by Namita Singh
The occultists don’t seem like they would mind.” Ethan sneers.
“Stop.” I hear Neal’s voice again.
“Fuck you, Ethan.” Father responds.
Ethan grasps father’s hair, forcing his neck backwards, “Don’t tempt me to snap your neck.”
“Stop!”
This time Neal’s voice is loud enough to quieten most of the frenzied therians. I try to tilt my head to look at him but only manage a glimpse of his sneakers before I give up, gasping for breath.
“What are you doing?” I hear Ethan snap, probably at Neal.
“Let them go or I’m going to shove this through my chest.” I hear Neal say. His words make me try a little harder to tilt my head. This time I manage to catch a blurry glimpse of him standing far away, facing the occultist indicating that he has spoken to the witches than Ethan. Both of his hands are outstretched, grasping the end of the scimitar, with it sharp pointy end resting in the center of his chest.
“Fuck.” I rasp out as I fail to hold my tilted head to catch more of his sight.
“I said, let them go.” Neal says again.
There is a beat of heavy silence with only gasps from father and I. But something, something happens because the next thing I know there are coinciding horrific shouts throughout the therians gathered around.
Through the haze of pain, I try to elevate my dour mood by mentally convincing myself that Neal is not impetuous enough to actually shove the sword through his chest.
But as the invisible weight at my back lifts, I realize in relief and horror that Neal must have actually gone with it. Other than that, I cannot think of any other leverage than the vaticinator’s life to outdo the Occultists.
“Let them go.” I hear Neal’s strained voice. With my body’s free movement, I manage to properly tilt my head up, still gasping and mentally curse at the blood stain starting to form in the center of Neal’s sweatshirt. He is speaking to the occultists.
“Neal,” I breathlessly rasp out, cradling my arm that is hurting like nobody’s business. My call falls on deaf ears. In the next instant, my father, a little out of breath himself, but otherwise fine, comes and tries to help me to my feet.
I hear Ethan release a sharp laugh, “You think so highly of yourself, Neal. You should-”
“Shut the fuck up. No one’s talking to you.” Neal snaps.
Ethan’s face turns beat red with anger assuring me that he isn’t usually roughly brushed off.
Neal ignores him and to my horror starts walking towards the Occultists. I try to follow on wobbly legs but father grips me firmly, murmuring a quiet ‘No’.
“I demand that the Lichinskys leave.” Neal says in a louder voice, moving closer to the witches. “You stop them and you’ll have no vaticinator to have all this fuss over.” He threatens.
One of the witches, the one in the center glides forward. Her movement is so sudden and fluid that most of the people go still, holding their breaths.
“The vaticinator’s audacity is repugnant. Vaticinator’s request may not be fulfilled. He shall be condemned for his atrocious conduct. He shall be sanctioned.”
Everyone remains petrified, even Neal, at hearing the Occultist’s voice. It is not her words as much as it is her voice that has caused every single being to be lapidified with terror. It is somewhere between a screech and an authoritative spell, making it sound all the more malevolent. The words spoken could just be the cherry on the top.
“R-right.” Neal replies, his voice wavering at the intimidating display of the witch yet retaining some of his resilience. Rest of us, we are rooted to ground, petrified. I can’t even think of a word let alone speak one, so I’ll say kudos to Neal. “I suppose…” Neal continues, making audible gulping noises yet firmly glaring at the advancing witch, “For y-you to sanction me, it actually requ-requires you to control me. And those chances look pretty slim to me.” his voice grows firmer by the end.
“Vaticinator is a mere servant.” The occultist screeches again, gliding forward with occultist previously standing next to her following her steps. “You bring dishonor by abandoning your duties. You cause imbalance by your sinister deeds. You have-”
“That’s all peachy.” Neal interrupts making my stomach churn in discomfort. Other Occultists start following the one that stepped out; all of them advancing at Neal. Neal having gained his confidence has little reservations while insulting the threatening witches. It’s horrific because the ominous air created by the occultists seems to have swallowed everyone’s voice and movements save for Neal. He stands poised, the scimitar firmly gripped in his hand, his feet set a little apart for balance as if he is preparing for fight. “But,” Neal continues, “You’re forgetting the point where I don’t give a shit.”
