderly, I move his hand aside and pick up the raw-edged cloth.

“What’s that?” Fisher asks, craning his neck over me to get a closer look.

“It’s a clue,” I say. The first bud of hope since the distress call’s arrival blooms in my chest. “It’s a fucking clue.”

I run my thumb along the ripped fabric. White embroidered letters wrap around the top, split on the left by wherever it was ripped from. Only the last letter of a word, a capital A, is left, followed by S-Q-U-A-D.

Below the letters is the stitching of a familiar insignia. A wolf, teeth bared and hackles raised, stands before a full moon. A gasp of surprise escapes my lips. There’s no mistaking that symbol and who it belongs to.

The Werewolf King.