Season Of The Witch • Steve Harrington

Chapter 1

Martha's skin glowed in the sunlight, the hue of damp soil after a fresh spring rain, her hair a perfect storm cloud of curls about her head. Her eyes, dark like the night sky, were focused intently on her task. She moved with practiced ease, performing a choreographed dance.

The sage was fanned by a midnight feather, given by the passing crows that stopped to visit their fields. Up, towards the cloudless sky. Down, to the fertile earth that gave life to their crops. Left, towards the handful of witches preparing their offering for that night. Right, towards the center of the circle, where an altar of abundance was erected for their goddess. Four directions to honor the elements — air, earth, fire, and water.

The long shadow of a woman darkened the ground beside her. Abigail Montez sat cross-legged in the dirt, a newspaper held to the light with both hands. Scarlet nails sharpened to a perfect point curled the edges possessively. The shade of her polish was a precise match to the lipstick rouged across her smirking lips. With an exaggerated clearing of her throat, Abigail straightened her posture.

"'Dungeons and Dragons: Just harmless fun -- or sorcery? Evangelists argue the game is a front for demonic worship and witchcraft.'" She adopted a voice of a news anchor reporting a breaking story with a dramatic flair of sarcasm. She raised a dark, perfectly arched brow and peered up at Martha in amusement.

"They wouldn't know witchcraft if it bit them in the ass." Martha set the still smoking sage onto the abalone shell at her feet.

"Lumping us all together like that is honestly insulting." Abigail set the paper down flat on her legs with a huff and looked to Martha in commiseration. Her friend was already on to the next task, retrieving a wood-crafted besom and sweeping the air just above the ground.

"You know, they think we sign our name with blood in Satan's book and dance naked for his pleasure. As if I would ever sign my name in a man's book!" She crossed her arms with an indignant huff.

"Deviant women, we are," Martha gave an absent chuckle, which wasn't satisfactory enough for Abigail in her vexation.

"Are you listening to me?" She narrowed her eyes at Martha's back and crossed her arms. "You know you don't have to do all of this. I'm sure someone would pick up the slack if we were to disappear until sundown."

"While some people may be content to sit and do nothing," Martha leaned down to snatch Abigail's paper up from her lap with a pointed raise of her brows. "I would actually like to contribute to my coven." Dropping her jaw in mock offense, Abigail raised a forbidden finger.

"I contribute comic relief and ineffable beauty." She flicked her silky black hair over one shoulder and shot her friend an infuriating wink. Martha was very much not amused.

"Are you going to help me with these or just sit there?" Abigail pretended to weigh her options, pursing her lips, squinting, and looking up like she was deep in thought.

"I quite enjoy sitting here." She nodded towards the besom in Martha's hands. "You look like you have things covered." Martha groaned and scanned the field for anyone else who may be able to persuade Abigail to get off her ass. Even if there was someone, it wouldn't have worked.

To the naked eye, the coven's compound would look like a beautiful row of family farms. There were twelve buildings in total, all centered around a sprawling field and bordered by a deep forest. The farmhouses were modest, spacious, but not showy. They acted more as dormitories than single-family homes. Martha's was the third house from the left -- The one with a bright blue door and shutters. A circular window in the center of its eaves belonged to her and Abigail's attic bedroom.

They'd shared a room for as long as she could remember, through the days of scattered toys and piles of laundry, through walls plastered with posters of teen icons, and into adulthood. Her uncle George, Jodie, and her two children occupied the rest of the house. Until last summer, Martha's mother filled the room off the kitchen. Now it sat achingly empty. Eventually it would go to someone new. Martha wasn't sure which was worse, staring at the closed door, knowing that her mom would never be behind it, or knowing that she'd been replaced by someone else entirely.