The Witch of Jakarta

Chapter 12: Smiles

    After what seemed of forever silence, the lights went back on. Fading clanks and echoes in the grungy warehouse sending them staggering towards each other. It’d felt as if there were more than ten people with them, shadows and unidentifiable footsteps bouncing and swaying through the entangled chords lights. The mere motion of power enough to make them flicker as if to go out again, though not quite yet. Vincent nearly buried himself in the rubble, recognizing what seemed to be a footprint on a scrap metal; that used to be the forklift.

    He jabbed an arm at Inca, who seemed to be just as stunned. Had they’d been so dazed from the drugs and sirens that they couldn’t sense such colossal presence of magic users? Had these people used some of the serpent’s d**g to conceal themselves. Vincent stepped further back, knowing the odds of either seemed too slim to be true—as Inca was there to counteract any of her mother’s trickeries. His eyes darted back to the rogue haired girl, who seemed to have reached the same conclusion.

    ‘Enough foreplay,’ Inca shouted, ‘Show yourselves.’

    ‘My dear, you overestimate me.’

    The cold brittle voice echoed across the warehouse—reaching even the deepest nooks of each burnt box and each melded metal, Vincent was sure that even the dead could scream if they could. His worn-out shoes scrapped against the cold floor, echoing back a painful creak to answer such voice. He couldn’t help but feel he was back outside, the dawning feeling of echoing voices sending near memories to the forefront of his mind. However, for better or worse, this witch was still alive. He looked towards Inca, already stepping in front of him to protect the evidence he’d collected.

    ‘Watch the phone,’ She whispered, interrupted again by another loud bang from above them.

    A looming shadow passed them, colder than the rain and wind. Vincent could already feel the rising numbness spreading and prickling down his back. The feeling never left him, as if a bullet had shot past them, or a tear gas bullet to be precise. It moved against the grain of the calm air, the pressure, and fizzing cold sensation just enough to remind them what they’d seen just outside the seemingly calm warehouse.

    His eyes darted towards each source of where the wind had blown, each direction so different and distant than the other. He couldn’t help but think it was impossible, at least not for witches of their time. Be that as it be, those words kept pulling on him, taunting him as he felt the sting of death draws nearer. Subsequently, the shadow did exactly what he thought were the best-case scenario. It stopped in one place, silhouetting the shape that was clearly human. It was a man, and men die all the same.

    ‘Hello,’ The shadow greeted, an off-white grin spread across his face.

    ‘Who are you?’

    ‘You look important,’ It said, stepping forward.

    ‘You’ll regret looking,’ She snapped back.

    From the farthest corner of his eyes, Vincent could already see the rogue reeling up—the familiar feeling of surging magic, prickling against the tips of his skin. He gripped his phone, slowly placing it back in his pocket. He stared off to the inky shadow, silhouetted by the hanging lights. The thick and unyielding silence coats the cold atmosphere, a stand-off that lines between the three of them.

    However, it was that thought that led the sweat on his brow to drip further—it was man, yet it was against all odds, only one man. Inca tapped his shoulder, pinching him away from the swarming thoughts, no one has moved yet, the freezing and tense air devoid of any signs. Yet it flows differently around the shadow, wind streaks of uptilting lines surrounding it as if it were boiled.

    ‘Check your phone,’ Inca whispered.

    ‘Don’t think my text reached him just yet,’ He replied.

    ‘We can’t fight him.’

    ‘Conversing mid-combat now, are we?’ A voice boomed.

    The two of them froze in place, a primal instinct inside them yelling over their own conscious thought. It was a hair-triggering temper, thinly cloaked by the croaky, ear-splitting tone. The voice echoed farther than the ear, a menacing thunderclap such with commanding and rapturing for attention, power, control. And it did just that, locking the two of them as if they were mere helpless deer caught by a headlight.

