A/N: I decided to pattern my witches based on AHS: Coven because, let's face it, the Supernatural witches are a bunch of pansies. I'll have an explanation for this, so it won't go from canon too much. No Winchesters in this chapter, but don't worry, they're a-comin'. Shoot me requests for pairings, because I've not made up my mind yet—but I'm leaning towards Michael or Gadreel, because they always need a little love.
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Mist curled around the edges of the river swamp, clinging to the trees and getting caught around the Spanish moss. The water was a murky green, disappearing right into the banks, a dangerous camouflage.
The setting sun was rapidly stealing all the light, but the three figures standing on the bank didn't move. They were dressed in all black, and all of them were women. Alligators were known to this part of the swamp, but they stayed away, giving them a wide berth. In fact, the only animal that came near them was a vulture, perched up high in the branches of a submerged Cypress.
A blonde woman floated face-down in the water, her pale hair fanning out like seaweed, fingers poking through the water like bloated fish. A knife was planted squarely in her back, the blade occasionally catching flashes of the disappearing sun.
"Should we fish her out?" One of the women whispered nervously, toying with the edge of her sleeve. She was petite, and Asian, and much younger than the other two.
"Go ahead and climb on in, then," the brunette woman standing to her left said. She had a hand on her hip, and was inspecting her black painted nails for chips.
"No," the redhead on the right decreed. "The gators will get her after we're gone. It's been over a week, there's no saving her."
"But maybe we should bury her or something? I don't know, it seems important," the Asian girl pestered, biting her lip and shifting from foot to foot. The brunette and the redhead traded glances, before the brunette laid a hand on her shoulder.
"It's better that she stays here," the brunette said gently, starting to turn the girl as the redhead stalked off through the rushes, the hem of her black dress trailing through the swamp mud. "We don't know who did this or why, so we need to pretend like we don't know what happened, just in case," she coached as they disappeared into the swamp, cutting back towards the road.
"Okay," the Asian girl reluctantly agreed, sparing one last look over her shoulder at the woman before the mists finally swallowed her again. With a quirked head, the vulture took flight, swallowed up into the darkening sky.
Only when the women were gone, far out of the swamp, did the gators begin to move.
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Deep in the Kirwin Wildlife Refuge in Kansas, something strange was happening to the birds. The park rangers had noticed it, and two were sat in a labelled truck, watching the birds flock on a large tree through binoculars. The tree must have been at least a hundred years old, but the amount of birds gathered on it were making it look small. They didn't make any noise, just gathered and sat, preening and rustling, a great feathered mass.
"Huh," one ranger said, putting his binoculars down. "They aren't fighting or nothing, so I don't know if we should do anything."
"Sure beats me," the other one agreed, taking another swig of coffee from his thermos. The biggest problem they usually had was off-season hunting and fishing, which was usually solved by imposing a fine.
"Maybe they're sick?" The first suggested, and the other shrugged.
"That's the biologists' problem, then," he said, before turning the key and starting the truck. Beady bird eyes stared at him, a couple hundred at least, catching in the headlights. It was downright spooky, the ranger thought, and was happy to drive away from it. He had to drive all the way back to Lebanon, and though it wasn't the farthest drive, he didn't need this preying on his mind.
Several minutes later, the birds scattered, and resumed normal behavior. No more was said on the matter between the rangers, but the incident stuck in the back of their minds, and they didn't like to linger around the tree.
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In the tall grey house on the edge of the French Quarter, behind the gate with the sign that read 'NEW ORLEANS FINISHING ACADEMY FOR YOUNG WOMEN', beyond the darkened rooms and out on the back porch, two of the black-clad women sat, holding mugs of coffee.
"This is getting out of hand," the brunette said quietly, not looking at the redhead next to her. "We need outside help. It's too dangerous for us to sit on it."
"What did Bel say?" The redhead asked, setting down her mug and folding her hands.
The brunette sighed, and pursed her lips. "He said to go to the Winchesters," she eventually said, obviously unhappy about it. "He knows where they are, and claimed they'd be able to help."
The redhead rolled her eyes. "He's also full of shit," she said.
"He's never lied to me before," the brunette shrugged, standing to go in. "If you go, I'll stay here. I'll protect Selena and the house."
"Fine," the redhead agreed. "But if they kill me, then everything is on you."
She sat for a little while after the other had gone in, gazing into the darkness though she couldn't see much farther than the railing. She wasn't surprised when a vulture landed at the edge of her vision, keeping enough of a distance. He swung his head to look at her from the side, rustling his wings.
"Tell me about it," she agreed, finally going back into the dark house.