Page 3 of The Wolf and the Witch

Panting, Greta placed a hand over her mouth to silence any sounds from escaping. She pulled water from the air, forcing it to emphasize the perfume of dead grass and moss to mask her scent. Heart pounding, she slid to a crouch, pressing her back into the wet bark of the tree behind her. She listened for the sounds of paws disturbing the forest floor.

Sending a pulse of magick into the ground, she connected with the water flowing through the root system of the woods. She didn’t detect any disturbances beyond the usual animal life, but couldn’t believe she lost the Lycans on her trail that easily.

Familiar aches and pains rebelled at her stationary position. Patience rewarded predators. With a heart racing like a jackrabbit and stiff muscles complaining from the sprint from the palace, she felt like prey. The feeling of her magic was akin to slow-moving sludge. One mistake, one slow movement, and she was dead prey.

The maps she studied as a girl eluded her. Aside from the Lycan king’s palace, she couldn’t think of a single landmark. Every free witch grew up listening to the horror stories of Lycans enslaving their fellow sister witches, abusing and using them for their magick. Greta never imagined she’d experience the horror first-hand. Focusing on her rage, the low burning fire that kept her going, provided her a little burst of energy into changing positions. Quick as a mouse, she scurried on light feet in search of refuge. Getting far away from the Lycan king was crucial. But where was safety? Where could she go they wouldn’t dare follow?

Death, whispered a voice on the wind, weaving through the water magick she was quickly losing a grasp on. Soon, her scent would bloom and flood the woods, a beacon for the Lycans to follow. If death murmured to her seductively, then the cursed Redwoods weren’t far. A primordial presence lurked in those gnarled timbers, a Venus fly trap open and waiting for something succulent to land within its petals. Undeterred, Greta followed the mutters. Death couldn’t have her yet, but she’d hide within the safety of its alluring embrace.

Redwoods

Wind whistled through trees but didn’t carry the telltale howling of wolves. Greta suppressed a shiver. Her feet throbbed and sandpaper itched her eyes with each blink. She jolted awake several times throughout the night, fear a constant companion. But death called to her magick like a siren’s song and she followed it to her destination.

The cursed Redwoods peeked at her a few feet from her position. Prickles of awareness raced across battered skin. No, she thought with horror. It wasn’t a curse afflicting those woods. An entity of death lurked just beyond the treeline. It remained invisible to the naked eye but its presence leeched beyond Redwoods, attempting to blanket and settle over her magick like a parasite.

She took a wary step back. Death in the front and from behind. She didn’t need to venture into Redwoods to know nothing lived within its timbers. Steeling herself, she hobbled in the general direction of water, allowing her magick to act as guide once more. Living things needed water. She needed food. Shooting an uneasy glance at the treeline running parallel to the direction she walked in, she concluded she needed a living sacrifice as well.

Verdant trees surrounded her on all sides. The ground alternated between packed earth littered with fallen leaves and wild grass of various lengths. She avoided paths with grass that came as high as her thighs. Exhaustion weighed her movements, and she didn’t want to spend extra energy tracking living things with her magick. Poisonous snakes and other predators could hide within innocuous bushes.

Smacking chapped lips, tears welled at sunlight sparking off clear water in the distance. A small stream separated her side of the forest from another. Glancing to her right confirmed Redwoods’ oppressive presence lurked on both sides.

She limped faster, chasing water like the lifeline it was. Pain jolted up blistered feet, but salvation beckoned her forward. Weak trembling limbs collapsed near the damp earth edging the stream. A scream trapped in her throat, fingers curled in the dirt, Greta allowed the breaking.

Tears streamed down dirty cheeks. Dark hair hung in tangled clumps around thin shoulders and down her back. She brought a dirt covered hand up to her neck, tracing her fingers over scabbed scars made by an iron shackle. Ten years. She wanted to scream and disrupt the surrounding quiet. Ten years stolen from her by Lycans, witnessing unspeakable horrors committed by those beasts.

Her chest burned with the urge to let loose a violent torrent of magick, sucking moisture and life from every living thing near her. Tears dried on unwashed cheeks, and the stream boiled with her rage. Resisting destructive impulses, she forced herself to take deep, calming breaths. With outstretched hands, she sent magick swirling into the water, luring it into her cupped palms. She gulped the water down greedily after letting some of it fill her hands, washing away the dirt.

When her empty belly rebelled, she forced herself to slow down. Thirst sated, she stripped off the tattered gown adorning her body, the only thing she took with her from the Lycan palace. Ignoring her reflection, she plunged into the cool stream, letting it wash away dirt and hopefully some of the horrors of the past ten years.

