The Familial Witch

by Bri Clark

  Lucien grit his teeth. Not if I don’t leave. That surprised him more than his anger. Why would he even entertain the idea? He had a dangerous situation he needed to take care of…a duty to his people. Yet, all he seemed to want to do was to relieve Aisleen of the physical burdens that had obviously made her so strong and get to know her even better.

  She hummed to herself as she stacked the wood. He set a new piece up and split it, although his muscles screamed from the exhaustion.

  After a couple of hours, all the wood was chopped. He looked to the direction where she indicated the storm would come from. The air was still warm and the skies were clear. However, he knew to never doubt a witch, especially about the weather. Walking over to a well to get a dipper of water, his stomach still roared from hunger—chopping wood did more harm than good.

  On the well’s wall was some dried fruit and nuts. Lucien looked around to see if Aisleen had meant to eat them herself. She was nowhere to be seen. His stomach growled. Drawing the bucket up first, he drank greedily, then ate the food in one handful. Taking another gulp of water, he suddenly smelled the distinct mixture of peonies and blood, a lot of blood. Dropping the bucket in some kind of instinctual response, all his brain could think was, Find Aisleen, now.

  Before he could begin a frantic search, there she stood, picking up the fallen bucket, smiling, in an apron stained with old blood. “Did you get the food I left for you? I know it’s not much, but I was able to kill a deer while I was skinning…”

  He choked on his water before interrupting. “You killed a what? While doing what?”

  Aisleen poured water into a separate bucket and began washing her hands. She winced. The metallic smell of fresh blood invaded his senses. There in her bucket of water was the source. Grabbing her wrist, he jerked her up.

  “Ow!” she yelled. Using her height as an advantage, she turned under his elbow, then came up behind him with his arm curled behind his back.

  Lucien laughed from deep inside. He could feel the blood coming from her hand upon his skin, then maneuvered her back around with more grace. Eyes more stunning than the most priceless jewel glared up at him.

  “I just wanted to see why you were bleeding,” he explained while grabbing her wrist again.

  While she didn’t pull away, the glare never wavered. “You could have asked.”

  “Touché, Madame… Well then, how did you cut yourself?” He ripped a part of her threadbare dress, forming a crude bandage across her hand.

  Inspecting his efforts first and finding them satisfactory, she poured some fresh water to drink. “Like I tried to tell you before, I was skinning the small game I killed this morning.” She took a drink and waited for him to interrupt again. Crossing his arms and pursing his lips was his only response. She hid her smile behind the dipper.

  “I need to finish prepping them before the storm. I expect it to last a few days. Anyway, while I was cleaning a hare, I spotted a deer and I had my bow close so I was able to kill it.”

  He was as stiff as her kills now.

  “After getting all the excess fluids out, I hung it from a low branch to begin the skinning…only it’s an older deer so it’s tough and my knife was dull.”

  He arched a brow.

  “You can guess the rest.” She took another drink of water.

  “You could have just said you cut yourself,” he suggested.

  “Well, simple answers seem to get me manhandled,” she snapped.

  “You, Madame, have not seen what I can do.” He smiled a devil’s grin.

  ****

  A stray tear fell from her eye. She deliberately turned and walked away, knowing all too well what he could do. Although she fought hard to forgive him for his trespasses, the trauma to her soul would never leave.

  “Where are you going?”

  She was determined not to face him until her tears were gone. He was as patient as ever. Not only stronger, but faster than her, as well. He cut off her path to the small shed where she housed some of her supplies.

  ****

  “You’re crying…why?” he asked, forcing her head back by grabbing her chin. Silence was his answer…along with another raging emerald glare. If only she knew it made his blood boil in a way she didn’t intend. “ Is it your hand? Did I make it too tight?” He let go of her chin then held her wrist again as if it was a newborn babe. This sudden change of character left Aisleen, off guard but provided the perfect cover.

  “Yes…and I’m awfully tired. If you will excuse me, I need to finish up this stuff. I’ll be making a rich stew for dinner. I know you are famished.”

  Lucien fell in step beside her. “How about I offer my help and then we can both rest?” She didn’t argue. Impressed would be an understatement for what Lucien encountered. She was a skilled hunter, as well as efficient with harvesting the hides and meat of her kills. Aisleen offered him her knife and sharpening stone. He ignored them.

  Instead, grasping where the initial break in the skin formed, he literally ripped the rest of the hide off. Smiling smugly, he reached for the dagger and stone again.

  “Well, the Mother hasn’t blessed all her children with super strength.”

  He flinched. She sighed. They worked in silence.

  ****

  Aisleen stirred the stew for dinner. Lucien had chopped enough wood to see her through the winter. When the storm came on them suddenly, they were just finishing up and sought shelter inside. Being confined indoors together was going to be challenge. There was no denying she was attracted to him. He was handsome beyond any mortal or supernatural she had encountered. However, there was more.

  “Could you stir this?”

