Chapter 18

Sam sat in his dimly lit room, the clock ticking away the minutes he had left before he had to head to the Brew. A ten-minute drive, a text message tearing into him for being late, and the knowledge that everyone else would already be there waiting for him played on his mind. He couldn't bring himself to leave yet. The argument with his mother still echoed in his ears, and a bitter resentment towards both his deceased father and his living mother simmered inside him. His father had married a non-magical woman, never told her about the magic, then gone and gotten himself killed by the Witch-Hunters. Sam's anger festered, fueled by the fact that no one else in their group had lost a parent to the Witch-Hunters.

He liked to believe that his father had been a significant player in the coven, that his death had shattered their unity and driven the Witch-Hunters away. Letting out a low growl, Sam snatched up a framed picture of his mother, father, and himself as a child. He stared at the happy faces, unable to recall when it had been taken or any other memories of his father.

A part of him almost hoped that whoever had attacked Maya today was a Witch-Hunter. The thought of avenging his father, of making those bastards pay for what they had taken from him, consumed him. He had no clear memories of his father because the Witch-Hunters had stolen that from him. He could never forgive them for that. He wanted their blood. If they were fool enough to come back to Harvest Grove, he would make them regret ever knowing this coven existed.

But binding the coven? That was another matter entirely.

Suddenly, his mother cried out, followed by the sound of something crashing. Sam's initial reaction was to ignore it—another of her clumsy accidents, he thought—but the eerie silence that followed made him uneasy. He couldn't hear her fretting or cleaning up whatever she'd dropped. Setting the picture frame back on his bedside table, Sam stood and strode out of his room, his concern growing with each step.

"You okay?" he called out, his voice cutting through the quiet house.

No response. His eyes narrowed, and he pressed forward, a sense of dread gnawing at him. Despite their constant arguments, his mother wouldn't purposely ignore him like this. "Mom?"

Entering the kitchen, he stopped short. His mother stood frozen, her eyes wide with terror. Behind her, a man held a large knife to her throat.

"Don't move," the man hissed, his grip tightening on the knife.

Sam's heart pounded in his chest, anger and fear warring within him. "Let her go," he demanded, his voice steady despite the rage boiling beneath the surface.

The intruder smirked, his eyes cold and calculating. "You think you're in a position to give orders, kid?"

Jason lay in bed, the Bible strategically placed next to him. It was his nightly charade, designed to allay his parents' suspicions during their final check before bed. If they thought he was engrossed in Scripture, they usually left him alone. But lately, he could see the growing doubt in their eyes, especially his mother's. He'd overheard their hushed conversations about the possibility of him manifesting powers, their concern deepening with his association with Angelo, Sam, and Harper—children of his father's old coven members. They feared the "darkness" was taking root in him and that staying in Harvest Grove would mean losing him forever.

The recent attack on Maya had only fueled their paranoia. He'd heard them whispering about the incident, wondering if a Witch-Hunter was involved. They seemed to be contemplating drastic measures, including a possible move to Wichita, which made Jason's skin crawl. He couldn't bear the thought of leaving Harvest Grove, especially when they were so close to binding their coven for greater protection.

He knew that Maya and Angelo had officially quit, but their continued participation in group meetings gave Jason hope. He believed it was only a matter of time before they returned fully, allowing the coven to bind and fortify its members.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway, growing louder as they approached his door. Jason grabbed the Bible, flipping it open to a random page, feigning absorption in its text as his father entered.

"Good night, son," his father said, eyeing him with barely concealed suspicion. "Have you said your prayers yet?"

"Yes, sir," Jason replied, nodding dutifully.

"Remember, the Lord is always watching," his father reminded him before turning to leave.

Jason listened to the receding footsteps until they faded. He sighed, shaking his head. Standing up, he padded softly across the floor, opening the door just enough to press his ear to the gap. The sound of gospel music filtering through the house confirmed his parents were in bed. Their routine of falling asleep to hymns provided him the cover he needed.

Closing the door quietly, Jason pulled on his shoes and grabbed a jacket. He turned off the light and made his way to the window, opening it enough to slip out. He was grateful their house was a single story, making his escape easier. As he stepped outside and began to close the window behind him, he was caught off guard. A cloth, reeking of chloroform, was shoved against his face.

He struggled, his vision blurring and his movements growing sluggish. Panic surged through him as he fought to stay conscious, but the chloroform took hold quickly. His last coherent thought was of the coven and the friends he needed to protect. Then, darkness swallowed him.

Angelo hissed in frustration, holding a plastic bag filled with ice against his mother's swelling face. "You can't keep letting him get away with this!"

His mother, as always, took the blame. "I got him upset. I should have understood him the first time and not asked him to repeat himself. I'm just always being an idiot."

"You're not an idiot," Angelo said, fighting to keep his temper in check. He refused to give in to his anger as easily as his father did. "He's the damned asshole who can't control his issues and takes it out on his family." He looked into his mother's eyes, waiting until she met his gaze. "You've never done anything to deserve this."

She gave him a tremulous smile, one that broke his heart every time.

"Where is he?" Angelo asked, his voice low and steady.

She shook her head. "No."

"Where. Is. He?" he demanded, staring at the fresh bruises marring her face.

"Angelo—" she whispered, her voice filled with fear.

"I'm not him, Mom," he promised her. "But I can't let him hit you twice as much just because he can't push me around anymore."

"He's your father," she pleaded, as if that made all the difference.

"That's why I'm not going to touch him," Angelo swore. "But I'm going to make sure he knows he can't keep doing this. One day he might seriously hurt you, or kill you, and then I will kill him."

Tears welled in her eyes. "Your father would never—"

"Where is he, Mom?" Angelo interrupted, cutting through her loyal delusions.

She hung her head low. "Hester's."

"Why am I not surprised?" Angelo sighed, standing up. He should have known his father would be at his favorite bar, getting hammered after smashing his wife's face.

"Please don't anger him even more," his mother begged, her voice trembling.

Angelo didn't answer. He walked towards the kitchen door, opening it with a firm resolve, only to barely dodge the swing of a bat aimed at his head.