Page 5 of The Witch and His Crow

I shot him a smile, one that signalled a clear end to this rather thrilling conversation. ‘I know.’

Alex grumbled, moving on to the next patron who leaned against the bar at my side, calling an order of shots and…crisps. I mean, who thefuckeats crisps in a club?

Criminal. Then again, so wasmurdering three people, my inner voice added.

It was coming up on eighteen years since my parents were killed by these people, and here I was making sure the wheel of life kept turning. Karma, if you would. This had been my drivefor as long as I could remember. Survive, thrive and live knowing my life would be spent avenging my parent’s death.

Witch Hunters killed us because of what we were. So, it only seemed fair that awitchcould do the same to them.

Oh, how the tables had turned.

They say revenge is a dish best served cold, but I liked mine warmed, well-seasoned and fulfilling. Because that was exactly the reason I did this. Stalking prey, sliding into spaces where I wasn’t welcome, only to leave them painted red with Hunter blood.

Vengeance motivated me. If that made me a monster, I’d wear the badge proudly.

I took a long swig of my drink. My cheeks pricked from the sour bite of cranberry followed by the burning hiss of vodka to soothe my throat. It did the job of settling my stomach. Not the nerves, but the excitement.

Stale smoke billowed from machines, casting the dance floor in a thick film of stench. The bottom of my shoes practically clung onto the lino flooring, trying to trap me in place. As did the music—a low tempo with some repetitive lyrics sung by someone with a mediocre voice. It would usually take three drinksminimumfor me to allow the beat to sink into my bones enough to move them. Tonight, I planned on one drink only. Maybe more, but only once I was done. Then maybe I could find some cock too. Alex was certainly giving me the eye in offer.

I needed something to celebrate.

Rule one of how to hunt a Hunter: locate their prey first.

Hunting a witch was easy if you knew the signs to look for. The tell-tale circlet of light around one’s pupil when magic was used was the most notable. But witches had spent decades being pursued, which meant at least as long spent trying to blend in. Hunters of the past would blindly label powerful women with great minds and no supernatural abilities witches,simply because they had, as I said, powerful minds. But as the generations passed, they found other ways to root us out.

Most notably, civil unrest. War between covens. If there was one way for a coven to outmatch or remove others from their territories, it was for locations, names, and even entire families to be sold off. It was risky, but not uncommon.

With all that, it meant a Hunter was also susceptible to, well, being hunted. To know their movements, the way they worked and ticked, was to know how to catch them out at their own game. Which led me to one question—what were they doing here?

An answer that was soon discovered simply by watching the dark corners of the club were a woman had caught their attention. A witch. I couldn’t tell of which type, unless she used her power, and around so many mortals she wouldn’t dare. Not like me. She was likely a solitary witch, given that those she was with had no taint of the paranormal. They were students from one of Oxford’s colleges, evident from their attire.

Rich coming from me, I know. I had come into Energy dressed like someone more used to pumpkin spice lattes and perusing old book shops—both of which I had done earlier today.

Details, Hector. Focus.

Back to the witch. I would place her in her late twenties. From the dark bags under her eyes and the wistful smile, likely a student in post-grad? She had masses of brown curls, some as light as honey and others as dark as chestnut. Rich black skin and a disarming smile. I admired how carefree she was, laughing and dancing with friends, no clue about the danger that lurked just behind her. But I didn’t envy her. If anything, it was pity that came to mind.

Yet more proof that for people like us, even our safe places were not actually safe at all.

I swung my attention back to the Hunters as I navigated the shadows of the club’s layout. There were three of them—two female, one male. Likely late twenties, early thirties. They, unlike me, were dressed for the occasion. All black leathers, metal-studded belts and boots that looked military grade. The man had something bulging beneath the belt of his trousers, and the cause was not the usual thing I came to Energy to get.

It was an athame blade. Sacrificial, most likely. A similar design to the one that was driven into my mother’s body twenty-seven times. Except this one was clean and ready to taste the blood of a witch.

Thud. Thud. Thud.I took another sip from my drink, washing away the memory.

Shame his athame would go hungry tonight, whereas my appetite for vengeance would be sated—at least temporarily. The beast deep within would have a feast tonight.

It didn’t take long for them to make their move. First, the male Hunter proceeded to test the witch’s boundaries. He slipped in, sober as a judge, and swayed in sync with her. Her obvious discomfort had little to do with him being her enemy—something she had not worked out yet—but everything to do with him being, well, a man.

First mistake. Energy was a club catering to queer people. So up next was one of the women. She had full, wild red curls and wide blue eyes. On paper, beautiful. Shame her soul was soiled. As expected, the witch was more open to dancing with a female, turning and giving her an interested look.

As much as I wished to strut across the spirit-sticky dance floor and flay the Hunter open now, I had to wait. Patience was a virtue I was forced to learn many years ago.

My attention was solely pinned to the two dancing women, such that I didn’t notice the other two Hunters slip away fromtheir booth. I scanned the bustling crowd, searching for them, scolding myself for taking my eye off the ball.

Fuck.

The final Hunter and her unsuspecting witch were moving too. My breath hitched in my throat, excitement and panic blending in harmony with one another. I downed my drink, stopping only when the chunk of ice hit my lips. A rush of the alcohol was exactly what I needed, as much as I also required the glass itself. Tipping the ice out onto the floor, to the dismay of a couple gyrating beside me, I grasped the empty glass and followed my prey.

---