The Familial Witch

by Bri Clark

  She helped settle him on a hay-filled mattress, which served as her bed near the hearth. During her walk, she’d found that he’d been shot with an arrow. She should have been afraid his pursuers would follow him here. However, her home was well hidden, not only physically, but also with wards and spells ensuring its seclusion.

  She went to the fire and stirred up the coals then added some logs. She would need her dream stem tonic to ease his pain so she could heal his wound. It was a combination of herbs that would relax then heavily sedate him. In order for the mixture to work correctly, it had to be heated.

  ****

  Lucien watched her move comfortably around her one room dwelling. It was simple, yet homely. There were numerous shelves of books, vials, and dried herbs, reaffirming his assumption of witchcraft. Dried flowers filled several dishes on the shelves, giving the dwelling a soft, petaled fragrance. The pain in his arm throbbed again and pleasantries weren’t something he had for witches anyway, much less when he was hurt. A witch’s help came with conditions, and Lucien knew he needed her, but wanted to know at what cost up front.

  “So, what will you ask of me in exchange for your help, witch?” He growled. Perhaps if he could frighten her, she would help him and then send him on his way. He began to unbutton his shirt, eager to get started. She suddenly dropped something and turned—her green eyes were wide as they assessed him.

  “What did you call me?” she asked. Her voice was meek, and the tone as light as a moth’s flight. Guilt enveloped him as if he was drowning. His lungs constricted, stopping his breath. He immediately regretted his abruptness.

  “I entreat your pardon, again, Madame. I saw all your plants and your many vials and assumed you were a witch.”

  She smiled, and his pain suddenly stopped and breathing was a distant memory, as if he was under a spell. She had to be a witch to accomplish such a feat with just a smile…perhaps an enchantress.

  “You’re correct, sir. I’m a witch. I just haven’t been called that in so long it was shocking to hear.” Her manner was as gentle as her tone. She turned and picked up the dropped bottle. “If I must have a title, I prefer healer, or perhaps my name even, which is Aisleen.”

  “Aisleen,” he said aloud. Her name was one from ancient times. He’d only encountered one type of being whose members carried that name and she couldn’t be from them. They were long gone....forever. Before guilt could overtake him again, he introduced himself.

  “I’m known as Lucien,” he began, then groaned. She was at his side in an instant. Her close proximity brought the scent of peonies back—the same scent he’d followed. She produced a folded cloth. It was cool as she softly dabbed at his face and down his neck. He closed his eyes. The aroma was intoxicating and her touch, enchanting. When he saw her again, she was lifting a kettle from the fire she had started earlier.

  A chipped cup with a matching saucer sat on a small table by the hearth. As she made the concoction with easy grace, he admired her silhouette created from the firelight. Ancient and long suppressed urges awakened within him. Longings that were not only physical, but something more. She sat beside him and handed him a cup of steaming liquid.

  “Drink this. It’ll ease your pain,” she promised. As obedient as a mutt, he obeyed. Yes, she must be an enchantress, he thought. As the warmth of the liquid made its way down his throat, coating his insides with a wonderful pleasure, the sweet and refreshing scent of peonies seduced his scent reflexes again. Then, a loud snap sounded, and a slight pain came from his shoulder.

  “Sorry, it helps if you don’t expect it. That way, the muscles are relaxed in case I jar the tip,” she apologized as she threw part of the shaft of the arrow in a basket by the door. Once again, her strength and stealth impressed him. She had to be more than a simple hedge witch as she claimed—one who healed using small magics and the supplies Mother Goddess grew upon her sphere.

  He relaxed beside her as the sudden feeling of being weightless overcame him. The liquid he drank. The pain was gone with unconsciousness soon to follow. He looked at her luminous face again. He knew he should warn her about the liquid silver, its effects and what it would do to him if released. Nevertheless, he couldn’t seem to care. He was so simply happy that he began to lie down. She guided him from his back onto his stomach and finished freeing him of his shirt. Before he fell into the potion-induced sleep, her whisper tickled his ear. Her voice was musical in his stupor and he smiled in response.

