Sticky Witch VIII
Can Rosen outrun the mob?
Rosen is part of a team of Material Practitioners engaged in house restoration, protection, and charmwork. Something magical is moving through South West England, toppling houses and henges alike. She’s recovering from a self-inflicted magical heart attack, and she’s just been accused of murder. It’s riled up the local covens, and she needs to get to safety. Catch up with the last episode or read (for free) from the beginning.
Mike marched down the thronged road as quickly as he could with me in his arms. I’m on the short side for a woman, but it’s more muscle than fat. As a result, Mike’s gait felt more like a half-trot than a run. Liam kept pace beside him, occasionally checking his radio with a burst of static.
The wind slapped my face; I closed my eyes against a wave of dizziness. The ghost attack earlier had depleted me, whilst the magic surge had finished me off. I wanted to go home, curl up in bed and sleep away the day.
“Where you going?”
The voice was loud, obnoxious and male.
I blinked and peeked.
Three guys dressed in the same grey robes were blocking Mike’s path. They were all about his height but half his bodyweight. Two had beards, a third had a paunch. They had the same belligerent air as a bunch of goats in a nettle patch. Nothing was going to stop them.
“I’m taking her to the hospital for heart monitoring and shock,” Liam said calmly. “Please let me pass.”
Mike halted, two arm’s length out of reach of the group. I heard people mutter and shift around us, but no one moved.
“She’s the witch?” a female voice piped up to my left.
“She’s my patient,” Liam said, swivelling slightly. “There’s no need for upset and it’s cold enough, standing here, eh? C’mon, let’s not call the police out.”
“P’raps we should,” the middle guy of the goat trio said. “Since she murdered that poor guy.”
Mike cleared his throat and whistled two short blasts.
I heard a second pair of boots crunch the ground besides us. John bobbed into view.
“Rosen, can you walk at all?” he asked quietly.
“I don’t know”, I whispered. “Forget about running.”
“Nah – one second…”
John held a quick, muttered conversation with Mike, who gently swung me sideways until my feet touched the floor. He pushed me into John’s embrace whilst Liam ducked under my shoulder on the other side. I felt their arms supporting my back and waist. John pulled out one of his pendulum cords. This one was yellow, with four knots tied at intervals, two widths apart. I groaned as he tucked it between my knees.
“Clench, lass.”
I did so involuntarily. John snapped the fingers of his free hand, and I felt a soft pressure lift my thighs and bum. My feet flopped in the air.
“Go left, down the side of that house,” John said quietly to Liam. “We’ll run behind the field and get to the Manor. Quicker, the better. I don’t want to risk another surge.”
Mike had taken up a protective stance in front of us. “We’re still waiting on the facts, and the police know about this,” he rumbled soothingly. “We’re all antsy and on edge, and it’s easy enough to…”
I missed the rest of his sentence as John hustled the three of us between the brick walls. I heard a shout, then another scream from someone in the street “She’s getting away!”
Other voices took up the cry.
“Get her!”
“That way!”
“Cut her off at the road!”
My heart sank. Mob rule? From my own kind? Yeah, it might be the groupthink at work, but I’d hoped we had all learned something after the last few years. John and Liam manoeuvred me across the garden, over the fence with a stifled curse and then across the fields, at a flat sprint. I risked a glance behind us to see a handful of people in pursuit. They didn’t look fit, but they weren’t escorting an immobile woman.
“It’s going to be fine,” John reassured me between gasps.
I realised I was shaking. If the mob caught us now, I couldn’t stop them.
“Stupid bastards,” Liam panted. “We’re running towards the police! Not away from them.”
I half-laughed, half-sobbed as we crossed the following two fields, scooting clear of the stones. I could see the Manor Farm squatting on the crossroads and beyond it, the Manor itself. A wire fence blocked our way, and John made a complicated curling sigil with one hand, tearing apart the mesh.
From further down the road, we could hear the crowd approach.
“Surprised they aren’t here already,” I said as they hustled me over the road.
“Mike,” John said, his tone making the name an explanation and a curse. “He slowed them down.”
We scurried past the buildings into the formal gardens of the Manor. I felt John’s spell dip as soon as we passed the last stone. Both men grunted as they compensated for my new weight.
“Let’s get her indoors, and I’ll call the police,” Liam said hurriedly.
“Tearooms up ahead,” John agreed. “They won’t do anything in here.”
“Of course,” I agreed wildly. “Murder over scones would be terribly rude.”
Then Glenda-bloody-Hale stepped out of the house, and suddenly, murder did not seem so far-fetched after all.
Read Part 9