Home > The Sacrifice(4)

The Sacrifice(4)
Author: Jessica Gadziala

Then there she was.

Curled in the fetal position on the cold, hard floor, her white dress and cloak wrapping up a tall, but slender body.

The flowers were gone from her hair, and the intricate braids the witches were known for were worked free, leaving her raven hair slightly curled, spilling over her shoulders and back, half concealing her face.

At the roar, or at the sudden disappearance of her hiding place, the witch gasped, jumping up, scrambling away until her back hit the wall, bringing her knees in at her chest, and wrapping her arms protectively around them.

Fuck.

She was a looker.

I didn't remember ever thinking that of any of the others. Maybe because by the time they were let out of the basement, they were older, wilder, their spirits so broken that any beauty they might have possessed seemed dusty and faded.

This woman was fresh.

Dripping with the fruity aroma of youth and the acidic scent of fear.

With the Change on me, I could make out each individual scent. The herb-like smell still clinging to her hair. The salt of sweat. The must of her clothing from being in a cold, enclosed space. And, finally, the fucking intoxicatingly sweet scent of her pussy. Even through the layers of clothes. Even though she wasn't turned on.

Fuck, I couldn't imagine what she would smell like if she was.

Not that I was thinking of fucking a witch.

It went against everything we believed in.

We were on different sides, after all.

Contrary to popular belief, witches weren't the evil ones. These tree-hugging, moon-dancing, earth-loving worshippers of the God and Goddess.

They were the good ones.

Us?

We were the bad guys.

Still.

There was no denying her beauty. It was in the creaminess of her flawless, milk-like skin, in the softly pointed chin, the delicate cupid's-bow mouth with fat, pouty lips, in the delicate nose with the slightly upturned tip, the high cheekbones, the proud forehead, the golden, honey-brown eyes framed by thick black lashes that almost looked fake.

But the witches didn't do fake.

No makeup, no manmade fabrics.

The only thing this witch had that she wasn't born with was that crescent moon tattoo high on her forehead, the tips sneaking up into her hair, small and delicate and a symbol of the life we had taken her away from.

"D-don't r-rape me," the witch stammered, her voice as sweet as the smell of her.

A hiss worked its way out of me, making a shiver course through her.

"Don't be disgusting." To that, those nicely arched brows of hers furrowed. "We don't fuck witches," I informed her, feeling my rage start to dissipate, my body Changing back into the human form that, after all this time, was somehow becoming more comfortable than my true form. Maybe because this environment was not conducive to supporting my true form. That was the only logical explanation.

"A-are you going to e-eat me?"

Well, there was an idea. Though, I was pretty sure the eating I had in mind was very different than what she meant. My fucking mouth salivated at my idea, though. My cock was hardening just thinking about it. That sweet taste on my tongue.

"If we wouldn't fuck you, why the hell would we eat you?" I shot back, watching the confusion and relief mix together on her face.

"Then what am I doing here?"

"If we don't want to fuck or eat you?" I clarified, snorting. "Because of the treaty."

"Well, yes. But what purpose do I have here?"

"Right now, your purpose is to stop being fucking sad so the goddamn rain will stop."

To that, I was surprised to see a spark of a flame dancing around in those unique eyes of hers.

"I'm supposed to stop being sad," she repeated, voice no longer quivering. If anything, it seemed to be getting stronger.

"Yes."

"When you tore me away from my mother? My family? My friends? My coven? My entire way of life? And then you stuck me in a cold and dingy basement with no way to bathe myself, feeding me animal flesh, and denying me any basic dignity? I'm not supposed to be sad over all of that?"

"Let me rephrase," I said, making my voice firm even if I appreciated the fact that she was all fire and spirit instead of crying and shaking. "I don't give a fuck if you're sad, but make the rain stop."

"I can't control it," she shot back.

"You're a witch. That's what you do."

"Yes, well, I am a very poor witch. That's why I'm here, isn't it? They wouldn't exactly send one of the ones destined for greatness now, would they?"

I'd never given that any thought. Of course they would send us their least talented, their most troublesome. Maybe that was why we'd had issues with so many of them.

"If you can't control it, how will it stop then?" I asked.

"A bath might be a good start."

"A bath."

"I've been down here for a week and haven't been able to get clean. I am starting to smell. It's making me miserable."

She was right about that.

Just wrong about the context.

Maybe humans wouldn't like her smell.

But I was finding it difficult to keep my cock from straining against the fly of my jeans at the heady sweetness emanating from her.

"If I let you go upstairs and bathe, you will stop the rain?"

"It is worth a shot," she suggested, chin lifting up.

"Fine. Fuck it. Let's go."

"Now?"

"Yes, now. Do you have something better to do today? Start a tornado, maybe?" I asked, reaching down to grab her wrist, yanking her up onto her feet, getting a glare for my efforts.

"Maybe I will. Direct it right through this house. Take you and your evil friends out."

"You could try, witch. But not even you can kill us."

"Lenore," she said, grudgingly following behind me as I made my way to the stairs.

"What?"

"My name. It's Lenore. I don't want to be called 'witch' in that way."

That was rich.

"It's cute that you think I give a fuck what you want," I shot back, pushing open the door to the main floor of the house even as I rolled her name around in my head. Lenore. It was pretty. Classic. I liked it more than I had any right to, especially since she was a fucking witch.

"What the hell is this?" Drex asked as we walked past the study where he was reaching once again for the bottle.

We couldn't get drunk.

Not the way humans could.

We could feel a certain sizzle.

But more than that, Drex was attracted to the burn. He said it reminded him of home.

"She thinks a shower might make her less sad," I said, rolling my eyes.

"You said bath," Lenore shot back, stopping in her tracks, folding her arms over her chest.

"Hey, Ly, you have a bath in your bedroom, don't you?" Drex asked, smirking, enjoying the hell out of this, apparently.

"Fine, you'll get your bath," I agreed, waving an arm up the stairs, watching as she moved up first. "Tell Minos to stop feeding her 'flesh,'" I told Drex. "Apparently, that makes her sad as well."

"Fucking witches," he said, shaking his head.

"I know," I agreed before following Lenore up the stairs.

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