  “Have no fear, Lucien. I’ll be able to fix this easily, and those who caused it will never find you here,” she promised him.

  ****

  As Lucien slept, Aisleen basked in overwhelming masculinity. Her husband Thomas had been a big man, especially in comparison to her smaller build. He had been strong and brawny from his work as a blacksmith. Lucien, however, was a living contradiction of physical beauty and sheer male prowess. His skin was unblemished and pulled taut over the muscles of his shoulders, blending seamlessly into the plane of his back. His brown hair was unkempt and curled, tickling the base of his neck. His profile revealed a square, chiseled jaw with high cheekbones.

  She worked with efficient ease. Other immortal beings with a weakness to silver had sought out her help, namely vampires. The last one had a new sort of arrowhead with a strange liquid within it. If she hadn’t discovered its contents, the victim would have been lost to her. The thankful vampire insisted on pledging his unwavering allegiance to her. She had laughed it off.

  The body heat she felt as she prepped his wound caused her skin to feel sensations she’d never encountered. He’d accused her of being a witch. He’d asked what she wanted in return for her help. What was that supposed to mean? When people were in need, she was honor bound to assist them as a healer of the Goddess Mother. But then, he didn’t know that. No one could.

  He groaned in his sleep. She decided to concentrate on her task.

  After searching through her supplies for the specific leaf she was looking for, she rejoined Lucien on the small bed. Through trial and error with the vampire, she knew that the rare, sinewy leaves of the GroBe’ tree would only work. Like all her best potions and spells, the ingredients always included rare plants. It was another reason for her living situation. Trinity Forest held many uncommon plants and trees that she had been able to utilize in her craft.

  She positioned the leaf over the front part of his shoulder and prepared to push it all the way through. Before she began, she noticed hidden down within the upside down V the arrowhead made, fitted to the shaft, was a small serrated tip that formed a plug. Upon further inspection of the injury, she concluded that she would have to adjust the direction of the arrowhead since it had been stopped by his shoulder blade. Gathering up some extra linen and bandages, she said a prayer to the Mother Goddess.

  It took some maneuvering and strength, but she finally was able to get it into position. He groaned from the abuse, but continued to sleep. Aisleen was glad she’d doubled the dose of dream stem tonic she had given him. Finally, the arrowhead went cleanly through his front and the leaf then, as if by magic, completely enclosed the arrowhead, keeping any potential surprise safely tucked in its folds. The covered tip fell to the mattress as she applied pressure to the hole. What was left of the arrow came out quickly, followed by blood. Aisleen was prepared for a large amount of blood loss. However, the blood actually slowed. Then, she saw the wound all but disappear with a new epidermis appearing in its place.

  She pursed her lips and thought, Few beings have the power to regenerate like that. While vampires couldn’t be killed, their wounds, healing somewhat, would be left scarred and it never happened that quickly. She decided to inspect him further—easing him down on his back.

  Breathless from all her efforts, she sat back up and was greeted by an unexpected surprise. A tattoo was perfectly situated over his heart, only it was more than a tattoo. It was a living birthmark. The mark was intricate artwork of lightning bolts ending in a half moon. The golden bolts seemed to
pulsate into the white crescent as if on fire with red and orange hues illuminating from the marked skin. Sitting straight up and taking a breath within her nostrils, holding it, and slowly letting it out, she felt like she could handle the thought anxiously waiting to be acknowledged.

  A mark like that was awarded only to the supernatural leaders of the clans chosen by the Mother Goddess herself. It was a sign of their power and their responsibility to their people—and of the Mother’s favor to that being.

  Aisleen knew she should be afraid, but she wasn’t. The smart thing to do would be to stay far away and uninvolve herself from him any further. Instead, she leaned in closer. Further inspection of the mark caused a flicker of recognition. She gasped and all but flew across the thatched wood floor. Her hands frantically searched her battered books until she found the one she sought. Hidden within the well-loved pages of a larger unimportant text was her most beloved item. It was small, but so valuable.

