The Familial Witch

by Bri Clark

  “Yes.”

  “Be careful, Lucien…take any supplies you may need,” she answered, then began her work again.

  “Goodbye, Aisleen.” Then, he was gone. Her tools dropped from her hands. He had finally said her name. It was the last thing he said to her.

  ****

  Lucien ran hard and fast…faster than when the halfbloods had pursued him. He stopped on the south side of Trinity forest. Why am I in such a hurry? Alistair didn’t know where he was…or that he wasn’t in a cave somewhere frozen.

  He considered the element of surprise. The longer he stayed away, Alistair would assume he was stationary. That would be the best time to investigate, plan and prepare his attack on Alistair. In Lucien’s absence, he would assume control of the clan, but would take his time implementing any changes. Eternals were fiercely loyal to Lucien and hated change. They would suspect Alistair if he wasn’t cautious. Perhaps he would get comfortable…and lead him to the source of the silver. The smell of roasting meat and sweat blew on the wind. He knew just the place to lay low and wait Alistair out. With a bounce in his step he made his way to the market. There were a few supplies he needed to pick up.

  ****

  Luckily for Lucien, he was inhumanly strong, because the supplies he carried had to weigh more than a steer. He had to purchase a pack to carry it all in. The journey back to Aisleen’s cottage took longer than when he’d left. What will I tell her about my reasons for coming back? What if she is insulted by the stuff I acquired at the market? Doubts made his steps heavy. Before he could turn tail and run, the distinct smell of peonies demanded his attention…mixed with blood…her blood. He dropped the pack, and moved at a speed only he was capable of.

  A scream echoed off the primordial trunks. He stopped, attempting to steady his pulse and conquer a fear like he had never known before. I must find her. Taking a deep breath through his nostrils then letting it out through his clenched teeth, he sent out his awareness. A few yards north of his position he found her in a tree…bleeding and scared. A Nighkat growled and sneered at the bottom of the trunk. Vicious, bloodthirsty predators, they were known for their camouflage and climbing abilities. It was toying with her.

  Lucien prayed it would play just a moment longer. He ran at full speed, dipping and dodging through tree trunks. Just as he cited the predator, it jumped for the branch Aisleen clung to. She screamed.

  In midair, he tackled the cat and effortlessly snapped its neck before landing cleanly. Throwing the cat aside, he scaled the branch and cradled her in his arms. Blood stained her dress while scratches laced both of her forearms…defensive wounds.

  “Blood…” he began, but before he could finish the comment, she clung to him and wept. Perhaps it was selfish, perhaps it was downright inappropriate considering the situation—nevertheless, he relished having her within his embrace.

  Carrying her as a babe effortlessly, he retrieved the pack and headed for the cottage. He had tried to look over her injuries, but she wouldn’t let go. Once they were safely inside, he deposited her on the bed.

  He poured some clean water into a bowl then ripped a cloth into strips. With the same care she had showed him, he cleaned and bandaged her wounds. To her credit, she was quiet through the process. When he was done, he set the bowl aside after first cleaning his own hands, then drying them.

  He joined her back on the bed. “Will you tell me what happened now?” She looked past him at the flames. “You are an efficient hunter and tracker. You had to know how to avoid predators if you live in this place.”

  “I was distracted and stupid. I shouldn’t have even been outside.”

  “Why were you out?”

  Crimson colored her cheeks, complimenting the rose hue of her lips. “I needed some air, so I decided to go for a walk. You know I’ve been cooped up for days.” She tried to move past him. He wouldn’t allow it.

  “You have lost a great deal of blood, Aisleen. You need to rest. Stay put, and I’ll get us some dinner.”

  She did as he asked. Before he could slice a piece of bread, he heard her breathing softly. He sighed, then smiled. Being attacked by a Nighkat probably took a lot out of a girl.

  ****

  While she slept, he made some more of the rabbit stew they had eaten for the last week. After cleaning up his dishes, he went to work exchanging her chipped and broken possessions for the new ones he had brought. Bowls, china, wooden spoons, pots and cups were replaced in his supernatural, yet efficient, quiet movements. Aisleen continued to rest peacefully. After that, he unloaded fabrics, needles, and twine, setting it all near the basket she stored her mending supplies in.

  Lucien considered he might have gone a little overboard on the material when the pile was taller than the arm of her chair. Dismissing the thought, he moved toward the shelves that held her books and herbal supplies. He had acquired, with some pretty aggressive persuasion, various glass bottles with stoppers from a crooked peddler. Aisleen had mentioned one day that her herbs would keep better in glass. Deciding it was best to let her switch out the contents, he unrolled the containers from their bounds cloths and set them on the shelf.

