A Witch's Fate_A Reverse Harem Romance

by Cheri Winters

  Beautiful ivy climbing up the wall

  From the dark soil, you hear the call

  Best,

  B. Wake

  I let myself sink down against the wall. I read it again, comparing it mentally to the one other time a boy with a crush on me had written me a poem. It was a clumsy, sugary thing with cliché rhymes and a repetitive, sing-song meter. This poem is different. The images don’t stand still for me. I have to go back and read it a second time to start absorbing it. A third to finally fix it in my mind. This is no simple schoolboy poem, but something trying to communicate a feeling coming from a different place than mere infatuation or lust. It’s somebody telling me that they see me as a force of nature, and that they are willing to face it.

  I have to chuckle a little bit as I read that. Me, as a force of nature, the desire of life itself to always grow and spread! I think back to morning, looking in the mirror as I put color to my pale skin, so my black hair and green eyes didn’t overpower my face.

  Of course! My green eyes. The finest thing my mother left me, according to Grandma. Her son, my father, apparently could not resist them. Bright green leaves against white slate… I know exactly where Ben got that image. Ben, the only person I’ve ever met with skin paler than mine…

  Chapter Two

  Ben Wake

  I do not like waking to the sun.

  Under the best of circumstances, it is a great annoyance. At worst, it can kill me. At least I’ve got a bedroom on the west side of the house, with the mountains behind me, so I never get direct light into my bedroom. But when I stay up too late into the night, and forget to draw the blackout curtains before going to sleep, even the dull and reflected light coming into my room drags me out of slumber into a state of disorientation and terribly foul temper.

  I cocoon myself in my bedclothes to cover as much of my skin as I can while I walk over to the window and jerk the blackouts shut. A rasp of irritation escapes my throat as I crawl back into bed, just as my stomach growls. Bad enough that I seared myself awake by forgetting to draw the curtains last night, but my body is demanding I feed as well. I will need to go out tonight and hunt. Every day that I wait, the hunger gets more insistent, and my control over it gets weaker. Leave it too long, and I may as well be a thrope, a wild thing stalking anything with a heartbeat and ripping it apart in a frenzy of bloodlust.

  Fortunately, I’ve never let my thirst consume me that much, but I’ve seen it happen. The last year of the Great War, there was a squad of vampires calling themselves the Sângele Pierdut – the Lost Bloods — that intentionally let themselves go that feral, starving themselves in cages until they lost all sense of themselves, their pride, their inherited nobility, reducing themselves to mad beasts, crawling on all fours, barely able to speak, clothes rent to mere rags, their skin sallow and filthy. Then somebody would hear rumor of a pack of thropes holed up somewhere, and a cage would be loaded into a truck and driven out.

  It is rare that the vampire survived the encounter, but he’d always take four or five thropes with him. Honestly, our best fighters couldn’t take down four wolves at once, even on their best days. I saw a Sângele Pierdut in action once – we were staking out a pack, and didn’t know that one of the other clans was also watching them. We were maybe a day out from moving in on the pack when we saw the Lost Blood burst out of nowhere into the middle of their camp. The thrope on guard was pupped up, but even with his better senses of hearing and scent in that form, he never had a chance. The creature went for his throat with such violence that it ripped his head right off. The second thrope to go down at least had time to scream while frantically reaching for his gun. Those were the only ones the Sângele Pierdut got easily. One thing about thropes is that even in their human shape, they’re fast and they’re sharp. But a Lost Blood in its lust isn’t stopped easy. After we’d shot down the thropes he didn’t get, we went in and found more than a dozen silver bullets in its body. Worse, though, is that we found it also killed three mortals on its way to the thrope camp. Most of the clan didn’t mind that, but I did.

  I still do care about mortals. Humans. I still don’t understand why most vampires, after a decade or so, lose touch so completely with what they once were, and develop such contempt for the warm. Each of us was born to a warm father and mother. But most of us, when we get turned, seem to think that some divine hand lifted us up, personally, because we were so much better than the world we were born into.