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Grabbing a warming stone and a bowl of water, she headed toward the cellar. She answered, “I’m going to go clean up. I still have blood on me from earlier. Could you open the door, please?” she asked, her arms full, indicating the door in the wood floor.

  Instead, he stood on top of it, relieving the burdens from her arms. “I will do no such thing. There is no reason why you can’t wash up right here.” Her face flushed. “That’s not what I mean,” he exclaimed, laying her stuff down. “Bloody hell.” He threw his hands up in the air. “It’s like dealing with a maiden.” He stirred the soup.

  Aisleen sat the rest of her stuff down as her temper rose. “I may not be a maiden, but I am no trollop either, and it’s not like I can send you down there. You are far too large for the space.”

  One of his dark brows arched while a half smile adorned part of his sensual lips. “We are going to be stuck in here together and the cold hatch is that cold and filthy…why don’t I just string up a cloth in the corner for both of us to use?” he offered.

  She answered him by handing him the cloth and twine. Busying herself adding vegetables and spices to the stew, she ignored him. When he was done, he took over the stirring and she lit a candle to take with her behind the curtain. Before she disappeared, Lucien caught her eye and winked. She huffed in response, jerking the blanket back.

  ****

  The light behind the cloth provided an enticing silhouette for his viewing pleasure. The outline of her hair spilled behind her like a dark cape. As she freed her curves of the chemise she wore and washed away the dirt, an appealing fantasy began and Lucien lost himself within the dream.

  Once again, Aisleen was outside. The warmth of the sun darkened her cheeks to the luring shade that matched her lips—crimson. A fitted bodice accented her bust while flowing white robes gave her the appearance of suspension in midair. She reached out to him. Willingly, he took her hand. Then he took her. A brutal, longing hunger overtook his dream self and his searching lips came down upon her supple, red pout. Soft and yielding, he explored the crevice of her lips, tasting sweet and spicy on his tongue. She curved into him, her body fitted as if she had been created to be his exact equivalent. Those…

  “You’re awfully quiet,” she spoke suddenly.

  H
e dropped the spoon in the pot.

  “You aren’t watching me are you?”

  As the spoon slowly began to disappear in the boiling hot soup, he looked around for something to pick it up with.

  “You’re quiet again.”

  Biting his lip, he reached in and grabbed the spoon while silently screaming. Sweat beaded his brow from the temporary pain. He laid the spoon down and cleaned the soup off his hand.

  “Why are you breathing so hard?”

  “Uhh…this soup smells so good, I’m just breathing in real deep to smell it.”

  She stopped moving and peeked around the side. He sat in the chair by the fire, smiling, with his arms folded. She went back to washing up. He watched her again briefly, but the quiet bothered him. He wanted to know more of her. Why does she live here…alone?

  “Where’s your husband?” he asked.

  She dropped something. A hand came to her forehead, and then both her hands rubbed on her cheeks.

  “I’m sorry, Madame. I didn’t know you were a widow. I should have guessed.”

  She snorted…then actually laughed.

  “Are you laughing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you crying, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  She sighed. “Because it would be so much easier to lie and say I am a widow. But I’m not, and you are going to want to know where my husband is.”

  He stirred the soup, but could not look away from her profile. Only his motivations were completely different now.

  She stood up and pulled on her clothing. “My husband left me after our child died and I couldn’t conceive again.” The spoon in his hand snapped in half. Shocked, he looked at the spoon, then the curtain.

  “What was that?”

  “Uh…I broke your spoon.” He looked frantically for an excuse.

  “What?” She began dressing quicker. Then, she appeared. He offered her the pieces.

  “Well?”

  “There was a spider.”

  “You killed a spider with my spoon?”

  “Yeah…I hate spiders.”

  “You will rip the skin off a deer, but you’re squeamish around spiders?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where’s the spider?”

  “I threw it in the fire. I didn’t want to scare you.” He smiled then, trying hard not to laugh at his own ridiculous excuse.

  “Right…you didn’t want to scare me.” She shook her head. She went to a shelf that held utensils and dishes. Pulling down two bowls and a spoon, she offered him the broken spoon and a bowl. “Since you’re the one who broke the spoon, you can use it.”

  “Touché, Madame.”

  She scooped out two generous helpings of soup. He sliced the bread she’d set out earlier. They ate at her small table listening to the sounds of the howling wind and snow. When the dishes were cleaned and the pot of soup covered, she sat in a rocking chair with a basket and a very familiar shirt.

  “Is that mine?”

  She eyed him over the needle she was threading. “Yes. I loaned you one of my…” she hesitated. “I got the blood out, but haven’t had a chance to mend the hole.” She hummed in harmony with her rocking while she sewed. Lucien grabbed the material that covered the markings of his heritage. Not one word. She hadn’t said a word about it.

  “You saw me with my shirt off?” The realization had not hit him until now. Her silence about the whole thing made him defensive.

  “Yes.”

