Witch Island (27 page)

Gwen screamed in agony as this all happened, praying someone would come along and kill her, ending this hellish nightmare. But instead, the witch lifted the flesh-mask to her face and pressed the blood-lined skin against it. Through the heat, Gwen felt the coolness of Doctor Goldman’s flesh, causing her to shiver and gag, though only in her mind.

Finally, she heard the door to the room open.

“Oh my God!” a man’s voice said. “Help! I need help in here.”

Gwen was grateful, and looked forward to the witch leaving her body, and the amount of drugs she’d be pumped with. Hopefully, they would load her up so that nothing seemed real anymore and she could go off in a haze, never having to remember any of this again.

She turned her head around and saw the orderly, a heavyset man with blond hair and a mustache. He stood outside the room. Gwen rose to her feet, keeping the hand with the scalpel behind her back. She walked forward. The man standing at the door looked frightened. Finally, another man arrived. He was also large, with a shaved head. He looked into the room and his face showed surprise, then anger. He eyed Gwen.

“You little psycho bitch,” he said, and came into the room. The other man entered behind him, followed by a third man, this one tall and thin, but nevertheless imposing.

“She’s wearing his fucking face, man!” the blond-haired man said.

All three came forward, taking measured steps and holding out their arms.

Gwen wanted to warn them that she had a weapon, but it was no use. Two of the men came in on her and she whipped out the blade, slashing it across Shaved Head’s face, catching his left eye. He cried out as blood exploded from the socket.

Gwen continued to slash, catching the thin man across his forearms as he blocked her attack. She then went low and sliced his inner thigh. The white material of his pants bloomed with red and he went to his knees. She brought the weapon up, then down, planting it into the top of the man’s skull. She was ready to pull it free when Blond tackled her.

The witch threw the man off her, sending him across the room.

More men came into the room and approached her.

Empowered with the witch’s strength, she threw two of the men off her, then grabbed another around the throat and crushed his trachea. He staggered away and collapsed.

Someone jabbed her with a needle. She stepped back. Two men came in to grab her, but she fought on. The man with the punctured eye was sobbing, holding a hand to his face and stumbling about. She charged at him and punched him in the jaw, then grabbed him by the arm and flung him at one of the other guards.

“She ain’t going down!” one of the men yelled.

A giant of a man with a grotesque scar across his nose rushed in as another man came at her from the side. She moved with incredible speed, dodged both orderlies and dove for the scalpel. She scooped it up and stood at the far wall, holding the surgical knife out. Four men surrounded her, each one looking scared and breathing hard.

“I’ll cut your peckers off,” Gwen said. “Make you bleed like pigs.” She stuck the blade into her own face at the temple and cut a line across her forehead.

“Fuck this,” one of the men said, and turned to leave.

“She’s just a girl,” said another.

“No, Tim’s right,” said the man with the scar across his nose.

They all backed out of the room and closed the door.

Gwen looked around the room. Blood covered the walls and floor. She looked beyond the carnage for her own sanity, telling herself that she was inside the mind of an artist. When that didn’t work, she told herself she’d be dead soon, because there was no way they were stopping her, not with the witch possessing her.

“Don’t worry, dear,” her mouth said, but it wasn’t her voice. “I’ll be leaving soon, I just wanted to make sure you never leave this place, and after this, I’m sure they’ll lock you away in a nice, dark, padded cell all to yourself.” Laughter filled Gwen’s ears.

She walked to the center of the room and stood there.

Some time later, the door opened and three men in body armor entered the room. Their faces were hidden behind face shields and helmets covered their heads. They had Tasers and nightsticks. The hospital had called for outside help.

Gwen held the scalpel to her neck.

“Drop the knife, Gwen,” one of the men said.

“Fuck you,” she answered, and then the man fired his Taser. The volts coursed through Gwen’s body, but the electricity did little more than tickle her.

“Hit her again,” the man said, and his partner pulled the trigger on another Taser, but Gwen caught the barbs mid-flight. She smiled, licked the tips, then let them fall to the floor.

“What the hell?” the first man said.

Gwen stuck out her tongue, then jabbed the scalpel through it. She sliced down the middle of it, cutting it in half, then wiggled both pieces separately and cackled. She spit gobs of blood at the men, decorating their suits and face shields with red splotches.

Gwen knew what was to come. The witch wasn’t going to kill her. She wanted her to live, spend the rest of her life in this place, or somewhere worse. She saw her future self.

She was heavily sedated and restrained, her ankles, wrists and neck tied down. Here she would remain until she was shipped to another facility. Even through the drugs, she would feel the witch’s touch, her darkness. She would forever be inside her. Gwen could hope the medications would flush the sensation of anguish away or cover it up, but it would remain, festering like a sore that never healed. Misery and despair would fill her days and nights, nightmares and dreams. There would be no fixing her, for the witch had done too much damage.

The rubber room would become a place she longed for, having been sent to a maximum-security prison with a cold, gloom-filled psychiatric ward for the criminally insane. There she would remain for the rest of her days, drugged and in a stupor, alone in a cell. She knew she would be subjected to unimaginable horrors for what she had seen, done and felt. No amount of medication could quell her angst. There would be times when suicide would be an option, but her attempts would fail, because she would be under the strictest watch. Her only reprieve from her torment would be when death came and claimed her.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Sloan McGinnis drove the rental car from JFK International Airport to the small town of Salisbury Mills. He knew exactly where he was going, having studied the terrain maps back in Scotland. He thought of how the wardens of years ago had to go about their business. There were no planes to get them to places quickly. No internet with mapping and information about the lay of the land. Everything was a mystery, to a degree.