  I can tell you, it was no god that chose me to receive the sacred gift of the vampires’ blood. My mama în sânge was an elder named Sonia Vătafu. She was bored, hanging around Fort Slocum in 1917, looking for something strong and alive to toy with. I was supposed to travel to New York City the next day to board a ship for France to fight in World War One, which was also called the Great War at the time. I snuck off post with a couple of friends to get drunk and maybe find some girls so we wouldn’t go off to war as virgins…

  People that Sonia sets her eyes on rarely live to see the morning. She certainly wasn’t planning on it when she saw me that night. I was going to be drained of blood and left in the woods, right up until the moment when she asked me, just to make conversation so she could lure me out of the bar, what I was up to that night. And I boldly told her that I was hoping for the company of a beautiful woman before departing to face the crimson clash of war.

  My attempt to woo her with a line from a Stephen Crane poem struck her fancy just right, so she turned me instead of killing me that night. That is the only reason I am a vampire today. I amused somebody that was intending to kill me. I am no better than anybody else, no more and no less. I’m just a fool that got lucky after he got real unlucky one night.

  I shake my head to try and snap out of the memory of Sonia and of the wars. Springtime is always rough for me. As the days become longer, the sun setting later and rising earlier, I find myself increasingly cut off from people. By summer, I’m usually used to it, but after having so much time in the winter that I can move about freely between the longer nights and cloudy days, seeing it taken away from me, nibble by nibble, every day, depresses me terribly.

  I don’t sweat, and I didn’t do anything yesterday to make me dirty, so I don’t really need to shower, but it’s a comfortable routine for me. The same with brushing my teeth. I don’t need to do it except after I feed. I get dressed, and greet Paul and Carol on my way out to the garage. They are strange people, but quiet and polite. We have an agreement. They pretend to be my parents whenever somebody comes to the house, and I let them live here for free. I tell them I was born fabulously wealthy, and was privately tutored until I was sixteen. Now, I just want to spend a couple of years seeing what it’s like to live a normal life. They seem to buy the romance of it and don’t ask any questions. I was turned when I was just eighteen, and I had a bit of a babyface then, so easily look like I should be a senior in high school.

  I’m just about to get into my car when I see the motorcycle sitting off to the side. After waking up poorly, I decide that taking my first ride of the year sounds perfect. I’d put the bike up properly back in September, and the garage is heated, so it’s just a couple minutes work to get her ready to ride. I put on my leathers, a thick face mask, and a heavy cap, all of which will protect me from both the chill wind and the sun. I mount up and hit the starter, and the engine rumbles to life.

  I realize now just how much I’ve been missing the old beast while it slept through the winter. Getting to ride is one of the things that gets me through the bright summer months.

  I glance at my watch quick, and see that I’m running late. Normally not a problem, but I am hoping to get to school extra early today. It means I have to step it up on the ride in, even though the roads aren’t completely clean yet. I pull out of the driveway and onto the highway, smoothly carving through the curves as I climb out of the valley. I’m making decent time when I see a familiar car up ahead – It’s Ivy Sparks. I have to get to school before she does.

 
I know that there are only two passing zones between us and the school, and one is coming up soon. I open up the throttle, and pull up right behind Ivy’s little blue Honda. She’s a very, very careful driver, like a lot of people her age that have only been driving for a year or so, and admit to themselves they’re not good at it yet. You can’t really say that Stokers Mill has a rush hour, just a couple times of day when there’s actual traffic on the roads. There are just enough oncoming cars that I know I’m going to have to jump into any opening I get when we hit the passing zone around this next curve. I rev the engine and drop down a gear, getting ready to accelerate as soon as I see my chance…

  And there it is, a big dual-wheel pickup with a decent gap behind it. The very moment it’s past me, I roll the throttle all the way back, and the bike leaps forward. I know I’ve got to run hard to get past Ivy before that next car gets around the blind curve ahead. I look to my right, and see her at the wheel, hands very precisely where they should be on the steering wheel, eyes dashing between me and the road ahead. I can’t help but slow down just a bit, to admire her as I go by.

