by Bri Clark
The Familial Witch
Bri Clark
Published by Astraea Press
www.astraeapress.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.
FAMILIAL WITCH
Copyright © 2010 Bri Clark
ISBN 978-1-936852-06-2
Cover Art Designed By Elaina Lee
Edited By Stephanie Taylor
Like it takes a village to raise a child, it takes a community to produce a book. I want to thank all the gals at Astraea who have gumption and courage. CC, who is my truly honest eternal mate. My mentors, KiKi and V, the Idaho Writers Guild, and my close friends, Eve, Evie, Ro, Michelle, Karyn and Gretchen. My mommy and granny, and my Heavenly Father.
Lucien Lemoine’ couldn’t believe his eyes. The scene before him was so shocking, he wished he could blink and make it go away.
Alistair Cyrille had been Lucien’s loyal second in command in their clan of eternals for two centuries. Unfortunately, the scene before Lucien suggested that he had committed treason. The procreating with other races, specifically mortals, was taboo. “Eternal only mate with eternal” was a law enacted a century ago because the half-breed abominations were unmoral, volatile, and not bound by the same laws and restrictions as a pureblood, thus making them dangerous.
The Mother Goddess created eternals, like all other immortal creatures, in an alternate realm. Because they had demonstrated ethical behavior, being allowed to dwell in the mortal realm was their reward. Mortals were one of her adored species. Being weaker than immortal creatures, she would only allow those that were able to exercise obedience and compassion into the mortal realm. The dream realm was a spirit’s prison. There was no taste, no feeling, no joy, no pain, just a realm of pure existence. After coming to the mortal realm, an immortal wanted never to return there. After being without feeling and sense in the dream realm, everything was heightened well beyond a mortal’s capabilities. Taste, touch, smell, strength, speed—all magnified in an immortal after coming to the mortal realm.
A few goddess-favored immortals were gifted with other attributes. Lucien was one. There were only two ways for an immortal to return to the spirit realm. The Mother Goddess sent them back, or the leader of the immortal’s clan could. Going back there was equal to death. Clan leaders reserved this sentence for the most horrendous immortals. It was essentially sending them to purgatory.
Slavatia was the country that made up the mortal realm. A large, centralized forest blanketed by tall, primordial trees surrounded The Triad Mountains—three snowcapped summits—the middle being larger than the two that flanked it. The Triad was untouched by mortals, and most immortals avoided its treacherous peaks and harsh, unpredictable climate. For Lucien, though, it was like coming home. A decade in hiding provided that feeling. There were two roads used for travel. One went through the forest, the other around the outskirts. Travelers used the one that skirted the forest, mainly. A brave few risked going straight through. If they made it, their travel time was cut in half.
Alistair walked among the ranks of the half-mortal half-eternal abominations with the smug superiority of a four star general. Lucien’s heightened senses confirmed his assumption. The men and women were a smell he knew from long ago. The earthy sweet musk of an immortal body combined with the briny smell of flesh and organs. Mortals, as a race, smelled of sweat and tasted salty while their blood smelled like rust, possessing a metallic taste. Their life force permeated the air unlike any other being. While fragile, with no natural defense against the elements, such as fur or claws, or supernatural talents like strength or speed, mortals possess an inner survival that was admirable.
A small army had been created by Alistair. But why…to accomplish what? Before Lucien could study out the answer further, someone called the traitor away. Lucien cursed under his breath and left his hiding place to follow Alistair and his cohort. Alistair’s escort matched his steps easily, making them both around six feet even. A slim build was revealed through the gray cloak he wore, but nothing else. They disappeared into a small rock building hidden on the outskirts of an abandoned village. A plague had wiped out the villagers and fear of ghosts kept anyone else from settling. Well, anyone mortal that is.
With the stealth his powers gave him, the blanket of night wasn’t a problem. He approached undetected, yet defensive. Alistair was a pureblood eternal. That alone afforded him his own strengths. Nevertheless, the relationship the two men shared in the spoils of victory to the misery of defeats spanned two centuries. They had a strong bond…or so Lucien had thought. As the events that he had just witnessed challenged their relationship like nothing before, the newest event sealed the absolute betrayal.
Alistair picked up an arrow by the shaft, handling it with care as the metallic gleam of the silver top shined in the fire light. Lucien observed through a hole made by the erosion in the mortar between the stones.