  “And you don’t have anything to say…or to ask?”

  “Nope.”

  Lucien, in all two hundred years, had never met anyone who didn’t have an ulterior motive—the memory of her being a witch was all he could seem to focus on at the moment. Deep feelings of hatred rose and coated his voice. “I’ve asked you once before, so I’ll ask again. What is it you want from me?”

  The rocking stopped and the humming quieted. A gentle sigh escaped her lips. “There is nothing you can do for me that I can’t do for myself. However, you have eased several of my burdens so I hope that makes us even in your mind.”

  Her explanation left him less than satisfied but he decided not to push it for now.

  “We all have our secrets, Lucien…things we have to protect.” Sweet humming began again, and he sat back on the bed.

  ****

  In the dream, a beautiful child with long, auburn curls played with a doll while her mother tied a blue ribbon in her hair. Her father picked her up and spun her around and around…she giggled….

  The dream shifted and an empty cradle covered in blood with a blue ribbon lay on top of blood stained blankets, the mother’s body lifeless on the cold stone floor.

  A hooded woman dropped her cloak and spoke in an ancient dialect, revealing her true image. An enchantress…

  “Revenge is mine, Lucien Lemoine, and this is only the beginning!” she yelled, then disappeared. Even supernatural speed couldn’t catch magic. Lucien chased her in vain. When he came back, the lifeless mother was gone along with his daughter. A mans strong fingers stroked a blue silk ribbon with care before folding it and hiding it with the folds of a thick handkerchief.

  “Bloody hell…” he swore, sitting up in a cold sweat. Nearly a century and the dream still haunted him. It was dark now in the cottage. The storm sounded stronger than earlier. He hadn’t even realized he had fallen asleep. The embers of the fire provided a small glow over a form curled up on a crude animal skin rug.

  Standing above her, he inspected her in the dark. The threadbare cloth that had been her screen was all she used as a blanket. She was either telling the truth about being a hedge witch, or she was a diabolical genius. No halfway decent witch or enchantress he had ever encountered lived like she did…practically in the throes of poverty.

  A slight shiver caused her to pull the pathetic excuse for a blanket up further, revealing her feet and shapely calves. The soles of her feet were scarred and callused. That newly familiar feeling of irritation sparked.

  He scooped her up. The ease with which he carried her only added to his anger. Long, soft tendrils of hair rested over his forearm, her head fit snugly against his shoulder, and that addictive and lush scent of peonies tempted him, along with her cherry lips.

  In wisdom, he sat her down on the bed he had just left. Not feeling the need to rest, he inspected his surroundings closer. Everything she owned was chipped, torn or worn. There was a town half a day’s walk, for a mortal that is, with a market she could have bartered at.

  Occupying the chair she had sat in previously, he found his shirt folded neatly on top of her sewing basket. Inspecting the stitches, he was impressed. She was most certainly a capable seamstress. If so, then why was her clothing so pathetic?

  He stirred the coals up to start a fire. The soup she had made was delicious and he wanted more. Just as he settled down with a bowl, she stirred.

  “How did I get up here?” she asked.

  “I put you there,” he answered.

  “You scared me…I thought you had left.” She started to get up.

  He set his soup down and braced her shoulders. His movements were natural for him. Still, she didn’t acknowledge it. “Please stay…I’m not tired.” She relaxed back into the straw mattress.

  “I’m not surprised that you are hungry again. You were out for five days.”

  He choked on a spoon full of vegetables. She chuckled into her blanket. He took a drink of water. “I didn’t wake up because I was hungry.”

  “Bad dream?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Was it the one you have about Lucinda?”

  The spoon stopped halfway to his mouth. The quiet filled the darkness between them.

  “You may have been unconscious for five days, but you weren’t always quiet,” she explained.

  Swallowing the sudden lump, he set the half eaten bowl aside. Hiding his face in his hands, he finally spoke to her. “Lucinda was my daughter…she was taken fro
m me.” Removing his hands to stare into the flames, he asked her something he never expected her to know. “Have you ever experienced a pain so deep, so unrelenting, it corrodes your very soul?”

  “Yes, I have, Lucien,” she answered. Her voice was short and clipped…a first for her. He tried to study her in the darkness, but all he could see was her back under the covers. Soft sobs came from her side of the room for a long time before she quieted, and Lucien felt like a scoundrel.

  ****

  For three days the storm raged, then early one morning, it stopped. During that time, Lucien had sharpened every knife, axe and saw she owned. She organized her root cellar three times before she finally got it just right. All her clothing and blankets were mended. While she worked, she adjusted a couple of Thomas’ old shirts to fit Lucien. When she presented them to him, it was a rare occasion that his guarded mask softened under the brilliance of a genuine smile. When she smiled in response, the guard shot back up.

  Humming while she worked on an animal skin, Lucien moved toward her, brows furrowed, shoulders squared and postured slightly turned toward the door. She frowned. “You are leaving,” she stated.