Witchhunt • Prequel ✓

the house of atreus.

[TWENTY YEARS LATER]

They never returned to the towers Abby had raised. They never called the ship Bobert again. They never let another witch walk away.

Jonah didn't know if his men actually believed him or if they were too afraid to question him, but the effect remained the same.

[FIFTY-TWO YEARS AFTER]

Flanked by Adam and Karl, Jonah marched down the main street of a burning island. Lines of scorch marks from witches' magic and the accompanying fire had turned a quaint farming island into a warzone. Rippling fields of green just beyond the stout houses filled the air with the smell of plants beneath the sting of smoke. All around them, Jonah's tattooed men -- now numbering in the dozens -- dragged people from their homes.

The streets were cobblestone, the space between stones filled with watery blood. Seventeen witches -- young ones -- piled up in the middle of the street. Dead as doornails.

Razo stood next to the pile, blood spatters dried like freckles across his round face. A filthy sword leaned against his leg as he cleaned his nails. He looked up as the others approached. Jonah smiled, clapping his shoulder in a quick embrace and evaluating the carnage.

"Damn! You do all this yourself?" Jonah looked around.

Razo shrugged. He wasn't hiding anything, Jonah would feel it. "Aye, sir. Never seen this many in one place, though."

Jonah agreed. Seventeen was a lot, especially these days. He prodded one of the bodies with a foot, encountering something solid. He knelt down to take a better look. Her coat pocked bulged around something rectangular. A book. He pulled it out. Unfamiliar characters stared back at him, but he recognized the diagrams.

The glossy pages twisted at his chest. It was a physics textbook.

"Raz?"

"Yeah?"

"Did you notice anything particular about their magic?" Jonah asked. It could be nothing. It should have been nothing.

Razo shrugged again, his noncommittal attitude finally starting to grate at Jonah's nerves. "Nothin' to write home about. Didn't really give 'em time, y'know?"

Jonah scowled and handed the book to Adam, who took it silently. Jonah didn't let go. A spasm of confusion passed through their connection before Adam shut it down, leaving an empty silence between them as there had been for the past few years. Of course, Adam wouldn't leave him. Couldn't. There was nowhere else to go.

"Burn every book you find," Jonah said. He kept his eye on Adam's face, relying on his decades of familiarity with his friend instead of magic to read his emotions.

Adam nodded.

He took the book under his arm and relayed the order, ice cold. It would have worried Jonah if it weren't exactly what he wanted. A man shouted from the crowd of trembling civilians, breaking through the shroud of fear and racing right at Jonah with a kitchen knife in hand.

A tug on his men's tattoos and they all let the man through without a sound. Adam sidestepped the attack and Jonah caught the man's weapon in his bare hand.

He was old, with a short white beard and sagging brown skin. Dark eyes dripped tears, maintaining their furious glint despite encountering Jonah's immovable strength. Jonah cocked his head. His own blood dripped down his wrist, gripping the blade.

"What were you even trying to do, dude?"

A wad of spit smacked him in the face. Jonah closed his eyes instinctively. He whistled, impressed, opening his eyes and squinting. His tattoos laughed along with him. "Hot damn. Been a while since someone's been this fucking stupid."