Page 4 of Filthy Little Witch
I did. I had loads of questions, starting with, “How fucking dare you!”
The Colts were there when my parents died. I’d heard the rumors. Atlas and Wesson had stood by while some vicious demon tore my family apart. And now, I was supposed to bond with them? Rely on them for protection? I hadn’t said more than two words to them in years.
“Lilith,” I tried to say. “High Priestess, please. There must be?—”
“Do you not accept this gift the ancestors have bestowed upon you?” Lilith asked, her tone suggesting I better not argue.
Once upon a time, she’d been bonded to her father’s best friend, who eventually died protecting her. She hadn’t been given another warrior since. And here I was, bestowed with two? Why two? Why these two?
In all the years I’d lived, I had more than enough reasons to be mad at God. Now, I had beef with the ancestors, too? Would the horrors never cease to persist?
I swallowed against my suddenly dry throat and licked my lips, hesitantly looking at Atlas on my right and his stepbrother on my left. Atlas glared at me, his emerald gaze and tight pursed lips radiating with the years of animosity between us. Wesson, on the other hand, looked destroyed, his jaw hanging open, his brows pinched together, his eyes nearly shimmering with hot, angry tears.
Even if I said I wouldn’t accept the gift, nothing would happen. I’d never heard of them pulling another name from the chalice. In fact, I’d never heard of a Harlot rejecting their warrior at all. To be patched and blooded as a Harlot was an honor; to be given a warrior was the cherry on top.
“Yes, Lilith,” I said, returning my focus to the ground in front of me. “I accept this gift.”
“Good, all is well.” She held out her hand, the same one she’d cut earlier, and waved her fingers for me to place mine in it. I did, and I shivered when Atlas put his on top of mine. Wesson moved to stand across from me, holding our fists under me. Lilith placed a red ceremonial ribbon on top of Atlas’s knuckles before wrapping it over and around our combined embrace. Over and around. Over and around.
“I bind you together in the tradition of our beloved dead,” she said. “Warrior to witch, witch to warrior. You will share your energy, your strength, and your magic. What the ancestors have bound, let no one tear asunder.”
“What the ancestors have bound,” the three of us repeated, “let no one tear asunder.”
Lilith dragged her knife down the sides of our palms, scorching a hot cut along the outside of our hands, deep and fiery. It ached more than my blooding, and when Atlas’s blood dripped down into my cut, I winced as a tether opened up between us. Circe brought the chalice over to us, catching the dripping liquid as it pooled under our bound fists. Normally, the warrior and witch drank of each other, and the ceremony concluded. But I didn’t know how this would work with two warriors. Would they then be bound to each other? Would they have the same connection that a witch typically had with her warrior?
Circe handed the cup to Wesson, who took it with his free hand and held it up.
“Marta, witch of the Royal Harlots,” he said, his voice trembling. He cleared his throat and stared up at me with dark mahogany eyes, holding my gaze as he said the next part of the oath. “I swear my allegiance and fealty to you as your blooded warrior.” He drank, and my connection to him soared. His energy rushed into me like a warm campfire, like autumn bursting in my veins. He hadn’t wanted to be selected because of how I might feel about it. He reeked of shame and guilt.
It wasn’t like I could feel his emotions or read his thoughts; more like I got the energetic imprint of them. I understood them, even if they weren’t my own.
“Marta,” Atlas said when Wesson passed the cup to him. He sighed and shook his head, hanging it over his chest like the words took every bit of his energy to say. “Witch of the Royal Harlots. I swear my allegiance and fealty to you as your blooded warrior.” When he drank, I gasped as his life force barreled into my chest, hot and fiery and reckless. It boiled with indignation and resentment. He hated me, almost as much as I hated him.
No, no, no.
This would not be a good match, not at all. How the hell was I supposed to run missions with them when we couldn’t even stand to look at each other?
Atlas handed the cup to me with a squared jaw and hardened eyes; the green having almost disappeared around dilated pupils.
“Atlas Colt, Wesson Colt, warriors of a sacred line. I accept your allegiance and fealty as my blooded warriors. I swear to honor, respect, and protect you until the end may come.”
“Until the end may come,” the Colts repeated.
I drank from the cup, swallowing down the rich metallic taste, wincing as all three pathways snapped into place. Atlas groaned and Wesson winced, but undoubtedly, they now knew I hadn’t wanted this, that I wished it had been anyone else. They knew I blamed them for every rotten thing in my life. They knew I hated them.
A small, vindictive voice spoke up from inside me.
Good.
CHAPTER 2
Marta
“It seriously doesn’t bother you that I’ve been bonded to the Colts?” I wrapped my arms around myself and followed Tita out her back door to the yard, where chickens clucked happily as they wandered the open space. My family had lived in this house for decades, and over the years, Tita had turned it into a mini homestead. She took great pride in growing her own herbs and flowers, and collecting eggs to do her own divination (and make omelettes). She insisted magic started where you created, and she loved taking care of it all. Goats and sheep bleated in the distance, and our donkey, Edward, hee-hawwed at our appearance.
Tita spread chicken feed on the ground and smiled as her avian pets gathered to eat.
“It’s the will of the ancestors,” she said. “You don’t have much choice in the matter.”