    The shadow stepped further, just close enough for them to get a better look at the man’s damp shoulder length-hair. Everything about him screamed of peril, even more so once that smell reached them. Burnt flesh and dirty rainwater, it was as if his entire being had been nothing but a muddled morgue—a sentiment that might bring those he’d killed rolling in their graves. It was almost metallic, burnt muscle tissues left for days under the sun to rot and soak whatever the weather decided to give it. Vincent scrunched his nose, realizing he’d been instinctively holding his breath even before the smell reached him.

    ‘Did the other one gave you a hard time?’ It continued, c*****g its head. ‘You two certainly took a while.’

    ‘Answer my question.’

    The man simply smiled, a painful cacophony of echoed through the warehouse as if a thousand men were laughing on his beck and call. It was at that point that he’d noticed, the scent of thunderous magic nestling within him—hidden by the overbearing smell of raw flesh. His eyes darted towards the rogue haired girl, who seemed to have noticed. It was as if he’d been hiding it under a veil, muddy and dark yet thin enough to lift with a slight of a gesture. That feeling rose again, tight and knotted within the speed caster’s chest—that wicked, commanding energy…Who the f**k is this guy?

    ‘You repeat your question yet you already know the answer,’ The shadow answered, stifling a laugh.

    Inca broke the silence, though it was all bark. ‘Ah, so you did survive.’

    They could’ve very well mistaken the man as another dead body, his skinny and lank figure seemingly hung by a thin thread. With each breeze from the wind seemingly flowing right past him, ready to blow away his figure as if it were paper. His features, or lack thereof, hidden by a wide-rimmed bucket hat that had turned black from its worn condition.

    However, the one thing that stood out were those god damn eyes, whiter than snow, protruding as if from his skin-tight face, ready to pop out of their sockets at any moment. Vincent finally broke away from the gaze of those piercing white eyes, hiding away his hand behind Inca to check on his phone as the rogue buys them more time. Still, Ralph’s response was pending.

    He forwarded the message to every known member of the could reach, something in him insisting that Inca was right about the enemy in front of them. But in his frenzy, the small flimsy box in his hand slipped down—the cracked sound of his phone hitting the floor enough to wake the piles of bodies lying on the floor. The man’s eyes darted towards him; he didn’t need to look up to feel it. He quickly picked up his phone, pretending he was putting it back in his pocket as he slipped it into the rogue’s skirt pocket. Everything froze colder than a flood’s water; he could nearly hear the chaos dancing in her head.

    The man’s neck cracked painfully as his head swayed abnormally to his side, nearly touching his shoulder. White eyes glowing brighter with the sealed anger. Yet, the man never moved past anything the boy would consider alarming. His lank body swaying from side to side, a life scarecrow blown by the calm rain.

    ‘Tell me, little girl, where is your mother?’

    ‘Inca don’t,’ He warned; though his voice didn’t seem to reach.

    ‘Is betrayal the new fashion trend these days?’ She replied, stepping forward.

    The man let out a low chuckle, the tips of his ashen fingers fiddling with the brim of his bucket hat. Almost instinctively, he clutched at the fabric of her shirt—the sinking feeling of despair slowly permeating within. He couldn’t help but look at her, hoping their propinquity would somehow abrogate her will. Though he knew that wishful thinking was nothing more than a curse. He lets go of her sleeve, muttering a quick warning as the spy steeped further—closing a little more of the distance.

    Yet despite Vincent’s best predictions, the man entertained her, prompting his index finger across his chin as if to think. However, at that moment he’d noticed two things. Number one, his hands were burnt, badly enough that the sable colored fingers had left a streak of blood as the man fiddled with his chin. Number two, the man’s smile had never wavered—not since they’d discovered his presence.

    ‘The one thing that differentiates beasts and man are morals,’ The man said, his smile stretching wider. ‘it appears that your leader has failed to possess that.’

    The rogue clicked her tongue. ‘And you’re better than us?’

    ‘Of course,’ The man answered, a certain zeal reflected in his voice. ‘Our morals were stripped away before we had the chance to speak.’

    This time, Inca doesn’t speak.

    ‘You, on the other hand, you had a choice,’ The man continued. ‘Yet you were willing to kill a child, and a man who had led for the survival of others.’

