by S. L. Prater
Alastor’s mouth shrank. “That is . . . generous, Your Majesty.”
“The church would like to attend as well, Majesty,” the bishop said.
“The church is permitted to attend,” Bran continued. “Upon their return to the grounds known as Magus District, their claim to the land shall be honored in full. Alastor, as high councilor, you will further pay respects to these great people by accompanying a party of my choosing to invite them to the banquet at the palace. You will do so . . .” Bran paused, his eyes glowing with disdain. “. . . unarmed. Your sword stays here.”
Whispered protests followed. Marnie caught the side of Raif’s face, which blanched white.
“Remove your sword now,” Bran ordered. “Leave it on the table.”
Alastor gaped. “My lord—”
“Take. It. Off.”
The captain stood and fumbled with his belt, his face reddening like he’d been asked to remove his pants instead. He dropped his sheathed sword on the table. It clattered. His eyes pleaded with the other councilors, but their faces were averted.
Alastor squared his shoulders, facing the emperor. He hesitated, picking his words carefully. “The land is rich with resources. Resources which, put in the hands of the council members, would create jobs and boost Loreley’s economy—”
“It would increase your personal economy greatly, I agree,” Bran said, his voice laced with malice. “For your sake, hopefully the voters forget about this quickly. Councilor is also now a position decided by the vote, and most people do not respond positively to acts of eminent domain and war mongering. You could have started a civil war with this nonsense.”
“Unlikely,” the captain said. “Witch populations remain quite small throughout the kingdoms.”
“You would have murdered them to grow your wealth. Some of them would have stood against you with their lives. Others would rise up to avenge them.”
“Death by hanging is as valid a consequence as any for violating a royal edict. I would have grown Loreley’s economy exponentially. I’ve broken no laws here. I am not on trial.”
“Captain, this edict was foolhardy,” Jericho said. “Self-serving as well. Our priests and watchmen will have no part of it.”
Alastor spun on the bishop, sneering. “The Cloth would have gladly accepted the tithes that poured in from the profits of cultivating this land. Just like the crown would have reveled in the taxes.”
Bran stood tall. His lip curled in contempt. “At the moment, I revel in watching you shamed and disarmed.”
“I see there is no changing your mind on this.” Alastor rested a hand on his sword longingly.
“Your Majesty,” Bran added, his tone menacing. “You see there is no changing my mind, Your Majesty.”
“Your Majesty,” the captain repeated grudgingly.
“Dismissed,” Bran yelled with a finality that had everyone on their feet and hustling for the doors. “Raif, Alec, a word.” The emperor motioned them close. He kept his voice low, too low for Marnie to hear it all. “Go quickly in our royal airships . . . the captain does not come back.”
“It shall be done.” Raif bowed slightly, his freckled face paler than usual.
“My lord, what are we to do if the witches won’t trust us?” Worry furrowed Alec’s brow. “They will struggle to believe they can have their land back. The original edict still stands. If any of them stay, they’ll hang.”
“Bring Jack with you. He’s at LaFontaine Manor now,” Marnie said. “They will believe you with a new edict in hand, the emperor’s signature, and Jack to vouch for you.”
“You heard her.” Bran nudged them onward. “Do as our ‘hero witch’ says.”
***
Marnie spent most of the morning growing accustomed to the mechanical brace that wrapped her right hand and gave her three new automated fingers. They were powered by Ammnon magics which smelled like grease paint. When she flexed, tiny pistons whirred and the metal fingers clenched. Her palm had more feeling. Her thumb and pointer finger were no longer black.
“Alastor is dead.” Jack entered the manor kitchens, newspaper in hand. “Hung on his own gallows in Magus District.”
Marnie was practicing with her new brace when he entered, scraping breakfast leftovers into a bucket for compost. At his words, she tossed the plate in the sink, ignoring it when she missed. It broke on the floor. She grabbed the newspaper from him with a mechanical strength that nearly shredded it.
“I really hate it when you do that,” he groused. Marnie skimmed the paper as Jack scrounged for food, picking over a bowl of fresh fruit.
Captain Alastor of House Bechtold was found in violation of a royal edict, signed by his own hand, trespassing in a camp north of the walls. He was hung from the neck until dead before witnesses.