Sloan wouldn’t need a hotel. He wasn’t sure who his partner would be, but in a few minutes he would find out. Once the witch was dealt with, he would be returning home and his partner would move on to the next assignment, should there be one. But the witch they were going to be dealing with was powerful, so strong that she had tainted the soul of Eshram Vogel, a warden of legend, and Sloan’s great, great uncle.

According to the written records, Eshram had had to bind the witch to the island, locking her inside a devil’s barricade, a very effective method still used today. Most spirits could be vanquished, but when it was too dangerous, entrapment was the next best thing. But with any cell, there is the chance the imprisoned will one day escape, which was what it looked like had happened with the witch of Salisbury Mills.

First, a group of teenagers went missing. The sole survivor—the others presumably killed—had ranted about a witch. A short time later, the news reported that a host of families had been slaughtered and were missing, the town sheriff involved. This sent up red flags, and was why the Order had sent two wardens to take care of the matter.

Destroying a powerful spirit was tricky, and until he came into close proximity with it or its remains, he would not know if he would imprison or kill it.

He drove to the location indicated on his GPS device and parked the rental car alongside Lake Road. He exited the vehicle, opened the trunk, removed his satchel of goods and headed to the trail that led to where he was meeting his partner.

The day was beautiful, the weather warm, the humidity low. There was plenty of daylight left, the time he preferred to deal with spirits. His mood soured a little as he smelled cherry cigar smoke in the air. He knew the odor well, for there was only one warden who enjoyed smoking the things.

Sloan came from the trail and spotted Brody Kilgour waiting in the rowboat. Sloan had been expecting Angus Brennan to be his partner, having heard the warden was nearby. He and Angus were good friends and he’d looked forward to working with him.

“Sloan McGinnis,” Brody said, chuckling loudly. “Good to see you, man, and right on time as usual.”

Brody was a bulky man, with a full beard that hid his double chin, though he moved much faster than most people half his size.

“Brody,” Sloan said, nodding.

Sloan was all business when working, much like a boxer when he entered the ring. Why the Order had chosen to send Brody, his complete opposite, Sloan did not know, but trusted the elders in their decision-making. He sighed and focused on the task ahead.

Brody blew out a cloud of smoke. “I know you weren’t expecting me,” he said, “but your mate, Angus, was quite occupied, so they sent me.”

“Very well, then,” Sloan said. He walked up to the boat and into the water, not caring about his feet getting soaked. The men shook hands, each one having a spelled-blessed artifact held in their palms. If either man had been possessed by a spirit, the emblem would have singed the other’s flesh. Satisfied, Sloan stepped into the boat and the two shoved off.

“We should drink well tonight,” Brody said.

“We shall see,” Sloan said, wanting to roll his eyes. He liked to take one step at a time, and not skip ahead to the celebrating.

“It’s a beautiful day,” Brody went on. “We’re two strikingly handsome lads, and I saw a quaint little tavern just on the outside of town.”

“Your mind should be on the mission, not on pints,” Sloan said.

Brody burst out laughing as he continued to row. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead. “You always get so wound up before a fight, so to speak. Don’t you ever stop and think that this might be your last? Might as well be jolly while you work, especially if you love what you do.”

“I’m plenty good with how I am,” Sloan said. Brody was a good warden. The man always performed well, did his job to the fullest and always lived to fight another day. It was just so hard to get past his nonchalant attitude and realize the man would be there for his partner, laying his life out there for him.

Brody continued to ramble, telling jokes and talking of old times. Sloan listened, not saying much, taking it all in stride.

When they reached the island, both men were surprised by what they felt, which was very little in the way of evil.

They gathered their supplies, Brody’s bag quite heavy, and traveled inward. Both men had come prepared with wards, blessed jewelry, runes and the thinking that they would have quite the battle on their hands. Not a plant, vine, or insect attacked them, and they felt no danger, though they stayed wary and ready.

Reaching the desolate clearing, Sloan felt his flesh grow slightly warmer. He stood next to the pole and held his palm over the grave. It warmed further, but did not grow hot. From what he’d learned of the witch, his hand should have been scalded.

“She’s fully abandoned her bones,” Brody said. “Left them vulnerable.”

“Hard to believe it, but we may have caught a small break,” Sloan said.

“It won’t be permanent. She’ll be back,” Brody said, dropping his satchel, the bag rattling to the ground.

“We better get to work,” Sloan said. “She’s sure to know we’re here now, and if not yet, she soon will.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The witch was ready to leave Gwen’s body. The girl would never see the light of day again. Her suffering would be endless. But the witch felt a disturbance in her soul. Unease spread through her, and she knew it was a warning sign. For the first time in decades, she was experiencing fear.

Someone was on the island, at the place of her bones, the source of her existence. For years, the island had remained secluded, a lonely place where no one had set foot. The witch had figured her bones safe from human hands, but someone—no, there were two someones—was at her grave. The presences had powerful enchantments, and they were hurting her. They weren’t some teenagers looking to party, but experienced witch hunters, there to kill her. She needed to get to the island, now.

The witch gathered her power, knowing she would need every ounce of it, calling upon the Good Mother to aid in her escape. The three armored men stood in front of her.

She charged forward, shoulder first, and rammed into the man in the middle of the group. He went down quickly, slamming into the soft floor. The witch struck out with both arms, landing powerful, crushing blows to the sides of the other two helmeted men. They flew to the side and out of her way.

She reached the door and was in the hallway in moments. More orderlies awaited, but these men weren’t wearing body armor. The witch swiped at the man in front of her. He tried dodging her attack, but was too slow. Her nails, like talons, dug into his face, reaching the skull beneath, and removed his entire cheek, along with his lower lip, the flesh tearing away like latex. He twirled, howling in agony, and collided with the wall.