    ‘Look, buddy that brain-washing talk won’t work on us,’ She said. ‘We already know this.’

    ‘No, Inca wait,’ Vincent halted, turning towards the man. ‘What did you mean your leader? The news said he was the one who survived the rubble.’

    ‘Ah, that must be PURE’s little addition,’ The man chuckled. ‘What nickname did your little coterie give us this time?’

    He could feel his grip on Inca tighten, the rogue’s hand quickly yanking itself away from his grasp. He could feel the urge rising within, popping and crackling against the wet and slick inner skin; waiting to be used. It was that damn smile, the utter blatant disguise of the man’s truest intentions. That anger in his eyes, hidden just under the dirty bucket hat—showing the man that is yet once was. The thing in front of him wasn’t supposed to be angry, it wasn’t supposed to exist nor share his pain. Who gave him the right to be angry?

    Vincent answered, regrettably. ‘Shut it smiles.’

    ‘Smiles and chuckles, I remember now!’ The man exclaimed, his long damp hair swaying with each syllable. ‘I’m quite fond of it.’

    ‘So, where the f**k is chuckles, pretty b***h?’

    The man’s smile spread wider. ‘Our leader did not survive, but I did.’

    ‘Don’t f**k with me,’ She barked back. ‘Why are you he-’

    ‘To kill you,’ The man cuts off, a small laugh escaping him. ‘Though, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t die so quickly.’

    The metal roof creaked above them, the rising tension shifting against the tight clutch of life and death boiling over. Inca was the first to strike, or at least that was the intention—as a sharp hand quickly jabs at her throat before she could finish a spell. Vincent’s eyes darted towards the sound, realizing the man in front of them had suddenly closed their distance. A mere second passed by that seemed to last an eternity.

    He watched, frozen in his own flesh as the rogue staggered backward—bruised throat coughing for air. His eyes shot up, a spitting image of a swinging boot grazing his vision before hitting him. He felt his hands rise to break the force, though too late to react. He was half-way on the ground, Inca’s veins already riling for a spell.

    ‘Oh, well this isn’t very fair,’ A voice croaked.

    Dark, melting obsidian light flashed around the rogue haired girl, snapping and whirling across her body to form chains. He couldn’t hold his scream, eyes wide and frantic as his wits shut down. He’d never seen such chains; it was in shape like any other chain he could cast. Yet it slithered and writhed as if it were alive, pitch-black and smoking like melted coal. Anything in that color is dead, but yet the tingling sounds of dragged metal still echoed through the concrete floor.

    The blazing chains burnt right through the girl, smoldering and sticking into whatever exposed skin it could find. Her scream pierced through him, revibrating against the beating heart under his bones. He opened his mouth to scream, to tell her to stop moving or fight back or anything—but a firm hand quickly pressed against his lips, the scent of burning coal overwhelming his nose and tongue. He bites at the flesh, eyes darting back towards the girl. A loud thump vibrated against the floor, her body tense yet powerless.

    ‘Stay still little girl, I’ll be with you in a second,’ The man cooed, his croaked voice sending cold prickles down his spine.

    The chains turned darker in color if it were even possible; it climbed unto her thighs, dragging itself upward to look for more skin to burn. Her screams relentless, the feeling of being trapped in fire sending his friend’s instincts haywire. He screamed again, kicking against the lanky body on top of him—his energy wasted against the man’s strength. Once the smoke reached him, he could only smell charred flesh.

    It was the heat of his own tear that grazed his blood-stained cheeks. He wouldn’t dare fight it at this point, yet the man above him only seemed to grow bigger, stronger, relentless. Vincent reached up once, the last time he felt he did—his dying heart a mere compass to his broken vessel. There he was, perhaps a martyrdom he’d hoped for all this time. Though he’d never been in a real fight, he wasn’t quite sure if he was dying or going to sleep.

