Page 88 of These Witches Don't Burn
Air whips through the house, searching for signs of life. Nothing. No one. A frustrated scream tears from my lips. Every window shatters, shooting glass onto the lawn. I hope it ruins his pool.
The stairs catch my eye, those damn six-foot oil paintings mocking me. Generations of Witch Hunters line the steps. How many of us have they killed over the years? How are we just finding out about them now? At the top of the stairs, Benton’s senior portrait completes the line.
I tap my pocket, the matches there a temptation. Once I find Veronica and make sure she’s safe, I’m going to burn this whole place to the ground, starting with Benton’s portrait.
Hannah...
Mom’s voice is at my ear, inside my head.
Hannah, where are you?
Gemma must have called. Told her I went after Veronica.
Dammit, Hannah, answer—
I tug on the air, and it swirls around me, blocking out whatever message Mom has sent. I amnotgiving up, not when I’m so close. I’ll figure out where Benton took Veronica, and then we’ll see howhehandles his life burning down around him.
Once I’m upstairs, it doesn’t take long to find Benton’s room. I hate it immediately. A king-sized bed sits centered against the far wall, and there’s still room for a huge desk, sofa, TV, and gaming corner, with plenty more room to move around. The far wall is a testament to his privileged life, full of trophies and medals like the ones he feigned embarrassment over the last time I was here.
I knock the whole thing down with a burst of air—delighting in the sound of snapping metal as the trophies break—and search the rest of the room for clues, anything that will tell me where he took Veronica. Where he plans to kill her. I swallow hard at the thought, overturning his bed and spilling his shelves onto the floor.
My magic flares as my frustration grows. Picture frames rattle against the walls until they fall, shattered glass shining like diamonds on the carpet.
There are two doors in the bedroom, both closed. I check the first, a bathroom. The Halls definitely use a maid servicebecause there’s no way any teenager keeps their bathroom that immaculate. The glass door of the shower shines like crystal.
The urge to throw something against the glass, to shatter it everywhere, rises up in my chest. I hate that Benton has all this when he’s the reason my home was destroyed. When he’s the reason my father is gone and I havenothingof his to hold. Not a single keepsake. Everything he ever touched is ash.
Magic swirls in my chest, begging me to light a match. To release the element that really knows how to rage.
“Hannah? What are you doing here?”
Magic and adrenaline flood my system. My hands tremble. Air swirls through the bathroom, tugging at my clothes, and I reach for the matches in my pocket.
Theclick-click-clickof Benton cocking a gun sends chills down my spine. He must have returned after my initial check of the house. “I really wish you wouldn’t.” He sounds almost sad. “Why couldn’t you leave it alone?”
I turn to face the Hunter, and he’s closer than I expected, the gun just a few inches from my face. “What, like you left my family alone?” I flex my hands, drawing a pocket of denser air into my palm.
Benton steps closer, the gun pressing flush against my forehead. “I can shoot faster than you can conjure.”
I let the pocket of air drop away. “Where’s Veronica? What did you do to her?”
“She’s alive, for now.” His hand shakes, but from cold or fear, I can’t tell. “I really wish you hadn’t come. I didn’t want to kill you.”
“You had no problem killing my father.”
“Hannah—”
My phone rings, loud and obnoxious, and we both flinch. The gun drops. Just an inch.
But it’s enough.
I shove into Benton with all my weight. We fall to the floor, the phone and gun skidding in opposite directions. The house shakes beneath us, trembling as I reach for every element I can touch. Pipes burst in the bathroom. Wind separates us, pushing me near my ringing phone. I answer.
“It’s Benton. He’s trying to—” A scream cuts off my words as Benton grabs the back of my head and pulls me upright, away from the phone. “You don’t have to do this, Benton. You don’t have to kill us.” I try to shout, but the words come out breathy and weak as he wraps a hand around my throat.
“Yes. I do.”
He grips the barrel of his gun, lifts it above my head, and swings.