  Then she mashes the brakes. I snap my attention forward and see the oncoming car is much closer than I’d expected it to be. I don’t even have time to be thankful that Ivy is rapidly decelerating, giving me a gap to slide into. I look left as the oncoming car blurs past, catching a flash of the driver, head down, eyes on the phone in his hand. He never would have seen me until I went through his windshield.

  I give Ivy a little wave of thanks, a kind of salute that I picked up from a friend in a jazz club back in the 20s, to let her know I appreciate her help in not crashing.

  I spit out some pretty unpleasant language at the guy, and briefly consider suspending my policy of not feeding on humans, just for him. But it’s my first day on the bike in months, and it doesn’t take long for the cold wind and the visceral thumping of the engine beneath me, and a few more long, sweeping curves to lift my spirits back up.

  By the time I get to the school, I’m feeling one with the machine, and can’t help but dance with it a little as I look for a parking space, dodging here, weaving there, leaning through curves tight enough that I scrape the foot pegs on the ground,

  The hallways are mostly empty once I get inside. Less than half the students have arrived, and most of them have long been in the habit of ignoring me. Stokers Mill seems like a very nice town filled with very nice people, but in some ways, it is as bad as a vampire clan – closed off to outsiders unless and until they can find some way to prove themselves. I haven’t yet figured out what I could give them that they would want, though, so I remain isolated in their midst. Only Ivy has ever shown me any genuine kindness, and even that in small gestures here and there, when she’s apart from her many friends.

  It’s not just those little glimpses of acceptance that Ivy gives me that make me stop at her locker and reach into my jacket for a folded, sealed piece of paper. There’s something more than that to her. Something that draws me to her, that makes me unable to look away when she’s near me – to the point where I’d nearly ruined my bike and somebody else’s car just twenty minutes earlier. I look at the paper in my hand. It, in its way, lays my feelings out for her. I stand there pondering whether I should slip it through the vents in her locker door, when I realize that I’m just standing there in front of it like an idiot. Sooner or later, somebody is going to notice me and wonder what I’m doing.

  ‘Well,’ I tell myself. ‘Nothing else to do but to do it.’ I slip the paper into her locker, and then quickly walk down the hallway to my own. It takes me a couple of tries to get the books I won’t need until afternoon, and all of my riding gear inside. Like all vampires, there is something about seeing my own reflection that makes me profoundly uncomfortable, so I don’t have a mirror inside my locker door. I do carry a comb, though, and do the best I can to smooth out my hair after the ride. Just as I’m finishing, the first bell rings. I start to make my way from my locker, at the back of the school, to my first class all the way at the front.

  I see Ivy in the flow of students heading deeper into the school. I smile and wave at her again. Instead of the little nod and nice smile she usually gives me, her face twists in anger. Her green eyes, normally so bright, like two grand emeralds, go cold.

  “Ben!” she says. “That was not funny. You scared me to death out there.”

  I try to start an apology, but Carl, Kate, and Nathan all step right up to me. I have to take a step back to keep from being knocked over by Carl.

  “Whatever you’re about to say, don’t,” he says. “You want to be a jackass in class or at lunch or in the hallway, fine. But never, never, ever mess with Ivy on the road, or we’re going to have some real problems.”

  Every eye in the hallway feels like it’s on Carl and me.

  “Carl,” Ivy says. “He doesn’t know. Let it be.”

  I’ve known since the very first time I saw him that Carl is a thrope – a lycanthrope, or werewolf. At this moment, he’s furious at me. I don’t even need to see the expression on his face, or the way he actually starts to grow a little bit taller and broader. I can smell it on him, the wolf musk. All of the hair on his head gets a little bit coarser and starts trying to stand up.

