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Maya struggled to move, to get up, to scream—anything—as the figure leaned over her, pulling the needle out of her neck. He slipped it into his jacket pocket before hoisting her over his shoulder. Her iPod tumbled out of her pocket and landed on a patch of grass, the sound muffled as her earphones popped out of her ears. She hung like a sack of potatoes, her body limp and unresponsive. The world spun sickeningly around her as he began walking away. She desperately wanted to scream, to cry out for help, but it was impossible. All she could do was blink.
Trying to summon any magic was futile. Her body was paralyzed, and her mind was a foggy mess. She couldn’t think straight, couldn’t do anything but force her eyes open as wide as she could.
Her kidnapper walked down a long, dark alley before turning a corner and approaching a beat-up car. He opened the back door and unceremoniously dumped her onto the seat, glancing at her briefly before slamming the door shut. His movements were quick and methodical as he circled around to the driver’s side, slipped in, and started the engine.
Maya’s eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, her mind racing even though her body remained unresponsive. She couldn’t scream, couldn’t call for help, as the car drove away, taking her deeper into the unknown.
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Dawson’s head throbbed, pain radiating through his entire body. He tried to move, to open his eyes, but his limbs refused to obey. His last memory, the crash, surged back to him, and with a jolt, he realized he was suspended in the air. His arms and legs were bound to something wooden, like a crucifix.
“We should’ve just nailed him to that damned scarecrow post,” a raspy voice sneered.
“The sacred mixture around him will suppress his magic,” another voice, calmer and more authoritative, responded. “And the necklace will keep him physically weak. Nails would be overkill.”
Dawson’s eyelids remained heavy and closed, giving him the advantage of eavesdropping unnoticed.
“What’s the news on the rest of the coven?” the raspy voice demanded.
“They’re bringing the Lang girl and Ross boy as we speak,” the authoritative voice replied. “I haven’t heard back from the teams sent after the other three.”
“You don’t think that—?”
“We’ll see.”
Dawson’s fingers twitched as he subtly tried to loosen his restraints, but the bonds held firm. His mind raced, analyzing the situation. The “sacred mixture” was likely some concoction meant to nullify his magic, and the necklace around his neck must be what was sapping his physical strength. He needed to find a way to break free before they brought in the rest of the coven.
He strained against the bindings, feeling the rough wood digging into his skin. The pain was sharp, but he gritted his teeth, focusing on the sounds around him.
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There had been a struggle, and while Angelo knew he had magic in his veins, it wasn’t his first instinct to use it. Maybe it was because his father had his magic stripped for abusing it, but Angelo believed in only using magic when necessary. And while some might think he needed it in fights, the Quarterback truly felt he didn’t as he grappled with the masked man who attacked him.
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Inside, he heard his mother calling the police, her voice urgent and desperate. The masked man’s eyes flashed with the same desperation as he fought to keep control of the bat.
Angelo gripped both ends of the bat, using brute strength to wrestle it from his attacker. With a swift, angry movement, he drove his knee into the man’s stomach. The unexpected blow made the attacker let go and stumble back.
Taking advantage, Angelo shifted his grip and swung the bat. The man barely managed to dodge, but Angelo pressed his advantage, charging forward. The side of the bat clipped the man’s ear, eliciting a howl of pain and a stream of accented curses.
Desperate, the man grabbed one of Angelo’s mother’s tacky lawn gnomes, using it as a makeshift shield. He met each of Angelo’s strikes with the gnome, the heavy ceramic absorbing the blows.
In a sudden move, the man twirled and threw the gnome at Angelo. Angelo instinctively batted it away, the impact jarring his arms.
Seeing an opportunity, the man executed three swift backflips, creating distance before dashing into the cornfield beside Angelo’s house.
“Where the hell is he from? The circus?” Angelo muttered, stunned, before taking off after him.
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Jason and Harper had been captured as well. Both were unconscious and tied to crosses just like Dawson. The men who had taken them wore hoods that concealed their faces and stood off to the side, conversing in hushed whispers. This gave Dawson a chance to finally open his eyes fully and take in his surroundings.
They were in the middle of a cornfield, with Dawson, Harper, and Jason strung up like scarecrows. Jason and Dawson were shirtless, each with a glowing rock on a necklace around their necks. Harper wore a similar necklace, though her shirt remained on. Black powder encircled each of the crosses, and there were three other crosses nearby, still empty. Dawson knew those were meant for the other members of their coven.
The black powder and the glowing green stones seemed to be suppressing their magic, making it difficult even to concentrate or keep his eyes open. The realization hit him hard: these people had to be Witch-Hunters.
The coven wasn’t ready for this. They weren’t prepared for such a ruthless and calculated attack. And if something didn’t happen soon, they would all die here.
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Sam’s hands throbbed with searing pain, the burned skin causing his fingers to stick together. Despite the agony, he forced himself to push through it. He had to get to Maya. She was the closest geographically and had already been attacked once today. If her assailant was linked to the Witch-Hunters, she was in grave danger.
As he rounded a corner, something caught his eye. He skidded to a halt, frowning in confusion. Dismounting from his motorcycle, he knelt down, his eyes widening as he recognized the Chronicle sticker on the discarded iPod.
It was Maya’s. He was too late.
A growl of frustration escaped his lips as he reached for the iPod with his scarred, burnt hands. The moment he touched it, a torrent of images flooded his mind. They were disjointed, flashing by in rapid succession. Maya, walking and listening to music... Maya, dancing playfully... Maya, completely unaware of the danger surrounding her. Then, she sensed something and looked back to see nothing. Shrugging, she turned around only to find herself face-to-face with a massive figure backlit by a streetlight. He stabbed a syringe into her neck, the liquid swiftly incapacitating her. She was then hoisted over his shoulder, her paralyzed eyes fixated on the fallen iPod as he carried her away to a beat-up old Chevy and drove off.
The vision ended abruptly, leaving Sam shaking his head in shock. He pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead, trying to process what had just happened. A vision... this was new.
Taking a deep breath, he decided to figure out the implications later. He slipped the iPod into his pocket and mounted his motorcycle again. He had seen the vehicle and knew the direction it had gone.
The urgency in his veins propelled him forward. Every second mattered. Maya’s life depended on him. He revved the engine, his determination burning brighter than the pain in his hands. He sped down the road, his mind racing through possibilities and strategies. He had to find her, to save her, before it was too late.
As he tore through the streets, he couldn’t shake the image of Maya’s terrified eyes from his mind. He wouldn’t let the Witch-Hunters win. Not this time. He would find Maya and bring her back safely, no matter the cost.