Brothers of Brimstone Book 5: Blaze
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Elizabeth Gordon
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Sizzling Cauldrons
Book 5: Blaze
Justice is rare in the world, though it should be abundant. It seemed a finite concept that could only be unearthed by exposure.
This is why I was desperate to join the Black Cats, a coven dedicated to uncovering the truth.
The members of the coven were expected to investigate and write for The Open Grimoire, a newspaper for the magical community that shared secrets about commonly used spells, offered tips on how to perform ethical casts, and, best of all, investigated the community’s leaders and exposed abuses and corruption.
I had developed a sense of justice at an early age.
I had only been five years old when my mother died under mysterious circumstances while on a mission for her coven, the Grand Supremes, a powerful coven that lorded over the rest of the witching community.
The Grand Supremes were often cloaked in secrecy, and though they claimed to have investigated my mother’s death, no details were ever released.
To my knowledge, nobody had ever been held responsible.
Most warlocks in the community did what they were best at when faced with responsibility; they disappeared.
Thankfully, this wasn’t the case with my father, Bruno Locksley, who raised me on his own after my mother passed.
My father was the Grand Master of his coven, The Keepers, a group charged with discovering and preserving historical artifacts of interest to the magical community.
I grew up in a house that resembled a museum rather than a home because my father consistently brought home artifacts that caught his fancy.
At that moment, he was carefully brushing dirt from an unearthed vase.
While he continued to work on his latest find, he was attempting to convince me not to join the Black Cats.
“I respect what the Black Cats are trying to achieve,” he said, “but they are not the most popular of covens, and I don’t want you to be treated like a pariah, Layla.”
“Only those with something to hide hate the Black Cats,” I countered.
“Which is the majority of the magical community!” my father exclaimed, looking up to meet my gaze.
If he hadn’t been so serious, it would have been comical, since he was wearing magnifying glasses that distorted his eyes, making them appear like a pair of discolored, runny eggs.
I gingerly removed the glasses to gaze into his clear gray eyes, a feature I had inherited.
“I’ve wanted to be a Black Cat since I was a child, Dad. You know this, and you promised always to support me.”
My father was a handsome man with a crop of curly dark hair that resembled my own.
Over the years, gray streaks had appeared, but he had always maintained his youthful and jovial appearance.
I was concerned because he seemed to age a decade in the last few moments as we argued about my initiation into the Black Cats.
“I’m going to be fine,” I assured him as I leaned over and pecked him on the cheek. “The Black Cats have been exposing people in The Open Grimoire for more than two hundred years now, and none of them have perished.”
My father set down his brush so his hand would be free to cup my face.
“I just wish you would choose a safer profession; I heard The Potion Proprietors are looking for recruits.”
“I don’t want to spend my life making love potions, Dad,” I asserted. “Please, give me your blessing.”
My father’s eyes softened.
“Of course you have my blessing, Layla, but what kind of father would I be if I didn’t worry about you?”
I smiled and offered him another peck.
“You have always been the best.” As I withdrew, I caught sight of the clock behind him.
“I’d better be on my way; I don’t want to be late to my own initiation ceremony,” I cried as I blew him a final farewell kiss and hurried from the room.
“Good luck today,” my father called after me.
I returned to my bedroom, which had an outside exit fitted with a cat door for easy access.
Only female witches possessed the ability to shift into cats.
Females, being the primary focus of most witch hunts, had evolved so we could travel undetected.
Though the danger had passed, witches were still not permitted to attend a congregation on two legs.
I thought the tradition was silly, since it had not kept us safe for long.
Eventually, the witch hunters had become suspicious due to the sudden influx of stray cats and started a propaganda campaign, which caused kingdoms to wage a war on felines.
Though most of the felines captured had just been harmless cats, a witch was caught in the crossfire. The magical community retaliated by releasing a plague of rats on those regions, and with no cats to catch the rats, there were horrific consequences, and the extermination ceased.
Though the world had learned its lesson, superstitions surrounding cats still remained.
I quickly undressed and shifted into a sleek, black cat, then slipped through the tiny partition and began to travel stealthily to the outskirts of town, where the Black Cats operated.
Though living in town offered conveniences, my feline side yearned for rural living.
The abundance of vegetation offered plenty of nooks in which to hide, and unlike the homes in town—which were rows of identical boxes—the homes in this area were unique, each smelling of a hard-wrought history.
Even in cat form, I didn’t have a difficult time identifying the farmhouse, which the Black Cats used as their home base.
From the outside, one would assume that nothing more than a cozy living area existed, but looks could be deceiving.
Beyond the front door, the living room had been converted into a call center where the Black Cats received tips, and the rest of the main floor was converted into writing rooms.
The only room that functioned as intended was the kitchen, only because witches need to eat.
The big red barn behind the house didn’t shelter animals, but a massive printing press.