  The pages containing the symbols of all the supernatural leaders, their names, and detailed information such as weaknesses and strengths made the volume priceless. She skimmed the pages till she found the matching symbol. Then, her heart dropped when she realized who and what lay upon her hay-filled mattress.

  Excruciating pain began in her heart, traveled the length of her entire being, and finally stopping in her soul with her only release being the screams that involuntarily erupted from her mouth. Anna, Michele, Veronica, Antonia, Gretchen and dearest Rochelle, along with countless others—each one linked to her by heart and soul. Gentle, loving beings who were so sweet they didn’t even hunt for food, opting instead to forage. All gone, all dead, all by the order of Lucien Lemoine, the Goddess’ picked and touched, the feared and revered leader of the elusive eternals.

  Most of their deaths had been quick, but for Aisleen, the means was of no consequence. The end was still the same. With the loss of each of her sisters, she lost a piece of herself, but it was the creation of a barren womb due to the loss of her unborn child that had ultimately sent her into seclusion. As the memories faded and the pain ebbed, she picked herself up off the floor and approached the cause of all the pain she had just endured, again.

  There he lay, vulnerable, defenseless and unknowing…the slayer of her coven. Why had she saved him? Why hadn’t she just stayed hidden? The pain-fueled anger raged inside her. The illumination of the lightning bolt upon his chest called to her saying, “Insert knife here.” It didn’t matter what she put in him. He would never die. Then again, death would be too easy. The leaf wrapped silver arrowhead caught her eye. Red hues colored her cheekas she picked up the leaf and hid it on her shelf.

  The coals of her fire needed attention. Aisleen knew she should fear him. The stories of his power and barbarism made vampires look like butterflies prior to metamorphosis. Nevertheless, she considered his kind speech from earlier, calling her Madame and the way her body reacted to his close proximity. Then, her heart did accelerate from fear. Having experienced firsthand the brutality Lucien was capable of, what he was running from had to be much worse. Perhaps he is after me. She considered briefly before dismissing it. As far as he or anyone else was concerned, the Familial Witches were all gone. Another prayer was offered before she turned in for the night—a prayer of repentance and of protection.

  ****

  The sun felt good on Aisleen’s exposed skin. It was unseasonably warm. A hare fed on some hidden seeds in the foliage. She aimed down her arrow, using it to sight her prey. Released, the arrow went clean through. The hare’s pain would be brief if at all. While at one time, she wouldn’t have hunted, events of the past had drastically changed her. Survival became the main priority.

  She retrieved her kill and added it to her overflowing sack. After her first unsuccessful hunting trip, she had felt weak and angry. She discovered that by chopping wood and building up her strength, she could pull the bow back easier. After daily target practices for weeks, she’d developed into an efficient and merciful hunter.

  Leaving her sack of kills outside to be cleaned, she went in to check on her guest. Lucien had been asleep for five solid days, although it had not been a quiet rest. He was very vocal at times and often thrashed in his enthusiasm. He repeated a woman’s name often, Lucinda. At times, he wept as he spoke her name over and over. He wept when he spoke of the Mother Goddess, as well. As best she could tell, he had lost not only the Lucinda woman, but the Mother’s favor, as well. He still lay motionless on her bed.

  Aisleen stretched her stiff muscles before she swallowed some fish scales. She had been forced to taking daily doses after sleeping on a pallet on the floor. The scales would ease the stiffness of her muscles. She reapplied the cover that Lucien had thrown off in one of his fits. A bowl of water rested on the side of his bed. The water was still warm from the heating stone she had added. Careful not to touch any of his markings, she bathed his face, neck, and upper body. Then, she dressed him in one of Thomas’ old shirts she had altered to fit Lucien. His shoulders were much broader.

  After finishing up, Aisleen rose to leave, but before she could walk away, she was jumped from behind.

