The old woman surged forward, throwing hexes, pressing the other two brothers against the wall, sending dishes and cutlery crashing out of their cupboards and drawers. Teacups and saucers shattered on the tiles, and the shards skittered across the floor, whipping up to hang ominously in the air for one beat, two, the sun glittering off the white surfaces, jagged tips pointed at the intruders. Then Grandma King flung her arms out, words cutting the air just before the shards missiled forward, embedding themselves into the walls with sharp little chunk, chunk, chunks and gouging bloody tracks across every inch of the brothers’ skin.
The man with the sword scrambled to his feet, using his blade to guard his eyes from the flying shards. He struck out toward Gran again, and Meiner began another prayer under her breath, wishing desperately she knew more. She was still a damn witchling. How was she supposed to fight this?
She snatched a heavy bowl from the counter and whipped it at him, and he grunted as it glanced off his temple, staggering backward.
“Kill that bitch, Dubh.” The brother with the buzz cut snarled at her. “Finish her—” He didn’t get anything else out, because Grandma King sent another nasty hex his way, snapping his head back.
“Meiner”—Grandma King did not take her eyes off the men—“run, witchling. Go get the others.” She threw up her hands as the long-haired brother came at her, spitting out another hex as she warded off something Meiner couldn’t see.
“I won’t leave you.” Meiner turned toward the counter, looking for something, anything to throw, and felt herself slammed backward. Her shoes slid, and she screamed, striking her shoulders and back painfully on the cupboards.
“Go, you fool.” Grandma King stepped in front of her. “You won’t last.”
“I would if you’d trained me,” she gasped out. It was a ridiculous time to bring it up, but she couldn’t seem to help it. One of the drawers came shooting out beside her, and she flinched, before reaching out to snatch up a steak knife. From her position on the floor she couldn’t help looking up at the walls, at the symbols dripping down the white wallpaper. They didn’t look like anything she’d seen before, and she felt a sick squirming in her stomach if she looked at them for too long. “But you’re making Cora head witch.”
Grandma King grunted, hand up to block another spell.
One of the men cried out as Grandma King’s magic pressed him against the far wall of the kitchen, scraping his back against the towel hooks as he was dragged up toward the ceiling. Meiner watched, eyes wide.
“You aren’t like me, child. You won’t do what needs to be done.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You’ll see. Tarraing forsa!” Grandma King jerked an arm up, like she was conducting an orchestra, and suddenly the shaved-headed brother was struggling to walk toward her. The air around him shimmered, turned thick.
“Cora won’t be any better.” Meiner climbed to her feet, brandishing the knife, gaze flicking from one brother to the next. Both Dubh and the shaved-headed brother were approaching again, more warily than before. Again, she glanced at the symbols on the wall, the smears of red against white. “These runes…”
“I do what needs to be done,” Grandma King repeated, and then she snapped, “Balor, glacaim mé ort!” and clapped her weathered hands together.
A metallic rasp seemed to coincide with her motion, a blade drawn from a scabbard played in stereo, and an awful, heavy weight filled the room. Meiner darted a frantic glance at her grandmother, struggled to draw a breath into her lungs, feeling gooseflesh erupt over both arms.
There was something there in the kitchen with them, something far more terrifying than the brothers. She could feel its presence, and it was strangely, horribly familiar. It reminded her of childhood, of nights spent barricaded behind the bedroom door, she and Cora barely breathing under their sheets, the darkness quiet and heavy around them.
A strangled cry jerked Meiner’s head up, just in time to see it happen.
Something rippled in front of the brothers, a shimmer in the space before them, and then a slash of light split the air. The three men staggered back. Two of them clutched at their necks, faces pale, blood inexplicably gushing between their fingers. The one in the center pivoted slightly, and the same invisible force missed his throat, slashing his shoulder open. He screamed, face twisted in pain and rage as his brothers crumpled on either side of him.
The old woman lifted her hands again as the one with the sword charged forward. Grandma King threw another blast of light, but this time he ducked, driving his blade up.
Meiner only half saw it happen. She saw her grandmother’s body stiffen, blood running down the groove in the blade, dark and smooth. Across the room there was a thud and a groan as one of the men turned over, blood still pulsing from his neck. The man with the sword stood back, panting.
“No!” Meiner pitched forward as her grandmother slumped to the ground. When she tried to catch her the old woman pushed her off. “Run.”
She looked up, heart in her throat, as the brother with the sword approached. He was smiling, an awful expression. He seemed unaffected by the huge bloody gash running down the left side of his face. “That was easier than I thought.”
The rage hit Meiner then, molten hot and as bright as any magic. It drove her forward, sent her crashing into him. The knife clutched in her hand met resistance and then slid past, piercing the man’s chest. He screamed, his sword hitting the floor with a metallic clang, and she felt the warmth of his blood rush over her hands. Something flared to life in her chest, smoldering embers that filled her with heat to the tips of her fingers. The rage wanted more, more, more.
She reared back, about to plunge the knife in again.
“Dubh!”
One of the brothers was calling his name, and Meiner was yanked off roughly, thrown against the cupboards for the second time, striking her temple. She blinked, dazed, her head throbbing.
No, it couldn’t be either brother. They’d both been on the floor, their throats slashed by Gran’s spell. She struggled to sit up, head spinning.
Olc, the one with the shaved head, was still on the floor, blood spilling out onto the slick tiles. He clutched his chest, gasping and wheezing. How was he still alive?
More staggering still was the sight of the long-haired man standing up, clutching his throat, the blood still flowing between his fingers and down his neck, saturating his T-shirt. He was leaning over his brother, brow furrowed, but Dubh was already struggling to his feet, ignoring the gaping wound in his chest and shoulder.
Beside Meiner her grandmother stirred slightly, wheezing, and Meiner looked up just as the old woman seized her wrist in a cold, iron grip. She jerked in surprise as Grandma King slammed her hand down onto the kitchen floor, pushing Meiner’s palm into the pool of blood spreading across the tiles. “Use it,” she rasped, nodding at the rune repeating on the far wall. “Trace that…Say your pledge to Balor…” She paused, eyelids flicking open and shut, struggling to speak. “Save them all.”
Shocked, Meiner jerked her hand out of the blood. She stared at Grandma King’s pale face, twisted in pain, and remembered the dark shadows that skittered across the walls of their house, the faint whispers in the hallways, the heavy presence of something that seemed to suck all the air out of the room.