  After he had done all he could and she still hadn’t stirred, he investigated her books. Being a purveyor of knowledge and lover of the arts, he thought she might have something he hadn’t read in a while. Alistair would have to wait for now. Lucien knew he wasn’t working alone. The longer Lucien stayed gone, the more comfortable the traitor would become…and perhaps he would reveal his cohorts.

  ****

  Aisleen watched him move with the same lethal grace as the Nighkat had when it stalked and attacked her. She should fear him like she had the predator that almost killed her…only the feeling just would not stir. The care he took in mending her wounds…she had never had a man touch her with such tenderness. Not even from her husband, Thomas.

  Perhaps it was deceitful to watch him from under her lashes, but the view was too enticing to look away. He ran his fingers along the tattered volumes of her ancient library when he stopped suddenly and picked up her treasure... The Goddess’s Creation. It was opened to his page—she had left it that way even though she couldn’t explain why.

  Examining the pages with care, he read about his own creation, his weaknesses and strengths, and his about his status and authority with his clan. Aisleen decided she should let him know she was awake.

  Lucien moved so fast, she couldn’t even finish her gasp. He towered over her and that fear she hadn’t been able to stir before now assailed her. His color had completely drained from his face, making his already dark eyes appear demonic, but within them, she saw something almost akin to vulnerability.

  “Just a simple hedge witch?” he growled. Aisleen didn’t say anything. Heavy footsteps pounded on the wood floor as he paced. “I am such a fool. I suspected you were an enchantress. Having me cut a season’s worth of wood for you while my every limb ached along with everything else I did? You were probably poisoning me with some kind of magical submission herb,” he shouted.

  Aisleen felt awful that he had chopped all that wood in pain. The feeling was short lived. Her small but fiery temper sparked when he accused her of being an enchantress. Her ex-husband had accused her of the same thing, convincing her village, as well, just so he could leave her for his mistress. Throwing the blanket off and walking on shaky legs, she met his searing, black gaze.

  “How dare you accuse me of being an enchantress? I have been nothing but forthright with you. If you will remember, I told you I could take care of myself.”

  He backed away from her sudden anger. Aisleen took a deep breath and grabbed onto the table—it kept her hands busy so he wouldn’t see them shake. He had scraped a deep, raw wound.

  “Then if you have no ulterior motives for me, why do you have this book? Why do you act as if you don’t know who I am when you obviously do? Why…how could you help?” he whispered.

  She said a prayer to the Mother for the way to proceed. With slow, delib
erate steps, she approached him. Her touch was light as she guided the book he still held close.

  ****

  Lucien’s hand blazed under her touch. Nevertheless, it was when she revealed the artwork on the cover that his heart actually stopped. He dropped the book.

  “No, it can’t be! You are all gone!” He began to pace again, running his fingers through his hair. “She is gone,” he whispered. Then, he regained his composure. “You could have stolen that book.” He felt bad immediately. If there was one thing he knew for sure about Aisleen, she wasn’t a thief. She would rather be destitute than steal. Looking into her eyes, he saw her glance toward the supplies behind him, then smile.

  Once again, she took slow, cautious steps toward him. As she walked, she pulled the strings that kept the front of her dress tied. Lucien’s pulse seemed to vibrate in is head. Heat that he had never encountered enveloped him and he was entranced by the movement of her approach. Crystalline emerald eyes assessed him as she exposed the flesh that covered her heart.

  A pure white peony flower, the same symbol upon her book, was tattooed on her skin in the form of a living birthmark. She was Goddess chosen, Goddess blessed and Goddess touched. Just like him. Lucien inspected the flower. Every petal was flawless and beautiful, all except for two that were wilted and yellowed.

  Two centuries of life still couldn’t prepare him for what he felt at that moment…care for someone more than himself…desire for a woman stronger than his loyalty to his people.

  She was a Familial witch. A witch that loved all, honored all, and helped all. The truly most adored of the Mother Goddess’ children. She was the last of her kind, and it was all because of Lucien.

  After enduring the betrayal experienced by an enchantress, which had caused the loss of Lucinda and the disappearance of her mother, he had ordered extermination. His loyal eternals had followed without question. Only, in the process, the Familial witches had been the victims—the dark enchantresses had gone into hiding.

  After his dark deed, the Mother Goddess had come to him, inflicting upon him the greatest punishment she could. “Only the Familial witch that knows you as an eternal, sees you as a man, and accepts you as both will restore your daughter and your heart.” She had cursed him before she left, and never returned.

  Falling to his knees in front of Aisleen, he begged her forgiveness.

  Still weak from the ordeal with the Nighkat, her shaking frame guided him to the bed. Sitting down opposite him, she took a deep breath while the patient smile she always had for him adorned her crimson lips.