  I can tell that he was born into his blood and not recently infected. It usually takes years to control the transformation well enough to let it just barely start, then stop it. A mortal would be terrified right now. A younger vampire than me might, too. But I’ve fought in two Great Wars, one against other men, one against his kind. I’ve taken pelts. But it won’t do to let that show right now. I’m the outsider in Stokers Mill. I have to let the local boy win.

  “Ok,” I say, as contrite as I can. “Never again.” I step away.

  Ivy comes up to Carl. “Let it be,” she whispers.

  He exhales, and I see him reverse the partial transformation, shrink back into himself.

  “Ms. Sparks,” I say, solemnly. “My most sincere apology for my behavior earlier today. I let the spirit of the day infect me without regard for the safety of others on the road. It was inexcusable.”

  Ivy just shakes her head at me and turns away. I realize that I’d really hurt her earlier, somehow caused genuine and deep pain. I want to call out to her, beg her forgiveness again, but I don’t. I have crossed a line with her, and I can’t uncross it. I can only make sure I never cross it again.

  And then I remember the poem in her locker. Of all of the days I could have opened myself up like that, I chose today. I halfway follow her, trying to stay out of sight. The second bell has already rung, so she doesn’t have much time to dwell. I see her throw her coat and a couple of books in, pull a few out, and just as she’s shutting the door, she notices something, but it’s too late. She runs off to class. I decide I’m already late to my first class, so I go to her locker, and suddenly decide I need to tie my shoe. As I crouch down pass by the lower vents of the locker door, I can smell the paper and the sealing wax. The note is still inside, at least. But there’s no way for me to get it out.

  At least I have a couple of hours reprieve.

  Right at the beginning of lunch, I make sure to pick a route to the cafeteria that will take me past her locker again. I see her open it up, and reach directly for something down low. She comes up with my note. She looks more curious than anything as she looks around, then tucks the note into one of her books and walks off, away from the cafeteria. I keep my distance as I follow her, down to the band room, and then into a hallway behind it that I’ve never noticed before.

  I find that if I’m careful, I can stand behind a coat rack with a few jackets on it, and barely see her without being seen myself. She breaks the seal on the ribbon, and unties it, unfolds the note, reads it. I watch her as best I can, catching just glimpses of her facial expression. First, she seems bewildered. She leans back against the wall and slides down it. Once she’s sitting, she reads it again, and again. I see many things flash across her face in the little gli
mpses I catch, and none of them seem to be anger. Finally, I hear a little laugh escape her. Not of mockery or derision, though. And a smile lingers on her face afterwards.

  I don’t know how exactly the poem I wrote affects her, but I’m at least a little bit optimistic that I’ve regained her favor as I carefully, silently, back away down the hallway and around the corner.

  Chapter Three

  Carl Wilson

  I spend the rest of the day itching. It’s a side effect of the transformation. Unfortunately, even a partial transformation comes with a full dose of that side effect. There’s a part of me that wishes I would have gone full wolf on Ben, to make sure he knew full well what he was messing with, that Ivy is part of my personal pack and off limits to the likes of him. If I’m going to itch all day, might as well earn it, right? But I know that’s the wolf blood talking – the part of my nature that drives on pure impulse and aggression. It will always choose the path that leads to the most bloodshed, if I let it.

  But there are so many reasons to not let the wolf out. The most obvious, of course, being that we never, ever show our true selves to the pinkies. We’ve gone for centuries without them realizing how many of us walk among them. Me transforming right in the middle of a school would have single handedly destroyed all of that work by countless of my ancestors, and have only ended in me being hunted down and torn to shreds by morning.

  Then there’s the Truce between us and the zombies. No matter how many of my problems with Ben, and his sniffing around Ivy, are personal, for me to tangle with him would be a violation of the Truce. It could be one pebble in an avalanche of violations that could restart the Great War. I lost way too much to the war to risk that. Way, way too much.

  I had to content myself with showing him just enough to hope he’d back off instead of starting a fight with me. I can only hope that he also values the Truce and is terrified of breaking it. Maybe that will get him to back off from Ivy, go find some other pinkie somewhere else to mope around with his fashionable immortal ennui.