  “I have searched everywhere for you,” Lucien whispered into her hair. Pressed firmly against his chest, she could feel the pulse of his birthmark, or his heart, through the thinning material of her dress. Quick, unsteady breaths bathed her face as his heat surrounded her body.

  Just as quick as he’d embraced her, he allowed her release. Standing up was harder than she expected. Being in his embrace was better even harder. His heart obviously belonged to another.

  Shaking her head, she decided to finish up the pile of wood she had been working on all week and prep the animals she had killed. The storm would be there soon and then she would be confined inside alone…with him. She buttoned the shirt close, hiding his mark, and tucked the blanket back around him. Splashing water on her face and smoothing her braid, she retreated to the outside.

  ****

  Lucien groaned. His head seemed to pound in a rhythm. He opened his eyes to survey his surroundings on instinct. He jumped up, alert. In the process, he knocked over a bowl of water. He cursed. He was still in the little cottage. There was no sign of the woman. Bending over to clean up the mess he had made, he caught the fragrance of dried herbs. Sniffing the cloth, he found the source. Then, smelling his forearm, he realized he was the additional source.

  A small mirror was positioned on a desk opposite the bed. He inspected himself. There was no trace of his shoulder wound. His skin had healed itself. Nevertheless, the silver arrowhead had been within his body for too long. His insides would take longer to heal. It’s like recovering from a poisoning for a mortal. How long have I been asleep? In answer, his stomach ached from the lack of substance. Eternals didn’t have to eat much, but they still needed nourishment. The pounding rhythm started again and he cursed from the ache in his head.

  That’s when he realized the rhythm was coming from outside the cottage. Lucien stood on stiff muscles. The smell of peony enticed him again and he followed, as obedient as ever. Walking through the low doorway, he knocked his head and swore again. Stumbling forward, the sun shone in his eyes, blinding him briefly as he went outside. When his vision cleared, he considered he might not be alive for the sight before him was nothing short of angelic.

  A statuesque woman stretched her elegant body, turning her face to the sun’s rays. The ivory of her complexion was as soft as a cloud on the breeze. The beams colored her cheeks rose. Chestnut hair was pulled taut in a braid that ended at the small of her back. Her flowing white gown was almost see-through with the sunlight streaming behind it, revealing shapely feminine curves. He smiled in admiration. Lucien was an immortal, but at times, especially lately, he was more of a man than he had ever been. He continued to admire the view that temporarily distracted him from his aching body.

  The angel stretched farther with something in her hands. His smile stretched, as well. Then, in one swift movement, she brought down an a
xe. Two pieces of wood fell over, adding to an already ample pile. The action was so unexpected, so unethereal, that Lucien cursed without thought. He stalked over to her and wrenched the axe from her hands.

  “Are you daft, Madame?” he asked.

  She simply smiled, tipped her head, and raised her hand above her eyes. He could see blood from the broken blisters on her palms. It only added to his unexplained and sudden frustration. “No,” she answered. “Are you?”

  Lucien was very aware of the high color of her cheeks and the deep crimson of her full lips. “Why are you chopping wood? A lady should not be doing such laborious work.” He growled. He was furious, but why? He didn’t understand his own feelings.

  She sighed, rubbed her hands on an apron around her waist, and then smiled again. Lucien didn’t need any more temptations to look at her hips.

  “You must have forgotten, sir. However, I am not surprised. You have been unconscious for days. So, let me remind you. I am no lady. I am a witch. Remember?”

  He was aware of much more than her being merely a witch. He vowed he would find out what else she was.

  Hands still planted on her hips, teasing his attentions, she continued her banter. “Whatever title you feel like befitting me with now is of no consequence because in a few hours we are going to be confined to that cabin by the storm that’s brewing in the West. It’s been building up for days and I’ve got to be prepared. If you want to chop, be my guest. Nevertheless, I chopped all the wood in that shed and I’ll be chopping all the wood when you leave,” she stated matter-of-factly. Then, she began picking up the split pieces in her apron and stacking them under the crudely erected shelter near her door.