Page 4 of The Wolf and the Witch

“Enodia, Trodia, Propylaia.” Her whispered invocation evoked silence in the surrounding woods. Birds quit chirping, the wind stopped rustling, and her prey went still in her arms.

“Custodire filiam tuam matrem”, she prayed to the triple-goddess, her magick filling her prey and cutting off its life blood. The small body slumped, and blood coated her arm and hand. Leaning forward, she placed the bleeding rabbit on the other side of the invisible threshold. Goosebumps erupted along her arms, but warmth chased the chill, suffusing her skin.

Unseen to her, the primordial entity loomed over her dead offering. Trickles of magick danced along her skin. Without warning, the ground shifted, rapidly growing and covering the corpse. Her apprehension eased once it disappeared from sight. Temporary safety granted, a sixth sense informed her.

Relief choked her, and she bowed her head until dirt pressed against her forehead. Shudders racked her frame. Safety. Something she never thought she’d have again.

“Thank you, matrem.” The wind ruffled her hair before moving on. Her devotion pleased Hecate. The triple-goddess’s fickleness didn’t hinder the life-changing gifts she gave Greta. Heart full, Greta rose to her feet, placing the first step into Redwoods. Life-changing indeed, she thought, striding forward.

Astitch wormed its way into Greta’s side. She walked what felt like several miles. The sun warmed her skin, peeping through the gaps of gnarled trees. Her magick constantly whispered a warning beneath her skin, sensing a parasitic presence latching onto her magick.

Insanity visited her briefly, encouraging her to speak with the invisible entity, but common sense won that disagreement, reminding her that in five hundred years, no witch has coaxed Redwoods into complacency. No witch lasted long within its insidious embrace, oblivious to the trap enclosing around them.

Greta embraced the warnings and wisdom of her ancestors. Sadness hung heavy in her heart and the soles of her feet complained with each toward an unknown death. Her arm came up, using the back of one hand to wipe gathering sweat away.

Sunlight beamed down and reflected the shine of a tin roof. The sparkles drew the eye, luring the heart into hope. Exhaustion and hunger weighed her limbs, but sanctuary loomed ahead, taunting her through the gaps of tree limbs, long branches stretching toward the sky with spindly limbs to block lesser creatures of the blessed glow.

Life, even death hungered for it with ravenous hunger. She winced with each step closer, ignoring the whispers growing in volume the closer sanctuary loomed. Her magick sensed what she did not. Death’s bargain approached a quick expiration.

Matrem, she pleaded in her mind, trying to force overused legs to walk faster, too tired and weak to run.

Danger, child, beware, her conscious sensed an ancient warning burrowing into her mind. Tears burned dry eyes, but she rushed each stilted step forward. Her mother’s words resounded in her mind. Get to safety.

Yes, matrem, she replied voicelessly, throat too tired and dry to croak out the words. Her tears dried up years ago, along with the bloated bodies of drowned witches. Sometimes she nearly preferred the usual treatment of burning witches to enslavement, memories of a better life taunting her psyche, grief burrowing deeper into her heart with each day.

Heart in her throat, Greta approached the cabin cautiously, rabbit bones bumping against her collar with each step. It looks more like a shack, she thought to herself. Old weathered plywood held the run down building together.

A clearing allowed an unimpeded view once she stepped free from the enclosure of the woods. Glancing around, she took in the overgrown weeds, vines crawling over the roof and sprawling across the door. She shook off a sense of foreboding once she stood a few feet from the door.

Glancing down at her bare feet, she detected the faintest echo of magick. She kneeled down, placing her hand over the leaf covered ground. Something pulsed against her hand, an insatiable hunger threatening to invade her body. She snatched her hand back. The entity hungered for more sacrifices.

She walked around the cabin in a circle, testing the pulse with traces of her own magick. Something sinister tried entangling her aura with each injection of magick. Nodding to herself, she came to the conclusion she’d need to make regular sacrifices for continued safety.

The building wasn’t much to look at but it provided shelter from the elements and the entity acted as a deterrent to Lycans hunting her. She kissed the bones around her throat and sent a prayer to Hecate, knowing she’d have to harden her heart against animal sacrifice. Survival meant routine kills buried in a circle around the cabin, a final protective barrier against her enemies.

It was a start. Tears sprung to her eyes at the abundance of blessings Hecate bestowed on her. She’d half expected to die at the Lycans hands when trying to escape. Not only did she survive, she’d found shelter and had her magick as a means of protection, along with an unsuspecting ally.

Whatever haunted the woods hungered insatiably. It did so without thinking, killing with only one goal. It didn’t care if its prey were living animals or Lycans or ignorant witches. Someone summoned it and she suspected they had met an unfortunate end. Their loss, her gain, she decided.

Striding back in the direction she came from, a newfound purpose settled in her being. She could call the Redwoods home. She had a chance at a fresh start and a new life. Mater meant mother in Latin. Mother Hecate provided for her daughter.

Mater Hecaten, gratias tibi. Mother Hecate, thank you, she whispered under her breath, unwilling to disturb the quiet of the Redwoods.

Blood Moon pack

Ripples disturbed the water, bubbles popping above the surface. Muffled voices trickled into Geralt’s ears beyond the confines of his bedroom. Annoyed and glaring up at the distorted ceiling above him, he forced himself to come up for air, hands gripping the edges of the porcelain tub. Water cascaded down his face. Wet hair dribbled water into his eyes.

“Do you really think this is wise? You know it’ll stir up old memories,” a voice carried through the walls of the packhouse. Gunter, if he had to guess. His head thunked against the lip of the bathtub. He closed his eyes, letting his supernatural hearing pick up the whispered conversation.

“It needs to be addressed before a challenger steps forward and takes matters into their own hand. Besides, I may be his mother, but he’s still the Alpha. The decision to address the pack was Geralt’s,” Helen’s melodic voice answered the other Elder. His hands slipped when he shifted his weight to rise out of the bathtub. Grunting, he nearly fell back under water.

He clambered out of the unexpected death trap. He could hear the dissenters now if he fell and suffered a concussion, preventing him from attending the meeting. They’d use it as an excuse to challenge him, a sign of weakness. The need to dominate drove every Alpha Lycan. Their beasts constantly fought for control.

He raked his fingers through his hair, sloshing water around the tiled flooring of the bathroom. “It’s the nature of the beast,” his grandfather would puff out, a cigar held in one hand, settling into the old rocking chair downstairs. The old man loved delivering a good history lesson with dramatic flair and a younger Geralt ate it up, perched in his lap.

“There used to only be one type of Lycan, an Alpha. A world filled with Alpha Lycans, fighting for dominance. Packs were rarer. Then some wolves were born calmer, less volatile. After the first shift, their eyes shone a color the others had never seen before, yellow. They called them Betas. They had no other word for it. But make no mistake, there’s no such thing as a submissive animal. All Lycans come equipped with teeth sharp enough to rip a man’s throat out.”

He’d pause, draw from the cigar, orange tip brightening. His father would stalk in, snap and snarl at grandpa Alaric for polluting the air, then grumble on the way to his office, stress lines bracketing his mouth. His grandfather would grin at Geralt conspiratorially before launching back into his unsanctioned lesson.

---