  He had the sudden urge to taste her, the fantasy from before invading his conscience. She was so close…how easily he could hold her now. She was vulnerable and needed protection. His harsh words and actions from before came to his mind and he hung his head at the revelation. Protection from him and his abusive tongue—protection from him, actually—was what she needed most. He had deeply wounded her in his own grief and she still had showed him the same favor and love that the mother would to a child. For the briefest second, he considered changing his mind and leaving. A howl sounded from outside—the thought was forgotten.

  “Why, Aisleen? Why did you help me…when you knew who I was?”

  She hugged herself and bit her lip.

  Reaching around her back, he untied the binding that restrained her hair. Within him, relief bloomed for she did not cower away. He ran his fingers through the thick, chestnut locks, and she closed her eyes and sighed. He held her hand and kissed each of her knuckles.

  ****

  While she wanted to allow the continued caresses, Aisleen pulled away. Simply being near him was wreaking havoc on her waning self-control. Not a proper woman and not a prude, fantasies never envisioned before entered her mind’s eye. A frown formed on Lucien’s brow and garnished his lips. The question she still wasn’t sure how to answer hung in the air between them.

  Standing to create distance, and hopefully clarity of mind, she stumbled. Lucien enveloped her into his embrace. Dark eyes as intense as a predator had for its prey bored down on her. As on their first meeting, her pulse accelerated of its own will and she swallowed the lump that formed in her throat.

  “Where would you like to go, and I’ll take you.” The whisper of his words sounded as if a pledge was being offered far beyond the simple statement. Unable to speak, she pointed to her rocking chair. Never breaking eye contact, with the most tenderness she had ever experienced, he deposited her where she had indicated. Then, picking up an unfamiliar blanket, he tucked it around her. An involuntary shiver ran the length of her body. She hoped he thought it was from the cold and not his touch. When their eyes met, she knew he was as aware of her as she was of him. Concentrating on the fire now, the silence between them grew.

  Still unsure of how to answer his question, Aisleen decided to try. “All at once it seemed I lost my entire coven, a child that I never got to hold, and a man humiliated me while simultaneously crushing what love I had left in me.” Intertwining her fingers and resting her elbows on her lap, she hid her trembling lips. Tears, she could not control, but this wasn’t meant to be abuse, only an explanation…for them both. Unable to look at him, she kept her eyes focused downward.

  “It is expected of me to have charity in the face of adversity, love those who hate me, forgive those who hurt me. Those were vows I made with the Mother Goddess. Vows I freely accepted.” The day of her setting apart entered her memory. Surrounded by the sisters of her coven, the Mother had been stunning a mixture of rose and white robes. Her long blonde hair blew without the wind and her eyes the same emerald as Aisleen’s had glowed with the joy she felt.

  “I am not without fault. After I figured out who you were, I considered unspeakable things. While I know I can’t kill you, I am a witch.” With that comment, she finally looked at him and smiled. Unguarded, genuine, and distinctly masculine, he smiled back. Eyes back to the ground, she looked away, but her smile stayed.

  “So, have you forgiven me?” he asked.

  “I’m trying, Lucien.”

  Shaking his head, his smile left. “Will you allow me to stay here with you…continue to ease your burdens...try to repay my debts?”

  Examining his intentions, the eagerness of his eyes, the forward way in which his shoulders faced, she felt his desires were true—and to be honest, she wanted him to stay. “You can stay here as long as you want. However, you are a guest here.” Canceling the space between them, he fell to one knee, held her right hand and kissed the knuckle. “It is a great pleasure to be your guest, Aisleen.”

  About the Author

  Bri Clark is a real example of redemption and renewal. Growing up penniless in the South, Bri learned street smarts while caring for her brother in a broken home. She watched her mother work several jobs to care for their small family. Once her brother could fend for himself, Bri moved on to a series of bad choices including leaving school and living on her own. Rebelliousness was a strong understatement to describe those formative years.

  As a teenager, her wakeup call came from a fight with brass knuckles and a judge that gave her a choice of shaping up or spending time in jail. She took that opportunity and found a way to move up from the streets. She ended up co-owning an extremely successful construction business. She lived the high life until the real estate crash when she lost everything. She moved west and found herself living with her husband and four kids in a 900 square foot apartment.

  She now fills her time, writing, blogging, leading a group of frugal shoppers and sharing her southern culture. Her unique background gives her writing a raw sensibility. She understands what it takes to overcome life’s obstacles. She often tells friends, “I can do poor. I’m good at poor. It’s prosperity that I’m not used to.”

  Bri and her husband Chris live in Boise. Bri is known as the Belle of Boise for her true southern accent, bold demeanor and hospitable nature.

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