Cordelia sighed heavily and leant against the desk. She scanned the strange collection of objects arranged before her and drummed her foot on the ground. Frustrated, she creased her eyebrows as the room remained silent.
"What the hell happened?" she demanded, slamming her hands onto the dark wood. Rocking her body backwards, she turned to face the Council. With arms folded firmly across her chest, she waited for someone to break the silence.
"That was all we could find. The cops got there faster than we expected," Zoe said, interrupting the uncomfortable pause. She stepped nervously forward. "We tried everything, Delia."
"And this is it?"
No reply. Zoe and Queenie shuffled anxiously under the accusative glare of their Supreme.
Cordelia pulled herself from the desk and strode towards the window. Outside, the pervasive sound of rain hammered on the glass through the darkness. Tossing thoughts about in her mind, the witch's attention fixed on the storm erupting over New Orleans. The clouds had been lurking for days; resting low in the grey sky, stalking the incessant streets of the city. Now, they tore fissures through the dusk.
"Our job is to make sure no witch slips through the cracks," she said, entranced by the harsh mist of rain. She brushed away the curtain and assumed a milder stance. "When the rest of the world sees a wall, we see a window. Or had you forgotten?" Her eyes fell on Queenie, who jolted in remembrance. Both witches' thoughts trailed uneasily back to the previous year, to their search for Misty Day. Those words had become something of a motto since the swamp witch passed.
"You're our only option, Delia. Your Sight might pick up somethin'," Queenie proposed, gesturing over to the assemblage of items. "None of the other girls are advanced enough at divination to get anything outta them."
"We'll go back. We can go back now," exclaimed Zoe, scurrying in the direction of the door. "We'll find out who did this before it happens again."
"Yeah. Like you said, we've gotta find her before its too late." Queenie followed in agreement, a clear sense of obligation urging her onwards.
"No, girls. Wait until the storm fades. There are already too many dangers outside and we don't want to provoke the media when we're so vulnerable. I've been overly stern with you and I know how hard you work. It won't be immediate but there's got to be something inside those objects. Get some rest and I'll call you down in the morning," Cordelia said. She ushered the girls out of the room and closed the door delicately behind them. Her head fell in her hands resignedly once their footsteps disappeared down the corridor.
The strain of her position was consuming her. As far as she was pleased about the Coven's exposure, she couldn't expel her worry about the media's influence over it. It was a constant threat to their stability. Its relationship with the witches was already unsteady and they couldn't afford to provoke it. Instead it was essential that they tracked down this missing witch. If they could contain her powers, the Coven would remain safe. There was too much at stake for Cordelia to fail.
There was something infuriating about this case, such a frenzy of anger surrounding it. She could feel aggression emanating from the objects on the desk. A gilded photo frame caught her eye under the gentle hum of the desk lamp. It was small and square, coated with metallic bronze and containing a black and white photo. She picked it up and studied the picture within it. A man and woman stared back at her, hands entwined and with crucifixes suspended around their necks. A small child stood, huddled between their knees. A wide smile filled her face and a loose, white dress draped itself over her shoulders. Innocence radiated from the image. It was gripped by nostalgia, but contaminated by the spirit of death.
Cordelia clasped her palms tightly around it and shut her eyes. She searched for a memory, a feeling, some sort of clue that could help her find the witch responsible for these recent murders. Frantic glimpses into the picture's history encapsulated her and invaded her mind.
A Cajun family.
The image burned. Intervals of horrific screaming, pierced by creeping flames. Horrors were embedded deeply within it. She flinched and withdrew her hand, the frame crashing onto the desk.
The missing witch remained invisible.
She threw a balled up fist onto the wood with a howl. The whole thing was hopeless. If magic couldn't help them, they were all in the hands of the gods, she thought, biting her lip in irritation. She slumped against the back of her chair and rested her head on its frame. The pulsating rain distracted her once more.
A breezed gathered about the room, rustling the curtains and tingling in the petals of the white chrysanthemums. The storm was getting stronger. Torrents of wind beat across the windows as dark fog seemed to emerge through the cracks under the door. Cordelia leant forward, astounded as the draught extinguished a row of candles above the fireplace. She rose from her seat and skirted past the desk to inspect them. Flames continued to billow on the hearth beneath, agitated by the gust.
She struggled to relight each smothered wick with her powers of pyrokinesis. She spun a wick between her fingers, letting go suddenly as blistering heat surged through them. She gasped as a loud crack reverberated from the door hinges. Something was trying to contain her.
"Did you like what I did with the candles, Miss Cordelia?"
She jumped at the sound of the voice greeting her from the corner. After a second of hesitation, she shook off its familiar warmth. This voice had a darker dimension.
"What? Can't you bring yourself to look at me?" the voice spoke again, resentfully. It was rhythmic, illuminating.
Exhaling deeply, Cordelia spun around, almost toppling backwards at the sight she now faced.
She was a shadow at first, embraced by the swollen darkness. Untamed hair decorating her hidden face, her body cloaked in an unfastened dress and sheltered by a tasselled black shawl. She stood calmly, black boots asserting sinister authority.
"Misty?" Cordelia's voice ruptured as she said her name. The stress must be playing with her. She wiped at her eyes, attempting to scrub away the scene.
The swamp witch remained, fixed and lucid before her.
"But you died, you got stuck in Hell. We couldn't bring you back," Cordelia faltered. She ran a hand through her hair and stumbled closer to the shadows.
"I don't believe you, Supreme. You left me there," Misty spat at her. There was venom in her words.
"No, Misty, we did everything we could. I did everything." She paced closer, reserved in response to the spiteful glares. The blackened bulbs of Misty's eyes drank her in and forced her out. She was a different self; a void. The atmosphere which followed her smelt evil by nature. She was barely human in this darkness.
"I came back through flames. I've had no justice in my sorry life so I came back to claim it for myself," she roared, pounding her hand against her chest.
"Oh god. You did this," Cordelia spluttered in response, her arms flailing at the objects on her desk. "I did this. I let this happen to you." The missing witch. Her body convulsed at the realisation of what Misty had done.
Discarding the sentiment she'd once had for the Coven; Misty launched herself at Cordelia and grabbed her shoulders. She was volatile, monstrous. Black feathers danced amongst the strands of her hair as she shook Cordelia, scrutinising her with profound and bulbous eyes.
"Time devoured me. And for that, you will not be forgiven."