Page 2 of Their Blood Rite

The human men start heading towards us. Hateful glares burn into me. They know what I am. They know what we both are.

The dark green cloaks we’re forced to wear, with a black W sewn onto it, single us out as witches.

Earth witches, to be exact. Property of the human king. Servants to his vast lands.

There are rules for killing us. Procedures that must be followed. So the villagers can’t kill us here and now.

Sadly, there are not many rules protecting us from a beating.

As they descend, my father delivers a fierce backhand to my cheek but keeps hold of my hair. I scream as several chunks are torn from my scalp and clutch my cheek as I look up at him. He wasn’t holding back. The inside of my mouth has split, as well as my lip. He threatens another blow. His knuckles are pink from his strike.

‘One more mistake,’ he bellows at me, loud enough for the men heading this way to hear. ‘My belt will meet your flesh, and you will be left unable to walk for a month. Now say you are sorry to the boy.’

He lets me go with a shove. I fall on my hands and knees, facing the three bastard boys. The men have all slowed to a stop, seemingly content with my punishment. For now, at least.

I lift my head and lock eyes with the little prick who tossed the stone.

‘I'm sorry,’ I grind out. ‘My hand slipped. It won't happen again,Sir.’

‘Keep her under control,’ barks one of the men at my father. ‘Orweshall.’ He points to the arch. ‘There is always room for one more.’

‘Absolutely, gentlemen. Sincerest apologies.’

The human men return to the boys and escort them back inside the village, delivering them a warning not to fuck with witches unless they are armed with much more than a handful of stones.

Sure. Ifwemisbehave, we may be executed.

But if we choose to fight back, they’d suffer many casualties before we go down.

My father holds out his hand and pulls me to my feet. I sway, disorientated from the rock and his backhand. His grip tightens as I find my balance.

‘You good?’ he grumbles, knowing it’s his fatherly obligation to make sure I’m okay, but pissed that I would dare be so stupid.

‘I’m fine,’ I huff, pulling my arm free.

With a tut, he takes hold of my chin and lifts my face to inspect for himself.

I watch as his brow furrows. My heart softens as he looks pained, seeing the blood sliding down my cheek.

‘He got a lucky shot in,’ he says. He pulls out an old handkerchief from his pocket and presses it to the wound. ‘Good reflexes catching the second one, though. Very quick and efficient.’

I keep quiet and don’t say that his hit will bruise far worse than the child’s stone.

‘I’m sorry I struck you,’ he says. ‘If they didn’t see me punish you, they would have done so themselves, and I would be carrying you back bloody and limp.’

‘I know,’ I reply. ‘I’d rather your backhand than their boots.’ My gaze drifts to the decorative skulls. ‘Or their sword. Or fire. Or a noose.’

His calloused hand rests on my cheek as he pulls my focus away from the bones of our kind and back to him.

‘Will you behave?’ he asks. ‘Please?’

‘I’ll behave.’

His frown deepens in disbelief.

‘I will behave, Father.’

He runs his finger along my cheekbone, tracing the outline of where he struck me. His smile falters. Guilt. I actually see guilt in his features. I blink up at him, my breath held as I find myself in a rare moment of kindness and affection from him.

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