The Last Witch: Volume Three

Thick black smoke rises high into the sky from the smouldering wreck I’ve left behind. I run from my former home, clumsily and with a limp, but filled with determination.

I look back. No one is following me. I’m not even sure if I’ve left anyone alive to follow me! Clutching my now cauterised wrist to my chest, I turn left onto the country road and just keep running. Why the hell didn’t my Physical powers awaken? Why my Elemental? Perhaps they awaken in a particular order, no matter what it is that sparks the manifestation. But I’m pretty beat-up and having the power to heal would be very much appreciated. My shirt is soaked in blood. My skin. My hair. It’s as bloody as sin. My feet are bare and I stumble over the rough road. But nothing will stop me.

Not now.

I’m in Devon. The last stone is in Land’s End. But when will the star pass overhead? It may not be at the same time it will pass over in five years. Shit. I just need to get there as soon as possible. If memory serves, from when Toby used to sneak me out, there’s a small town a few miles down the road. But a town may be too risky right now, considering I look like I’ve just been on a killing spree.

Which to be fair, I just might have.

But, there is a payphone not too far away. If I can just get to it, I can call for help. The only phone number I know belongs to Gabriel, five years in the future. The only hope I have is that he has that number now. I keep running. The sound of my frantic breathing and rapid heartbeat pounds in my ears. I’m refusing to let the torturous agony of my wrist take over.

‘Pain is temporary,’ I pant as I run. ‘Pain is temporary. It’s just… it’s temporary.’

I round the corner and just as I remembered, at the end of the hill, is a simple phone box. When I reach it, I throw open the door and almost fall inside before grabbing the receiver and taking a second to catch my breath. My head rests on the glass as I rack my brains, recalling the number of Gabriel’s mobile phone. I repeat it out loud, checking that it sounds right, before dialling 100. The operator answers. A warm and friendly female asks how she may assist me.

‘I need to make a collect call. Or a reverse call. Whatever you call it. I need to call my husband!’ I demand, stuttering and still heavily out of breath.

‘Miss, are you alright? You sound rather distressed.’

‘I’m fine,’ I tell her, finding amusement in the ridiculous answer. I am far from fine. I left my hand in my uncle’s kitchen. ‘Please. I need to make a collect call. Please!’

‘Certainly,’ she says with uncertainty. ‘When you hear the beep, just pop in the number. We’ll connect you from there. Okay, love?’

‘Perfect,’ I sigh, slumping against the glass and cradling my mutilated limb to my chest.

I hear the beep. I key in the eleven-digit number and then I wait.

It rings!

Thank fuck for that. At least it rings.

It continues to ring. And ring. And ring.

Disappointment rises in my throat and as I look at my lost limb, tears sting at my eyes. And to think, I was so happy to have my fingers back less than an hour ago!

I keep waiting, listening to the Burr-Burr from the speaker. And with each one, I lose a little more hope that he’ll answer. I try to organise my thoughts, to decide what the hell to say if he does answer.

Hi, Gabriel. You have no idea who I am, but in a few years, we’re going to get married, have a kid, lose our souls, go against your family. One of whom is a weird vampire-mutant type creature who tried to rape me, and your dad, who tortured you until you Broke, stole your free will and systematically murdered almost every single Descendant on earth. We’re also going to be slap bang in the middle of the war between witches and humanity! Also, if you’re not too busy fucking Ava Sinclair or whoever is currently entertaining you sexually, I need you to pop to Devon and give me a lift to a Bloodstone so I can finish the spell we’re two-thirds of the way through completing, which will send the Descendants to safety in a completely different realm.

Burr-Burr.

This number might not have even be given to him yet. A housewife in Ipswich might bloody answer it.

Burr-Burr.

He probably won’t even believe me if he does answer.

Burr-Burr.

I turn and rest my back on the plastic wall of the phone box, letting out a long breath as I accept that he is not going to answer. That I am really on my own here.

Idiot. I’m not alone, am I?

My uncle’s car comes screaming around the corner, skidding as it speeds in my direction. The driver swerves from the correct lane and moves over, heading right for me. I hear the engine rev as they slam their foot down hard on the accelerator.

In the driver’s seat is Ryan.

‘WHAT?!’ Gabriel’s voice bellows down the phone. ‘WHO IS THIS?’

I’m like a rabbit caught in headlights. Ryan’s headlights. He means to crash into me and he’s going fifty miles per hour at least!

On Gabriel’s line, I hear some serious commotion. People are yelling and I think I hear gunfire and screeching tires.

Ryan roars as he comes for me. His mouth is open wide and fury is etched over his features. Blood smears his face and covers his shoulder and arm. He’s almost purple with rage.

‘I’M A BIT FUCKING BUSY SO IF IT’S NOT IMPORTANT, CAN YOU JUST FUCK OFF?’

I say the only thing I can think of, with no time to explain anything to a man who has no idea who I am.

‘I love you, Gabriel! FUCK!’ I drop the receiver and throw myself out of the way, missing the hurtling box of steel by inches.