“Are you sure it will completely incapacitate him?” Alistair asked.
“How about a demonstration?” the cohort responded. Then he pulled a bow up and placed the arrow in it. On the other side of the room, bound and gagged, was a vampire. Lucien knew by the iridescent skin and smell of copper or old blood. Lucien didn’t have many enemies, but vampires were one of them.
Vampires and eternals had actually been at war for a century before Lucien negotiated a truce between the clan leaders. Alistair had been infuriated. While Lucien didn’t have any empathy for a vampire, kidnapping and torture definitely went against the treaty terms. Is that what Alistair wants…to begin the war again? No, not that. He wondered what Alistair’s intentions were since vampires and eternals shared a common weakness with silver… Perhaps he was coming up with a defense for his people and wouldn’t subject another eternal to the pain.
The vamp puffed his chest out in defiance as the arrow’s tip aimed at his chest. The bow pulled back and released, lodging in the middle of his chest. His roar of pain filled the small room. His body twitched and jerked, trying to dislodge it.
“That’s right, fight and squirm…release the liquid.” The shooter hissed and grinned. Lucien knew the pain silver caused and never reveled in another’s suffering from its effects—even a vampire.
“How did you keep him restrained to begin with? Vampires are very similar to my species with heighted abilities and superior strength and speed,” Alistair asked.
The shooter answered with a sinister smile. “I already gave him an oral dose of the liquid silver—just enough to make him weak.”
Those two words solidified Lucien’s worst fear that his longtime comrade was a complete traitor. The sudden lack of movement in the corner caught his attention. They inspected the vampire as he sat frozen in place—clenched fists, drawn brows, and flaring nostrils. Alistair circled the vamp. “I can’t believe it! You killed him.”
“No. I didn’t kill him. The rule is still in effect…only his clan leader can ensure his demise. He is simply frozen indefinitely.”
Alistair squealed in delight. He continued to examine the vamp, poking and striking him. “How does it work?”
“The arrowhead is made with a hollow center where the liquid silver is hidden within, and then a small plug is fitted as a stopper. Jagged silver shards are added at the base of the points along the shaft so that when the arr
ow is pulled out, it releases the silver—or as the victim squirms, the liquid is released.”
The vamp sat in place, still unmoving. “How did you make it?”
“Now, now, if I revealed my methods then you would have no need of me.”
Alistair stood up abruptly, his previous delight replaced with fury. He quickly recovered his smugness. “It’s the perfect prison. Lucien will never know what hit him.” Spasms of pain erupted in Lucien’s shoulder. It was a pain he knew well—silver. Alistair found Lucien’s eyes and they locked for just a few moments. It was long enough for Lucien to determine his confidant had turned into his greatest enemy. Without another thought, he ran as fast as his supernatural strength could carry him.
****
A slight breeze blew from the west and Aisleen stood upright at once, eyes closed. The pressure that had ridden on that breeze caused her ears to pop and chest to contract, confirming her fear—a storm was coming, and a hard winter storm.
Another breeze blew; she inhaled deeply then smiled with relief.
This storm would have snow and a lot of it. Perfect. She was in dire need of spirits clove, a strong and rare herb with the ability to camouflage itself. It was only ripe for harvest just before the winter solstice and could only be found in a secluded area with the assistance of snow. This part of Trinity woods was hidden behind a thick curtain of moss few knew even existed. Located at the base of one of the Triad summits, fed by a snow packed waterfall, it was an oasis. Enchanted by Fae magic, the plant life was potent and bursting with magical healing qualities.
The Fae people had left many centuries ago for less violent realms, but their influence would last forever. Fae were docile, small creatures with great power and influence over the earth and its plants. When the war between vampire and eternals began, they left shortly after. The damage done to their beloved trees and foliage had been too much to bear.
Aisleen said a silent prayer of thanks to the Mother Goddess for the opportunity to find the spirits clove. The sun was setting sooner these days, and she was a great distance from her cottage. She abandoned her previous search with this new knowledge in mind. An instinct she depended on prompted her to find the herb. She was working on finding a way to force a liquid substance or poison out of the blood stream.