Tension oozed out of her limbs the moment water enveloped her. She didn’t fight the urge to sink lower until her feet scraped against the bed of the stream. Air bubbles filtered out of her, popping in the surrounding water. But peace descended for the first time in ten years, threatening more tears to spill into the stream.

Her mouth opened, letting out a cross between a cry and a humorless laugh, sending water and air bubbles up, clouding her vision. Freedom. A pipe dream for many witches, but Greta took it. She bled and killed for it and would do so again if Hecate demanded it. Running out of air, she swam back to the surface, feeling like a phoenix reborn.

Sunlight glinted off water droplets sluicing down her body. Some of the sun’s warmth seeped into her skin, soothing a portion of her aches. Hurriedly, she ran quick fingers through tangled hair, watching some strands float in the water around her. Satisfied that she felt less like a beggar, Greta gathered up some of her shedded hair while making her way back to the bank.

Her toes played with the damp earth. Feeling inspired, she stooped down and gathered some of the mud, mixing it with her dead hair strands. “Magick is like science,” her mother used to say. Mixing ingredients, finding the right balance for potions, it was a science and an art. Her knees pressed into the soft ground when she knelt near her tattered garment.

Blood splatters decorated it in various spots, none of them uniform or consistent. Greta couldn’t be sure if any of the blood belonged to her or was residual from the Lycan guards trying to derail her escape. Her mouth twitched at the image of their bloated, leaking bodies acting as breadcrumbs from her sprint through the decorative halls.

Blinking back tears at the witches she couldn’t help escape, she tore strips bearing blood from the gown. She placed the muddy hair strands directly in the blood splatters, wrapping the cloth around her rudimentary ingredients. Hair from her head, dirt from the earth, and blood from her enemies trapped in a garment soaked with bitterness and pain. She looped more strands of hair around her bundle, securing it together.

With a look of disgust, she grabbed the rest of the gown and lifted it over her head. If she encountered Lycans close to Redwoods, she didn’t want to do it naked. Her charm rested firmly in one hand. She padded on light, bruised feet. Water helped soothe some of her blisters, but not all.

Short grass gave way to taller weeds, and she expanded her senses, her magick leaping forward, searching for a connection to another body of water. Something small scurried to her left. Crouching, she crawled toward her prey, mindful of the charm in one hand. A death incantation rested on her lips. Her toes dung into the earth, grounding her.

Witches carried a spark of magick within them, symbolic of the elements essential for living creatures. Magick, however, required balance. Giving life required taking it. Protection required sacrifice. Gritting her teeth, she focused on the small furry animal, paused a few feet from her, scenting the air. Hate fueled killing differed from sacrificial magick. Usually, the life taken was innocent.

Her heart clenched and railed against taking an innocent life. She wasn’t ignorant of the dark arts or unversed in protection magick. But she’d never practiced either. Her life split in two. Before-enslavement Greta would’ve balked and ran from what survival demanded of her. Post-enslavement Greta clenched her jaw and closed her eyes, calling on her magick, letting it rush through her and into the small animal. Both of her hands clenched into fist, causing a whimper to escape the animal, followed by a soft thump as it fell over. She’d made it quick, forcing its blood vessels to implode spontaneously.

Bringing a trembling hand up, she scrubbed errant tears away. The world favored the strong. She had to remember that.

Dread settled in the pit of her stomach with each step closer to Redwoods. Her heart hung heavy in her chest. “Dessicantus” incantation eroded the flesh from her first kill. She’d strung the bones together with blades of grass and more threads of her hair. They bounced against her throat every time she stepped. Her mind conjured whispers of “killer” with every strike of bone against her thin flesh. It was a necessary evil, she reminded herself. One sacrifice for entry and another for personal protection until she could erect a protective circle within redwoods.

Her stomach grumbled. But she ignored the pangs of hunger, mentally playing chess with the entity claiming Redwoods as its hunting ground. Entry into a lion’s den does not guarantee safe passage, just one step closer to its maw.

Nausea churned at her next course of action. She couldn’t eat while striding toward a dreadful forest, prey nestled in the crook of her arm, furry nose constantly sniffing the air. Her chin brushed the soft fur at the top of the rabbit’s head. Sacrificial magick sickened her, but it was a necessary evil.

Kneeling at the edge of the treeline, she called upon Hecate for calmness and strength of mind. Enslaved, abused, but her faith held strong. Hecate provided. Freedom was now hers and she’d kill to keep it.

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