    The seconds passed as if it were the night’s stars. Now, as if the burning in his flesh had never existed, the man stopped. Heavy force suddenly rested on his neck, the air in his throat suddenly becoming warm. The pain was a rushing wave, though he was no fool. He could feel those chalk-colored eyes drilling into his skull. His quivering lips whispered another spell, yet his words were trampled once more alike a firm hand pressed against his face.

    ‘You ought to reconsider your title, speed caster.’

    ‘Conversing mid-combat, are we?’ He spat out, barely audible under the man’s palm.

    ‘You’d look prettier torn open, boy.’

    He chuckled, now confirming he was still audible. ‘Marante!’

    His eyes glowed a bright saffron, the yellowish hue framing his fading vision. He held tight unto himself, exhaustion already seeping into his mind. Though he hadn’t lost his spell, not just yet. The force on his neck laxed, cold air rushing back into his lungs. He ushered away, back on his feet—his eyes fixated on the man whose eyes glowed just the same as his. The man’s body was tense, small vines of chains wrapped all over his body. The saffron light contrasted against the ashy skin, highlighting the burn wounds that scattered as if they were rain puddles on cracked concrete. Vincent moved his right arm, turning and swaying it as if it were a new limb—watching intently as the movement repeats on the man in front of him. They were safe, just for now.

    ‘Inca,’ He spoke, the words repeated by his new tether, ‘Do it now!’

    The girl let out a pained grunt, still bound by the burning chains. He removed his eyes just a moment, just to confirm that she was in fact still writhing on the ground. The panic settled further in him, the painful exhaustion in his head steadily forcing itself to the forefront. He could feel the tips of his fingers going numb, and he called out to her once more as if it would change the inevitable. 

    ‘I can’t move!’

    ‘That’s impossible,’ He shouted back, his knees growing weak.

    ‘Run to the back of the aisle, it’ll weaken his spell’s reach!’

    His eyes darted towards the man, a wide smile forming across his cracked and bloodied lips. The boy’s legs took him like the wind, sprinting as fast as he could to weaken the spell on the rogue. The endless hallways spread further, narrowing endlessly and transcendent as the light’s reach slowly faded into obscurity. Overcast hallways and torn metal shelves twisted and spiraled with each step he took, streaking the air with the leftover light the other end of the hallway provided, slowly shrinking ever so smaller.

    ‘Inca!’ He called out, checking the distance between them.

    An agonized shriek echoed back to him. ‘Keep going!’

    His eyes darted back, his body yearning for rest. The man was just behind him, following his every move as his spell compelled. Those saffron hued vines grew thinner once his mind wore down, but they were still there—just enough to hold down the aphotic anger within the smiling man. He could feel it, thin clammy hands slowly writhing against his magic—stronger, burning infernal as if God had decided to chuck his own lambs down the cliff. He tried running again, but the same force now welded him in place.

    His throat caught ablaze as he attempted to say the rogue’s name a second time, a sudden heaviness resting just above his skin. It nestled on his joints, the pressure increasing just above his collar bone. Like a whip, the invisible pressure suddenly burnt through him, skinning him alive without proof of wound. His knees buckled as the vines cling tighter, seething into his skin, still leaving with no mark. He knew what was happening, though he could no longer run from it. He writhed as the pressure increased, expecting the same voice to come out of the smiling man’s throat, only to hear laughter.    

    ‘Inca!’

    There was no one to answer his call, yet something in the man’s eyes insisted that it was futile. The imperceptible vines cling tighter, pulling him closer and closer to the man—who seemed to be doing absolutely nothing to encourage it. It was a battle of wits and ego, one that seemed to only have a single outcome. Still, as the midsummer wind, the lanky man simply waited for him to tire, which seemed to happen faster than the dear boy hoped. Beyond a certain point, all control seemed to have faded from his fingertips—and what remained of his willpower slid like a gory river towards the wrong steps.

    When the tips of his heels finally reached the man behind him, wintry fingers slowly slid around his throat—cooling the seething sensation the vines had tortured him with. The grip became more and more insistent, the numbing sensation becoming more painful as the tips of the man’s damp hair tickled his forehead. All was lost when a croaky voice slithered just above him.

    ‘Time’s up.’