Wiccan Act One: Occult

38 | Blood Between the Eyes

Christian

XXXVIII

Christian groaned, waking up to a strange thumping beneath him. Unsure of what was happening, he struggled to lift his head to no avail. His surroundings were a mix of fuzzy shapes and colours met with the painful throbbing at the front of his skull.

"Ah, you're awake," a voice spoke.

His eyes widened, finally able to recollect what happened. Trying his best to pry himself off of Michael and make a run for the door, his body remained in place, too numb to listen to his commands.

"Shhh," Michael whispered. Christian gathered that he was on Michael's shoulders as the man walked up a flight of wooden stairs.

The wood struggled to support both of their weight, its creaking teasing Christian about what was about to unfold. He remained petrified, fear swelling up inside him.

No, Michael wouldn't.

He couldn't.

Except Christian was not stupid. He was well aware that the man he thought was his substitute, with a bright smile and a goofy try-too-hard demeanour, who could never hurt a fly was all a mask— a well put together shroud to hide what Christian could only call a monster. All he could do was picture Hazel's dead face in that lake and no matter how hard he tried to get rid of it, he knew only someone incapable of empathy could do such a thing and move on with their life.

"You're very quiet," Michael said. "The spell was to stop you from moving. It would be best if you didn't try to run and hurt yourself.

Christian debated between cursing Michael, pleading for his freedom or taking a vow of silence. His tongue thickened into a lead slipper weighing heavy in his mouth. What do you tell your future murderer before they carve your body up for a sacrifice?

Attempting one last time to move his body, he mentally groaned, having a newfound hatred for magic. It was such a cheat.

" You do know that the Sheriff already knows that it was you who committed all those murders right?" Christian reminded him.

Michael didn't say a word, continuing to carry him up into the attic. Christian's heart continued to hammer against his chest. Michael was far beyond reason at this point. Even if the police did get to him in time, what were they going to do against a witch and a monster that brushes bullets off like nothing?

Michael stopped; Christian making out the hole in the attic from the corner of his eye.

"Oh no, the attic is destroyed!" Christian faked his surprise. "How are you going to do your little ritual now? You don't even have the grimoire."

"Magic remember?" Michael chuckled, ripping through the police tape. He continued his advances walking directly towards the opening in the ground.

Christian braced for impact, not trusting that Michael wouldn't drop him the second he had the chance. However, that never came. Instead, as Michael walked over the hole, planks of broken wood from the floor below levitated upwards, piecing themselves perfectly, allowing him to walk over them. By the time they were at the centre of the room, there were no traces of the hole ever being there.

"As for the grimoire..." Michael continued, laying Christian down on a table. "I don't need that old thing. It is merely a glorified picture book. This isn't like one of those TV shows where magic has some kind of fancy language. You just do it or you don't."

Christian's neck stung from the cold sensation of the wooden table. What was Michael getting out of his being conscious? Wouldn't it be more beneficial to kill him while he couldn't say, do or feel anything?

Did he want the satisfaction of hearing him scream and beg for his life? If that was the case, Christian was not going to grant him that.

The wood of the table morphed, prying themselves away from each other and extending. They wrapped around his wrists, strangling his arms and pinning him to the table before stiffening.

"Now you can move," Michael said.

On command, his body jolted to life, struggling and thrashing for freedom. Christian used the little strength he gained from lifting boxes of books to attempt to tear the cuffs from the wood. Working up a sweat, he collapsed yet again, panting from his failed attempts. No use.

He remained still once against his will, awaiting Michael's next move, aware he could do nothing to stop him.

"That's the look," Michael smiled. He removed Christian's glasses gently, placing them beside him. "Powerlessness."

He reached down, examining Christian's necklace. As Michael picked it up between his fingers, Christian mentally begged him not to remove it.

"You're the one that's powerless," Christian spat. "Or else why would you do all of this."

Forgetting about the necklace, Michael pulled out a small blade from his pocket. It was your average hunting knife, clean and untouched. He sluggishly brought it from the tip of Christian's nose up to his eyes, travelling until it reached the centre of his forehead. He fought one last time to free himself, turning the outsides of his wrists purple.

Michael locked eyes with Christian, staring daggers into his soul. The green and brown hues of his eyes sucked Christian in, the smaller boy completely helpless.

The man stopped, an unusual expression washing over his face. He looked up towards the ceiling for only a moment as if seeing something Christian could not. It lasted only a minute before his attention was brought back to the boy.

"Maybe you're right," Michael said. "But I assure you, I won't be ever again."

The tip of the knife was ice cold. Much worse than the biting feeling of the table. It pierced his skin and not a second later it was piercing into his flesh and drawing blood. Christian cried out as Michael continued to carve into his forehead.

Well, it would appear that Christian is in a pickle. Speaking of pickles...what are your thoughts on them? 

Aiden and Cyrus have a plan but will it be enough and will they make it in time? The next chapter is the book's climax. Finally after 2 years of random hiatus breaks and uploads the book is finally coming to an end and book two is well on its way.