Page 12 of The Unbound Witch

The backdoor to Henry and Victoria’s house slammed open, one side falling off the hinges as their small forms moved backward, watching the house. The mob couldn’t see us from the road, but they’d find us soon.

“Shouldn’t we be racing off?” I asked the old man. “Wait, what is that?”

“It’s a fuse.” He unwound the bulky spool in his hand, the rope dripping wet, as he continued his hurried backward steps.

“Into the wagon, dears,” Victoria called, the panic in her voice barely audible.

Grey’s eyes glistened, and I couldn’t help but see a hint of his cousin within them. Vengeance was always excusable in the Fire Coven, and these humans had a score to settle with their daughter’s executioners.

He took the reins, hopping onto the bench seat behind the horse. I worried that a single stallion wouldn’t get us out of there fast enough while pulling a wagon, and we sat atop the hill, staring down the descent. Hopefully, he could keep up with the heavy load barreling forward. Victoria slid to the middle, and I scooted in along the edge, but half my bottom hung off as I braced myself.

The reins rippled through the air before a single snap sent us flying, with Henry on the back of the wagon, holding onto his spool as he fed a line of saturated rope down the hill.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I prayed to the goddess we’d live to see the bottom. The wagon surged faster and faster and faster until I was sure the horse was running for his life; confident he was about to be trampled by the cargo he hauled.

“Woah,” Henry called from behind us. “Slow it down.”

Grey reached to the side of him, pushing down on the metal lever, the brake squealing and protesting against the friction of the wheel. Struggling, he tossed the reins to me so he could grab the bar with two hands. I pulled back on the smooth leather straps, hardly able to see in the dark and worried sick for the horse as he threw his head back, still dashing, but fighting the harness.

“Kir?” I hissed, aware Victoria would hear, but what choice did we have if the horse didn’t stop?

“On it,” she whispered into my ear.

One moment the horse was running for his life, the brake in Grey’s strong arms ready to snap, the next he whinnied, slowing considerably before rising up on his hind legs and kicking at the space before him.

Terrifying as it was, we came to a stop. Grey leapt from his seat, dashing toward Henry, who must have jumped from the wagon.

“Come on.” Victoria patted my leg. “It’s time.”

Sharp pain shot through my thigh at the hidden stab wound, but she didn’t see me wince as she climbed down, lifting a satchel from over her head. At the top of the hill, the orange glow of lanterns surrounded the house before disappearing within the backdoor Henry had kept ajar.

“They don’t know we’ve left. Hurry,” Victoria pleaded.

“I’ve lost the damn rope,” Henry growled. “The horse was too fast.”

I didn’t want to imagine what would have happened to the elderly couple had Grey not been there to handle that dangerous brake. But there was no time to think of that as he grabbed the shard of flint from the woman’s hands and darted up the steep hill.

“Grey, no,” I cried, taking one step and then two after him.

But it was too late. As stubborn as Bastian, he would see this through. Vengeance for the people that had shown us kindness. The pounding in my head continued as I watched him move like a shadow, powerful legs carrying him up the hill until he jerked to the right, bending to grab the rope he’d found.

“They’ll leave soon. We weren’t quick enough,” Victoria cried, the devastation in her old voice so overwhelmingly sad. “We failed.”

“No. Look,” Henry said, pointing.

Grey’s silhouette hid most of the details, but he’d stopped, crouching. Within seconds, the fuse sparked to life, the flame he’d thrown from the flint racing for the house.

“We’ve doused the place in the same oil,” Victoria explained. “The dried flowers all over will catch fire, causing enough smoke to blind them until they can’t get out.”

“You really thought this through,” I whispered, watching for only seconds before the house became engulfed in flames.

The witch hunters screamed. Grey raced back down the hill to my side, looping his arm with mine, as he deliberately turned and walked me back to the wagon as the shrieking grew louder. The initial smell of smoke and ash filled the air. My stomach turned.

“We need to go,” he mumbled into my ear. “This isn’t going to end well.”

“I have a feeling it’s already over,” I said, jutting my chin toward the old couple, who’d turned as well, hustling toward us.

“There’s more of ‘em out front than I’d thought,” Henry said. “Best be off before they come after us.”