Michelle Krys - Hexed

And then the hallucinations begin. They’re only tiny spots in my field of vision at first. Then the spots turn into colors—cherry-red, lime-green, ocean-blue—blooming and flashing in front of my eyes like a Technicolor kaleidoscope.

Metal clangs somewhere in the room. And then a voice. “They’re ready.”

Leo? Was that Leo?

“You sure?” an unfamiliar voice asks.

“Yes, I’m sure. Bring her to the car.”

The realization that it’s definitely Leo, and he definitely has plans for me, snaps me out of my hallucination and back into reality just as two meaty hands snag my arms and tug me to standing. Blood rushes from my head, and I nearly collapse but for the man who stabilizes me.

“The bag,” Leo says.

At the mention of the dreaded bag, I use my last ounce of energy to try to wriggle free, but it’s too late. The fabric whips over my eyes, blocking all the light like a blackout curtain.

“Tie her up,” Leo says.

I yelp as my arms are painfully twisted behind my back. To my surprise, I don’t feel rope against my skin, but barbed-wire needles of pain shoot up my arms at my slightest protest.

“That should keep her still,” the man says, laughter in his voice.

Our collective footsteps squeak loudly on the tile flooring. There’s a whoosh, and the sounds of heavy traffic suddenly surround me. I catch a brief breath of fresh air through the bag, before I’m ducked like a prisoner into a car. I fall sideways against the leather seat, careful to not land on my tied hands. The now-familiar scent of cigarettes burns my nostrils.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

Leo snickers in response.

“Where’s Bishop? You promised to kill Bishop.” The entire plan hinges on this one part going right, on his ring working like it’s supposed to.

“Oh, we’ll kill him, all right.” Leo spins the tuning dial on the radio until he reaches a station that plays a hearty, almost nationalistic classical song. “Ah, Shostakovich! You know, I should thank you, Indigo, for taking care of Frederick for me. It’s great to finally pick the music.” He turns the volume up so loud he has to shout to be heard. “Haunting melody. Perfect for the occasion, no?” He breaks into delighted laughter, and I sink into the seat.

I don’t know how much time passes, but it’s a lot. I try everything to stay awake, but after a while, sheer exhaustion combined with the vibrations of the car lull me to sleep.

I jerk awake when the car stops.

Invisible hands drag me outside into a chill air that smells of earth. Without warning, the bag over my head is pulled away. I stumble, disoriented by the hugeness of my surroundings after so long without sight.

The sun is low on the horizon, the sky awash with thick brushstrokes of red, gold, and orange. Which would be beautiful if not for the bog. It’s sunken in a dip in the land and is shadowed by tall skeleton trees, as though the earth were trying to swallow it and the trees cover the evidence. What I can see of the water through the thick moss caking the surface is brown and murky, and sticks and tall grass poke out from the banks. It looks like a place to dump a dead body. Which, I guess, is the point. I shiver.

Another car door slams. I spin around to find Armando pushing Bishop toward us, the hook-nosed man pulling Jezebel from the backseat of the last vehicle in the processional parked along the dirt road.

But what is almost as alarming as the fact that they’re herding us into a bog at the side of an isolated dirt road at nightfall is what the Priory members are wearing: hooded black robes with sleeves that flare over their hands and hems that brush along the dirt, making them look startlingly like priests.

Gravel crunches as more vehicles near. They slow to a halt, and dozens more robed men and women spill out onto the road.

When I whirl around to face Leo, I see that he’s wearing a robe too. Leo pushes me toward the bog.

“Your promise,” I say to him. “I want to see him die.” I jut my chin toward Bishop in a defiant gesture, but my voice shakes with uncertainty.

Leo grins. “Promises, promises. That was really more of Frederick’s ball of wax.”

“Wh-what? What does that mean?”

He laughs. “Victor?”

The man who answers to Victor is average in size, but his severe expression and long, wiry beard give him a distinct “don’t mess with me” vibe. Victor yanks my arm and uses it to propel me forward. The movement makes a barb dig into my skin, and I let out a yelp, then bite down on my lip to prevent any further outbursts. I don’t need Bishop to know how scared I am, in case he gets any ideas about backing out.

We’re led into the chilly water of the bog. My body shrinks against the cold, goose bumps flaring up over my exposed skin—which there is a lot of, thanks to Bishop. Our movements disturb moss on the still water, and it collects on our clothes in thick patches. They lead us out until we’re waist-deep, and then Armando pushes Bishop forward, backing away as the other Priory members wordlessly close in, forming rings so dense around him I can barely see him through the cracks between their bodies. But I do see him. His bag has been removed too, and his hands untied, his dark hair sticking up in all directions. Though he feigns a bored expression, I don’t miss the fact that his eyes dart around the group like an animal in a cage.

A bird caws somewhere. And then the chanting begins.

It’s so low at first, almost a whisper, that I can’t hear what they’re saying. The sun slips behind the trees on the horizon, and the sky turns a thick, gray-blue color. Flashes of light penetrate from the inner circle, and I realize that some people are holding candles. I lost sight of Leo among all the sorcerers, but he speaks now, and I trace his booming voice to the center of the circle. He holds the Bible open in one hand, reciting verses in a strange language I’ve never heard before. Bishop twirls his ring—a nervous gesture, and my heart squeezes hard.

The chanting grows louder, and the robed bodies begin to sway forward, more and more violently until it appears they’re being propelled toward Bishop by magnetic force, before being rocketed back.

Three people—Armando, Hooknose Man, and a dark-skinned man step forward from the group. Armando and Hooknose grab hold of Bishop’s arms, while the third man brings a small dish to Leo. Still chanting, Leo takes a pinch of what looks like salt in his fingers, then throws it onto Bishop. As soon as it hits him, the men holding Bishop pull him back into the water, submerging him like it’s some sort of baptism. Leo holds a hand over Bishop and reads from the Bible as Bishop’s legs thrash frantically in the water. I clench and unclench my fists. I know that his dying is part of the plan, but seeing it happen is another thing entirely.

The men pull him up. Bishop coughs and sputters as Leo takes another pinch from the dish and throws it at him. And then he is submerged again. Pressure builds in my chest, the urge to scream almost too much to withstand. The men mercifully bring Bishop up for air, but he’s allowed only a quick breath before he’s dunked again. I can’t take it anymore; I cry out and step forward, but Victor yanks me back so hard my arm feels like it’s popped out of the socket. Hot liquid oozes down the sores on my raw wrists: blood.

Finally, after the third time, the men leave Bishop above water and back away. He takes huge, sucking breaths, his dark hair plastered to his cheeks.

A woman steps forward, something dark clutched against her chest. She extends her arms suddenly, and swaths of black cloth fall over his head and body, still more material floating on the surface of the water around him. The chanting grows so loud that I can barely hear Leo, and their eyes—the way they roll back in their heads, as if consumed with lust for power, makes me want to cover my face like I’m watching a horror movie.