A photo of the empty gallows accompanied it. Marnie’s stomach knotted. She did not wish to read more. She turned to an inside page and smiled at a grainy photo of Bran, under the heading First Witches’ Summit, Guests at Palace Number in the Hundreds. The acting emperor headed the banquet table, looking enraptured by his conversation with Shar Zerba. Marnie had never seen him look anything but miserable at a party. She traced his beaming face with a fingertip.
“The coronation is postponed pending the vote.” Jack bit into an apple. Juice dripped down his chin. “Bran refuses to campaign.”
“I can read for myself, thanks,” Marnie retorted.
“No, you can’t.” Jack snatched the paper back. “This one is mine. Get your own!”
***
The new voting process would take several days. Bran, in the best of spirits, began moving his belongings back into his former bedroom at the manor. He ate dinner most nights with Marnie and Annette as company and slept in his chambers frequently. Raif was named new captain over the blade guards. The redhead promptly tightened his reins on the acting emperor, insisting Bran keep fifteen guardsmen at LaFontaine Manor for all his extended visits.
The results of the vote arrived by wire four days later while the family shared supper. Votes were cast in every district, in each kingdom. The victor won—if the tabloids could be trusted—by a landslide.
“Of course they selected you,” Marnie said, seated beside her mother at the round table under a gilded chandelier in the dining hall. “You’re the man who returned the vote to the people.”
Bran stared in disbelief at the small telegram in his hand. He read it again under the gaslights.
“But I’m too young and I have long hair which encourages anarchy.” His tresses were in his eyes. He pulled on them in aggravation, his dinner cold and uneaten beside his elbow. “I named a lowborn woman as heir to the LaFontaine estate. I avoided political parties, aggravated the Cloth, I didn’t even campaign . . .”
“You weren’t trying to lose on purpose, were you, dear?” Annette folded her napkin and laid it over her plate.
He stared pointedly at Marnie when he spoke. “I had other plans in mind aside from ruling Loreley the rest of my life. Important plans.”
“You’re the only one in all the empire who is surprised by this.” Marnie pressed her lips together, fighting down her amusement at his forlorn expression.
“We’ll throw you a victory party. Here at the manor,” Annette announced, and his face soured further. “It’s expected,” she clucked at him. “It would be undignified not to.”
“I’ve lost my appetite.” Bran tossed back a full glass of wine and headed up to bed early. The sun had only just set.
Marnie visited him most nights when he stayed over, but sensing he needed his privacy to sort out his thoughts, she kept her distance.
***
Though much had changed throughout Loreley, Bran maintained his reclusive nature at his own victory celebration. He spoke a quick blessing at the start of the festivities and was quickly off hiding somewhere. Marnie and Lady Becker did not wear aprons to the event. They sat in a corner table in the crowded ballroom, piano music thundering in their ears, in the
city’s finest evening wear. They were visited by numerous guests—delegates, businessmen, and high-ranking officials amongst them.
Marnie had allowed her mother to pin up her hair and dress her in a dark green chiffon gown. Green to honor the emperor, who would be crowned for life at his coronation tomorrow—if anyone could find him again.
Annette had encouraged her daughter to remove her antler armband, twice. It didn’t match the sophistication of her evening wear, apparently. She was also encouraged to conceal the inked Sidra star bellow her collar with powder.
She refused.
Marnie snuck away from her table after a respectable time. Paul Harris of House Warmington so occupied Lady Becker that she did not notice.
Marnie exited the ballroom and stopped at the servant’s spiral staircase. She kissed her thumb and touched her forehead, humbling herself before God. Then she found her way up to the second floor, where an office space sat, lit low and somber by dusty gas lamps. She found Bran behind a pine desk, in his best silk shirt, top button undone, bow tie missing. The fat book in his lap was titled Common Fauna of Loreley.
Marnie leaned against the doorframe. “Please tell me you aren’t reading about goats.”
His smile did not reach his eyes. He removed his feet from a stack of encyclopedias so she could sit beside him. She sat in his lap instead.
Bran abandoned his book on the floor. He took her mechanical hand in his, examining the puckered scars beneath the automated appendages.
“Those were my favorite three fingers,” he sighed.
“I’ll only miss the middle one.”
He laughed, but his expression remained downtrodden.
“Why are you pouting?” Marnie moved his black hair out of his face, tucking it behind his ear. It fell back in his eyes. She tied the stubborn tresses in a knot and left it to hang by his cheek.
“I’m not pouting.” He tugged on the knot, and it came free easily. “I always hide from parties.”
