Page 2 of The Wolf and the Witch

Several dozen voices lifted in unison, spelling out the fate of the first Lycan. Greta grinned into the flames dancing in front of her, a cup of wine resting near her feet. Her magick thrummed in her chest, teased by the singing of her sister witches. A bonfire raged in front of her, heat grazing her skin. She wrapped her arms around her knees, disturbing the black cotton dress that fell to her ankles. Over three dozen witches milled around a clearing in the woods, voices raised to Hecate’s ears, moonlight kissing their skin. Some celebrated in more carnal ways, fleshing striking flesh in the distance, heated voices mingling with the singing.

A flash of green drew her gaze to her mother’s regal figure, stalking through the crowd of merry witches, grass kissing bare feet. Charms wrapped around her ankles clinked, a chorus to the singing. Similar to most in attendance, an ankle length dress flowed across Gabrielle Manson’s frame. A slit traveled up her thigh, flashing ivory skin with every other step. The wind teased the long, dark hair cascading down her mother’s back. Shrewd brown eyes cut through the throng of witches, seeking Greta’s huddled position in front of a five foot tall bonfire.

Lips painted red lifted into a smile upon spotting Greta. Her own returned the smile, warmth spreading from the singing and the wine. Wind blew Greta’s braided dark hair over one shoulder and the flames pulsed with the added oxygen. She returned her gaze to the flames. Her magick wounded tighter with the approach of her creator. She could sense her mother’s presence in a room of over fifty people if needed. Absently, she wondered if Lycans shared a similar bond between parent and child, or if they truly were mindless beast, enslaving her kind for sport.

“Celebrating alone, child of mine?” Her mother’s voice reached her ears. She glanced over at the tall coven leader looking down at her. Burning sage and the heady scent of wood-smoke filled the night air. She gave her mother a small nod. Her eyes glazed over the bare chested warlocks present, black trousers encasing many muscled legs. Temptation did not find her. All too often, the barely concealed gleam of envy sparked in the male’s eyes when witnessing witches perform magick.

Mother. Maiden. Crone. Hecate never donned the form of a man and never shared the gift of elemental magick with male witches. They could perform spells, but they’d never make the earth tremble, pull water from lakes, shoot flames from their hands or summon a tornado from thin air.

Greta considered them useless outside of procreating and at twenty, she lacked the drive to create life. Twigs snapped beneath Gabrielle’s feet as she closed the distance between them, easing into a cross-legged position next to Greta.

“You long for something you cannot have, my child,” her mother’s voice carried to her, the wind threatening to snatch the words away.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She ducked her head against bent knees. A hand stroked down her braid, teasing the thick strands.

“One day, it will be your duty to add to the Manson line.” Greta cringed at the blunt words spelling out her future. “That day isn’t today, but the more you rebel against the idea of mating with one of your own, the harder the task will be in the future. Give one of them a chance to win your heart is all I’m suggesting, light of my life.” The often uttered endearment softened the rebuke embedded in her mother’s words.

Two blessed children of Hecate produced a twice blessed child. Greta knew this, but some deeply rooted instinct shrunk from the idea. At eighteen, she celebrated Beltane the way any young witch would, writhing beneath one of the warlocks strolling among witches. Her magick dug knives into her the next day, scraping her insides every time she neared her Beltane partner.

She blinked away the smoke the wind blew into her eyes. The courage to confide in her mother the suspicion that one of her own was not what Hecate had in mind for her never came. Her fingers pressed into the material of her dress.

“Yes, matrem,” she affirmed, using the Latin term for mother.

Her mother’s hands tightened on her braid, tension traveling between them when a howl shattered the celebratory atmosphere. Gabrielle jumped to her feet, vines sprouting from the earth to wrap around her ankles, nature calling to her mother’s magick.

“Crescium,” she heard her mother mutter before her voice boomed across the clearing, as loud as thunder.

“Everyone out of the woods now! The beasts are near!” Panic gripped Greta, and she shot to her feet, eyes racing across frightened and a few determined faces. Her mother’s hair nearly struck her when she whirled on Greta. Fear carved her face, an emotion Greta rarely saw on the woman in front of her.

“Get to safety, Greta. I will go investigate with a handful?—

“No!” Her mother’s lips thinned, anger sparking in brown orbs.

“Obey me, Greta. Now is not the time to defy your coven leader. Get to safety. If I do not return?—”

Greta shook her head before her mother finished uttering the words, sending lances of pain into her heart.

“You know what to do. Two years training under me for coven leader and all the years before that mastering your craft. Get out of the woods. Erect a protective barrier around yourself if one of them catches you.” Fingers gripped her chin in a firm hold.

“If anything happens to me, this coven is yours to lead. Get. To. Safety.” The last words crawled from clenched teeth, flowers budding and spiraling around her mother’s head in a crown, magick feeding off her emotions. Tears welled in Greta’s eyes, but she blinked them away, giving her mother a nod.

Nausea churned in her stomach and she sent a prayer to Hecate for her coven to survive the night. Her mother’s fingers slipped from her face. Brown eyes raced across Greta’s features, as if memorizing them.

“Mom—”

“Wardens! With me,” Gabrielle’s voice boomed as she stepped away from Greta. Her heart lurched as she took one last look at her mother before turning in the direction of their home.

She just had to get to safety.

PART ONE

The Present

“I have found both freedom and safety in my madness; the freedom of loneliness and the safety from being understood, for those who understand us enslave something in us.”

? Kahlil Gibran

Escaping Death

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