A wind swirls in the night as the occultist in the lead visibly bristles at being insulted. Their aura vibrates, humming in their anger. Still as statue, I watch agape as the one of the occultist starts blurring, her aura reverberating before her form turns onto mist, flowing like ripples of water towards the one in the lead. The Occultist’s form wavers as she absorbs the aura and physical form of her sister, making the air around them ripple with intensity.
Through astonishment I manage to sense Ethan taking a step back at the unpredicted outcome of events.
“What’s…” he speaks, his voice low, vibrating with fear, “What’s happening to them?” he whispers to no one in particular.
Mikhail, as opposed to Ethan, takes a step forward, his eyes hardly swaying from the sight in front of us, “Pissed…” he says, his voice low but firm, “They’re getting pissed is what’s happening to them.”
I can’t agree more as one by one the Occultist vaporize and blend in with occultist in the front. She grows bigger, her aura expanding as if she would combust at any moment. Her glares at Neal hardly waver as she moves in his direction, nor does Neal’s stance for that matter.
Mikhail turns around, glancing at Ethan and the other anti-lichinsky clan members, “Clear the ground.” He says authoritatively.
Ethan is quick to agree, surprisingly nodding at that. The agreement makes me turn around to notice that many therains have already escaped, terrified of what is coming. Many are in the process of fleeing while the argumentative ones watch on in astonishment.
“What about Neal?” I blurt, confused as we all start to take miniscule steps backward.
Father has a firm grip on my good arm, as if he wants to ensure that I do not go barging in at the commotion happening right in front of us. And I am not; I have no plans, not with me writhing and gasping in pain already with the Occultists scaring the shit out of me. But that does not mean I am fine with the idea of Neal remaining behind alone.
Father doesn’t answer me.
“What about Neal?” I ask again, stressful this time.
Mikhail quickly turns around and starts walking towards us. “He is doing what he planned. Let it not be for naught and get going.”
“He is causing this,” Ethan says, his arm being tugged by a tensed Vincent as more people start stepping back. “Neal is causing this. The Occultists are right. He causes imbalance. He-”
“The Occultists are joining forces because prowess of one alone is insufficient to disarm him.” Father snaps at Ethan.
My head was literally spinning at that. I do not hear Ethan’s comeback initiating another one of their banters. I instead focus on how the wind has increasingly picked up space, causing our hair to blow. How the wind seems to be circling the enhancing form of the Occultists as the last of them fuses in. Most of all, my focus is trained on my partner whose hands are now shaking, the scimitar wobbling in his hands. And with horror I realize that father is correct. The force of all the Occultists combined is overpowering the force behind Neal’s and the sword’s inherent power.
I feel father tug at my arm but I shrug him off. I hear him sternly calling my name but I ignore him. The least, the very least I can do is not run away and be beside my partner for what
he is doing. He knew this would conspire. Hell, for all I know he willed this to happen, willed for those ugly witches to combine their forms and power. So he could do what? Buy us time so we can flee, sacrificing himself for our survival? Is that what Neal would do?
Or he willed them to combine themselves so he could ram that sword easily through all of them at once?
He knew that the request for the Lichinsky family members to leave would rile up the Occultists enough. It of course would if the theory of the witches being against my scimitar owning family is even remotely true.
“Neal doesn’t want us to leave.” I state firmly, shrugging off my father’s hold again and walking towards Neal. Walking causes pain up to my shoulders but I ignore it as I move forward. I hear my family call me from behind. A very flimsy move on their part because it distracts Neal. He turns for a millisecond, taking in my sight, advancing towards him. His forehead is covered in sweat beads forming due to the strength he has to put to keep the scimitar firm in his grip. When he catches my eye, his eyebrows crawl for his hairline and the motion seems to express amusement than surprise. But that is short lived. A high pitched shriek fills the empty night, like claws on chalkboard. A burst of power explodes out of the giant form of all of the Occultists. Neal, already distracted, stumbles at the sudden onslaught. His grip on the scimitar loosens, causing it to lurch out of his hands. Neal maneuvers himself to