Vermilla alighted upon the broken pile of chairs and retrieved Heathcliff and spirited her away to the castle, but it was Kate Hex’s direction to Victory and Valorie that hauled Mistrial out of the pool, delirious and choked with pain from a long split up her hip where she had hit the water and the skin all around was black. Kate rolled her over, “Mistrial, I really wish I could say it was nice knowing you, but I think you’re just one of those people who’re better off dead.” Mistrial nodded in acquiescence and rolled back over, trying to reach the best positional alignment to escape pain and shake off consciousness, but Kate rolled her over again on her back where it was hard to breath. “Victory,” Kate looked down at Mistrial, would you kindly grab a rock and bash her head off?” Kate directed Victory, who was decorated with a scarf of dynamite. Mistrial pulled the little hand of the Canary from her belt and raised it up in the dying light. Kate took it from her and Mistrial rolled over again, groaning, desperate for comfort and completely unaffected by the threat of being murdered if it meant she could get out of feeling like this. Kate rolled her back over, and dug her heel into her belly, forcing the sickness up into her throat, “What happened to her?” “Stolen,” Mistrial sputtered, “-stole her.” “Where’s the rest?” Kate turned the part over in her hand. Mistrial raised a quivering finger to Mooth. “Interesting,” Kate squinted out at that black hellscape, “Enjoy your time remaining,” and with that she and her girls took off for the castle. Mistrial rolled back over and shook and gagged along with the all-encompassing waves of pain and the high winds blew through her and she knew she could not continue on such as she was, that death was near, but as she turned into the pain she worked her hand out from under her and labored in small motions, dabbing it in her blood, and pulled herself around in micro-turns so that when it was done she was laid out over a sigil of her personal demon, Astaroth. Come the witching hour she rose up from that glowing pad of blood and the pain had changed in color and texture and she knew the name of the spell and its effects, and by its power her pain was now her strength. On her ascent up the rocky shoals to the towered peak she found again Kate Hex and Liberty and Valorie speaking with the remaining crowd of war-torn witches from across all covens, apparently deputizing them into a mob on the spot at the great iron doors of the castle. “We don’t need you,” Kate’s wide brimmed hat turned to Mistrial and poured runoff like a spout. Mistrial walked by them and used the last charge on the hand of glory on the castle gate and its doors ground open, squealing with tremendous pressure, snapping internal mechanisms in their effort and grinding to a halt, open enough to admit a single person at a time and immovable. The hand of glory curled its final finger down, leaving only the thumb extended. Mistrial kept it dangling from her rope belt, as it had become part of her personal sense of style.