She traced his frown with her fingertips. He closed his eyes. When they opened again, they were downcast, solemn.
“Talk to me, you silly man. It will make you feel better.”
He took a deep breath through his nose, filling his chest. “Would it be so terribly selfish if I simply faked my death now, before I could be dragged back to the palace? We’ll go across the sea. You can take me to the academy with you.”
“That would be a bit selfish, yes, and I think you lack the right aptitude for the academy.” She sniggered at him. “Be serious now. Tell me what’s gotten under your skin.”
“They think you mean nothing to me,” he said. “And it makes me ill. The entire room full of delegates believe my affection for you is disposable. That what we have is an affair, a fling. They talk about you like they would a street girl. That doesn’t bother you?”
“Not in the least.” And she meant it.
“How could it not? It is ripping me apart.”
“I mean the world to you. It doesn’t bother me, because that is the truth of it. There are many things I feel uncertain about. Your love for me has never been one of them.”
“The church honored Constable Alec,” Bran said sourly. “The bishop gifted him with money and land, enough he could retire happily as a master if he had a mind to. They pinned his chest full of medals. They praised him in the papers, and no one made idiotic suggestions that he be jailed and tortured, just in case he has a demon in him.”
“I’m glad. Alec is one of the good ones, and with his help, the rite Brother Doyle performed was easy, painless, and I got to keep my clothes on.”
“Marnie,” he groaned, “that should be you! Why aren’t you pouting here along with me? You are their hero. Alec barely managed to stay alive. You saved him. You destroyed the bear demon, rescued the village of Glint, earned twice as many armbands as any apprentice, ever, since our written histories began recording such things . . .”
She chuckled. “My, your mood is dark tonight.”
“Be angry with me. Why are you so calm? My misery wants company! You should be furious! You should be breaking things!”
She patted his cheek. “I am always angry. With or without you—haven’t you noticed? I am always furious. You get used to it. Why else would I be so ready to throw your lamps at walls?”
“That is a perfect idea! Let’s go and throw a lamp at a wall right now. There’s got to be hundreds of them in this ridiculously massive house—no, I mean it,” he said when she laughed. “It will make me feel better.”
She kissed him, long and slow, and when she pulled away, she saw the ache in his eyes, an ache that mirrored her own.
“That works on me too,” he confessed, his voice gruff. He toyed with the ends of her hair, twirling the strands between his long fingers.
Marnie cupped his cheek, grinning at him like a fool in love. “Don’t ever remind me I admitted this to you, because I’ll just deny it later, but you were right all along. For someone who hates politics, you are incredibly good at it. So we’ll stay the course. I’ll continue to be the hero witch, and for a while the Cloth will give their accolades away to those less deserving. Until their debt to me has grown insurmountable. When that day comes, I will let them keep their money, their land, and their medals. I’ll ask for only one small favor in return, and the church won’t be able to refuse me.”
Bran pressed a kiss to her hair. “What small favor will you demand?”
“Tolerance. When I marry their emperor, they will look the other way and shut up about it.”
The End
Acknowledgement
Dear Reader,
As someone who is terrible about sticking it out and seeing most tasks to their end, I applaud your commitment to this book! Thank you for finishing it. Please consider writing a review. Reviews help authors like me find the right audience and grow as writers. Your thoughts are greatly appreciated.
Please let me know what you liked and what you wished was different. If you spot an error or want to reach out, you can contact me at [email protected]. Visit my website at https://www.streetwitch.net/ for news regarding book 2: Warrior Witch. It is coming soon! You can also find me on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/slpraterwrites.
A book is rarely the work of one person. Street Witch was no exception. Special thanks to my editor, Erin Grey (if there are any mistakes, it’s because I went in and muddied something up without showing it to her afterwards). Erin, you truly are the equivalent of a magical fairy with words.
Thank you Lacy Page for all of your encouragement. To Justin Wright, I appreciate your excellent wisdom regarding world building. To Amanda Luedeke and Erin Butterbaugh, for your invaluable advice and friendship over the years. And all my beloved Beta Readers: Cheryl Louth, Aimee Brown, Julie Badtke, and Jessica Trout. Thank you, thank you! If I wasn’t a poor, starving author I’d buy you all new cars!
And thank you, Zach, my long-suffering husband who really hates romance but powered through anyway to give me a well-rounded perspective.
Warmest Regards,
Steph
