Page 3 of Their Blood Rite

My father can be a hard man. We all know what happens when we step out of line. The dead gaze of hundreds of empty eye sockets burns into us as we stand beneath them, constantly reminding us. He pulls up my hood and tucks my long hair inside.

‘I wish you would wear a bonnet or scarf when we visit the village. You know your hair makes the humans uneasy.’

‘It’s just hair,’ I grumble. But I know he’s right. I’m the only witch with the pure silver hair I have.

My father told me I was deathly sick as a baby, and after my mother took me to the woods to use her earth magic to heal me, I returned with this strange silver hair. She called it a blessing from the forest.

My father calls it attention we don’t need.

‘Try not to cause any more trouble, Ashe. The last thing we need right now is human attention. Or worse. The General and his men paying us a visit. The Blood Rite makes them twitchy, and we need the ritual to go off clean and without issue. Our Coven depends on it. So behave.’

He steps away, shaking his head, leaving me deflated alone.

I feel the blood drain from my face at the mention of that damn rite. My stomach drops hard, and a high-pitched whistle rings in my ears.

I see those flames burning black and blue in the centre of the clearing. I hear the slicing of flesh. And I smell the power in the air. Feel it hum over my skin and tingle on my tongue like the moment before lightning strikes.

‘Go to the herbalist first, Ashe,’ he calls back as he collects a bag from the carriage. ‘Give him the list. You do still have the list, yes?’ he raises a brow.

‘I have the list, Father,’ I sigh.

‘Because the last time-’

‘It wasn’t my fault I lost the last one. It fell from my pocket.’

‘When you have done that, go to the Marker’s Arms and fetch a bottle of my whiskey.’

‘Again? It’s unsafe for a woman to go alone to a pub. Especiallythatone. The place is crawling with degenerates, whores and ex-soldiers who enjoy claiming which skull they planted on the bridge by pissing on them when they have drunk too much.’

‘I hope you are not asking me to repeat myself, daughter. You do know how much I loathe it when I do. And no foul language.’ My father disappears inside the village, and I let out a heavy breath.

I fucking hate that pub. They hate witches, yet he sends me there every month when we visit the town.

My hands are slick with mud, as is the front of my dress right down to the hem. The pale blue skirt is faded and worn, but it was my mother’s and is one of my nicer dresses. She died when I was six, and all she had to give me were her clothes. Father had to sell her jewellery to pay off debts. All except the bracelet she made for me. One she made me swear I would never take off. I swore I wouldn’t, and I never have. She was a powerful earth witch. High in the coven and respected. What she saw in my father, I have no idea. He is far from powerful and came to the marriage with little to no money but plenty of charm and gambling habits.

His walking cane taps into the cobbled street, and those he passes give him a wide berth despite how he nods and greets them all politely.

I wipe away the last trickle of blood with the back of my hand and head into the centre of the village.

The streets are bustling. Horses pull carts piled high with goods. Men push barrows overflowing with crates. Women yell and barter at their stalls, flogging food, clothing, fabrics and anything else you can think of.

The poor mix with the wealthy here, but it’s clear to see who is which.

The deeper into the village I go, the busier it gets.

The air fills with bartering voices and argumentative discussions. And the shrill shrieks of the caged creatures set me on edge.

The forest fairies. The imps. The sprites. They’re the worst with their ear-piercing screams that carry on and on. They slam themselves against their little cages, spitting and hurling shit at anyone that gets too close. They’re small and ugly little creatures. The forest fairies are pale blue with stringy little bodies. Imps are dark green, stockier and shorter. Sprites are grey and similar to fairies, but have four arms instead of two. I watch a human woman reach into the cage holding ten fairies and grab one in her gloved hand. She lays it down on a slab, picks up a hatchet and SLAM!

I wince at its screams of agony. She tosses it into a second cage filled with other de-winged critters and adds the wings to a bubbling concoction. A remedy for chills and fever.

‘Watch it, witch!’ bellows a man.

I step aside, narrowly missing the horn of a wilderbore as it pulls an iron cage on wheels. The driver spits at my feet as he passes.

Inside are goblins. They’re strange creatures, the same size as a toddler but built like a brick shit house. Their fingers curve into long talons, toxic to almost all living things. One scratch and you’ll die vomiting up your liquified insides.

Many goblins and most faeries were part of the Unseelie court in the war. The survivors still pay the price for that treasonagainst the humans. Following the orders of the Blood Coven that decimated this land for power almost two decades ago, all in the name of their dark Goddess Hel, doomed their species.

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