Though it was still operational, the massive press had begun to gather dust as The Open Grimoire began to appear online, and paper subscriptions plummeted.
As a precaution, I used the backroads to travel to the farm. I arrived at the rear of the house.
I knew that the coven was expecting me, so I didn’t think twice about entering through the rear.
As I approached the back entrance, my feline senses were on high alert.
I felt the fur on my tail expand and my whiskers stand on end.
Afraid that I was being stalked, I quickened my pace as I scanned the area.
Though there was some movement in the grass, no predator was detected.
Fearing I would be attacked if I lingered much longer, I broke into a sprint. I did not dare look back as I aimed for the cat door, only pausing when I reached the safety of the mudroom.
Once I was certain nothing had followed me inside, I began to shift into an upright state.
As my fur coat was replaced with yards of skin, I felt a sudden chill and quickly began to search for something to cover my nude body.
Technically, witches did convene naked, but we didn’t expose ourselves to one another and always kept a selection of robes handy for such occasions. I located the cloaks and hurried to shrug one on, then lifted the shroud to hide my features, which was customary when attending a ceremony.
Though it is true that the soul resides in the eyes, faces could be deceiving, so the face was covered so one couldn’t disguise their true intentions. It was traditional to perform initiation ceremonies by candlelight; this was a form of candle magic.
The flames from the candles were able to detect any shifts in vibrations, alerting the coven that their intended member was having doubts. I had expected the lights in the home to be turned off but was surprised that no wicks had yet been lit, which forced me to feel my way through the dark to the main room where the ceremony would be held.
Using the wall as my guide, I felt my way through the kitchen and the main hall. As I drew closer to the living room, a long, drawn-out hiss made me pause.
After a moment, I determined that it was an iron cauldron cooling. Identifying the sound brought me no comfort.
Cauldrons were a ceremonial staple, but since the ceremony had not yet started, the cauldron should have been hot and bubbling, not cooling. Though I had not received any notification that the Black Cats had changed their minds, the extinguishing of flames was a signal that they had.
A lump formed in my throat as I reached the main room and was not greeted. I called out, “Hello?” My voice was tentative when my presence wasn’t acknowledged.
My nostrils flared as they detected an unusual odor, which was growing more unpleasant with each passing moment. I felt the hairs on my arms stand on edge and, no longer concerned about tradition, I feverishly ran my hands along the wall, searching for a light switch.
I felt a flood of relief as I located the switch, but my relief quickly dissolved into horror as the room sprang to life. The walls were covered in blood, and though it was difficult to see through the smoke that erupted from the cooling cauldron, I could make out corpses.
Some remained in human form while others were shifted into cats, and judging from their positions, they had been attempting to flee. I covered my mouth to stifle the scream that rose in my throat.
Though I was frightened, I forced myself to enter the room so I could search for survivors. Bile rose from the pit of my stomach as I squatted to examine a limp black cat; when I couldn’t detect a pulse or a heartbeat, I moved to the next figure, a witch who had only partially shifted when she had been slain.
I was about to move to the next victim when a sharp crack pierced the air, and the front door exploded. Surprised, I leapt to my feet.
The sudden movement caused my bare feet to slip into a puddle of blood, and I lost my balance. Before I could catch myself, my feet left the floor, and I was airborne.
Instinctively, I attempted to catch myself, but my efforts only resulted in me landing hard on my rump. Frustrated, I planted my hands on the floor and attempted to stand, but only succeeded in spreading the grisly mess.
I watched helplessly as a troupe of magicians entered the home via the doorframe that had been reduced to splinters. The sight of them caused my heart to thump in my chest.
They were not typical warlocks—they were Enforcers. The Enforcers were an elite group knighted by the Grand Supremes and authorized to use force against those who posed a danger to the magical community.
They wore all black and were the only group authorized to carry wands, which were illegal in the magical world because they acted as a conduit of power. Under other circumstances, I would have been frightened by the appearance of Enforcers, but at that moment, I was thrilled to see them.
I hoped that they had been alerted to hunt down the culprit responsible for this massacre. I cried out to garner their attention, hoping they would aid me to my feet, but instead of coming to my aid, they surrounded me with their wands poised.
Enforcers wore masks to conceal their identities, so I couldn’t read their expressions, but due to their stance, I realized that they had mistaken me for a threat. I carefully displayed my hands to signal that I was harmless.
“My name is Layla Locksley,” I informed them in a shaky voice. “I came here today because I was supposed to be initiated into the Black Cats.”
I shifted my gaze to the ceremonial cauldron as evidence.
An Enforcer wearing an embellished mask that identified him as an officer broke rank and fearlessly approached me. I sighed in relief, believing that he would order his crew to sheath their wands and help me to my feet. Instead, he pointed his wand at me.
“Layla Locksley, you are being taken into custody, ordered by the Grand Supremes.”
