“No!” Marga struggled to her feet, slipped in the blood on the floor. Her mind reeling, heart pounding, she stared at Frances.

The Elder witch stood above Atticus broken body, gazing down on him.

“Don’t!” Marga yelled again. “He didn’t hurt me!”

“I know.” Said with such calm, it froze Marga where she stood. “I was hoping he might, though.” Frances eyes darkened with a note of sadness. “Then I wouldn’t have to do this.”

As if cut like puppet strings, Marga’s muscles and sinews didn’t hold her up anymore, and she crumbled to the floor, crashing down on the bloodied concrete with a wet-sounding thud. Pain jolted through her...