Page 1 of Filthy Little Witch
CHAPTER 1
Marta
I was used to existing in liminal spaces. Half witch, half biker. Both Catholic and pagan. Attracted to both men and women. A proverbial pie chart of ancestry that included Mexican, Scottish, and Indigenous roots. In many ways, this was what pushed me where I stood today. I existed everywhere, so I belonged nowhere. And in that desperate struggle, I forced myself to be better, to be smarter, and to work harder than everyone around me.
“Are you nervous?” my cousin, Bridge, asked from behind me. I glanced up at the mirror and looked at her, smiling as I shook my head. “Good. You’re ready. You’ll do great.”
Tonight, I would be given my warrior, a partner supernaturally bonded to me whose sole mission was to keep me safe. I didn’t take this privilege lightly. Looking at the leather vest on my shoulders proclaiming me a member of the Royal Harlots MC, I thought about how much it had taken me to get here.
Years of training. Years of learning from the elders. Decades of service dedicated to the coven. All of it would culminate tonight when the president, Lilith, finally announced the person who would stand at my side while I enacted my life’s work. Getting patched in was one thing; getting bonded to a warrior sealed the deal.
“Was it painful?” I asked Bridge. She’d been inducted years ago, right around the same age as me, and had already completed several missions.
“Nah.” She waved me off and winked, brushing her flaming red hair behind an ear, a blush on her alabaster cheeks. “It’s over before you know it.”
The Asheville chapter of the Royal Harlots wasn’t like any other chapter in America. We were the most powerful witches this side of the Atlantic, and it took a lot even to be considered a prospect, much less welcomed into the club with a patch.
The Royal Harlots MC had only recently been recognized by Duchess, the president of the founding chapter, four years ago, but it was the local coven that had made it possible. Formalizing ourselves as Harlots gave us access to a nationwide network of empowered women, something that had been difficult to manage until recently. Since we all swore our blood and loyalty to the MC, we had their strength behind us, and it had made all the difference when we needed it. They looked out for us, and we looked out for them.
“C’mon,” she said. “We’re going to be late.”
We left my bedroom, where my abuelita sat at her kitchen table with a steaming cup of tea in her hands.
“Oh, look at you!” She stood and held her arms out, gesturing me into her embrace.
I tried to hide the burning in my cheeks as I went to her and wrapped my arms around her midsection. When my parents died, Tita took me in without hesitation. I’d been a child, young and terrified of the world. But Tita had loved me through it all, through the nightmares and the rebellious teenage years, through the prospecting of my early twenties. She’d been a motorcycle-riding witch once upon a time, as had my mother. As much as she would rather see me off to college, doing anything other than what took her son and daughter-in-law from her, she also recognized that magic ran in my veins and I had always been destined for tonight.
“You look so beautiful,” she said, pushing a piece of dark hair behind my ear. “How do you feel?”
“Okay.” I smiled and tried not to shake. I’d heard the ritual could be taxing, sometimes deadly, but the club wouldn’t have recommended me if they didn’t think I could handle it.
“Remember,” Tita said, “you are the strongest of us all. Your grandmothers are rooting for you.” She touched the cross and the locket I always wore around my neck and grinned. For being well into her sixties, she didn’t look a day over forty, which was a testament to the strength of the magic in our family. From her, I had inherited a long line of Mexican and Spanish ancestry, all powerful witches and healers. On my mother’s side, I traced my roots back to the first settlers of Appalachia, equally strong and rooted in the natural energy of the world.
“I’ll take good care of her,” Bridge said as she grabbed my shoulders in a comforting squeeze.
“I know you will.” Tita smiled at Bridge and kissed each side of my cheeks, cupping my jaw in a tender embrace before she touched her forehead to mine. She muttered a whisper to Saint Marta for strength and another to the Virgin Mary to look out for me. I closed my eyes and envisioned a shield of my abuelita’s love coating my skin. Even if I had my disagreements with God, Mary, and most of the saints, I did believe in the force of my grandmother’s love. It had gotten me this far.
When she was done, she let me go and hugged Bridge. Then she went back to her tea.
“Make sure you’re back before supper,” she said. “I'm making tamales and roasted chicken. The entire club better come, including your warrior.”
“Okay, Tita.” I waved goodbye to her and walked out of the front door, descending the stairs with knots in my stomach. I wiped my hands on my black jeans and adjusted my cut before kicking a leg over my bike and lifting it upright. Bridge got on her bike next to me and reached out to tug on my braid.
“It’s gonna be fine, Marts,” she said, using her nickname for me. “Trust me.”
I wanted to. I really did. But Tita’s mention of my warrior reminded me that this was real. This was happening. I’d been born into this family of witches, and despite what aspirations my parents might have had for me, there was never any other choice.
In my world, women were the most powerful practitioners. All women, even those who were misgendered at birth. We were the ones with the deepest connection to the earth, the ones chosen to wield magic to defend it. There were a lot of monsters out there—rabid shifters, chaotic vampires, ruthless demons. It was a Harlot’s job to keep the rest of the world safe.
Normies didn’t know we existed, not in any real sense. Even if some humans could tap into the unique reservoir of preternatural energy in their blood and the elements, they could not manipulate these forces the way we could. We worked our entire lives to perfect it, and once we came into our power, we spent most of the time fighting the real evil in the world.
But magic always came with a cost, and there was a downside to casting. It left the witch vulnerable to attack, especially if she used too much magic too quickly. She needed someone to defend her, to protect her, to channel energy into her if she got injured—hence the warrior.
A warrior bond wasn’t inherently sexual, nor was it based on compatibility or mutual attraction. It was based on strength, on the ability to fight together with complementary skills. A witch could survive the death of her warrior, but a warrior would never survive the death of his witch.
I’d get mine tonight, and I tried not to think about who it would be on the long drive to the meeting grounds. There were dozens of unbonded warriors in the Harlot community. I prayed it was someone I got along with, someone I could put up with on long missions and even longer nights.
Instead, I focused on the weight of my bike between my legs, the wind in my hair, the brilliant blushes and pinks in the sky as the sun set over the horizon. God and I may have our differences, but I couldn’t help but marvel at His creative splendor when the world came to life like this.