****
Lucien’s pursuers were close. His movements were swift and sure as he headed toward the primordial trees that made up Trinity Forest. He’d lose them hidden among the mist rhwew. The woods were known for dark legends and more sinister creatures of the night. Creatures that were made up by the overactive imaginations of mortals. He smiled, remembering he had caused some of the lore.
As the trees came into view, a new energy seemed to erupt within him, fueling him toward safety. Shouts of his enemies told him they were in close pursuit. Before him, fog wrapped around the tree trunks like a translucent snow pack. The pain in his shoulder increased. Nevertheless, he continued.
Once sufficiently within the forest, he found a tree and climbed quietly. The first fifty feet was just bark before full branches spread out like the intricate folds of a woman’s skirt. The strong cedar odor would aide in the masking of his bleeding wound and personal scent.
His breathing became labored. Increasing pain made him curse internally. He had to find shelter. The arrow that had been used on him was most likely laced with the liquid silver. The anguished image frozen on the vampire’s face haunted him, and he said a silent prayer to an even quieter Mother Goddess. He had to remedy this situation before it got out of control. With the invention of liquid silver, there were countless ways far worse than death that could befall an eternal. Lucien had to protect his people.
His shoulder was beginning to numb. He closed his eyes and sent out his awareness; a distinct charge was near…a mixture of immortal and mortal attributes.
The half-bloods hovered at the edge of the woods. Even though the use of his power exerted him further, Lucien smiled to himself. Alistair was careless, sending only his new minions after Lucien Lemoine. He really had no choice. The half-bloods were his creation, therefore securing their allegiance to him solely. Alistair’s loyalty had seemed unmatched at one time.
However, Lucien learned centuries ago to always trust his inner alarm. This special warning system was a defense only an immortal leader of a clan possessed. When he’d tailed Alistair, Lucien knew it was his duty to protect his people again. He said another silent prayer of thanks to the Mother Goddess. He had hoped his trackers were young, so they would be scared and hesitant when he entered Trinity Forest.
Lucien climbed back down using one arm. The night was starless and moonless, a blessing allowing him to see easily without light. He would have to find shelter, and fast. He sniffed the air. The sweet perfume of a peony flower called to him through the mist. He followed.
****
Aisleen hitched her empty basket up higher on her shoulder. She held a candle out in front of her, attempting to see through the molasses thick fog. She put the candle out, stowing it in her basket, then looked up, seeking the stars for direction. Only there were none to find. The fog Trinity was known for had crept in quite suddenly as she had tried to make her way back home. Aisleen sighed, took a deep breath, and closed her eyes. A slight breeze blew, carrying the smell of madfern, sleepweed and slithering elm. She smiled and headed into the wind. They were the three most distinct herbs growing around her secluded cottage.
As she walked home, her frustration over becoming lost waned. Yet, her fear began. She was a single woman living alone within the woods of Trinity, the most feared place in Slavatia. The area was said to be haunted by banshees, vampires and other terrible fiends of the night. This was why Aisleen lived here. After her husband had left her penniless and humiliated because she was barren, as well as being shunned by her own village, she desired nothing more than solitude. Well, perhaps, she held one more desire—to love and be loved.
The scents of her other herbs seemed to pull her forward, increasing her pace. She felt like she was being followed. Instead of stopping and turning as she wanted to, she picked up the pace. Then, she suddenly ducked behind a trunk thick enough to completely hide her. Holding her breath as to not make noise, she listened. Labored breathing was all she heard, but it was what she smelled that sent her heart into a gallop. A distinctly sweet, earthy musk mixed with the smell of blood. Peeking from her protection, she found a man three heads taller than she leaned up heavily against a tree while he cradled his left arm.
“I entreat your pardon, Madame….” he began, but then lost his breath and stopped. The simple act of his speech had an effect upon her that she had never encountered. Her pulse sped of its own accord. She considered the lore of her home. She thought about what she had experienced since living there and the many sights she had seen. Aisleen knew the safe thing to do was to simply run away. Nevertheless, it wasn’t the ethical choice. As she debated, her body, like her pulse, moved on its own and she left the cover of her hiding place and approached.
****
Lucien heard the intake of her breath, and then the soft pads of her steps approach him. He’d not wanted to ask for help, but desperately needed it. The wound in his arm shifted between extreme pain to numbness. Both were equally bad and drained his energy. He knew exactly where she had hid. If the pain weren’t so bad, he would’ve smiled. He was impressed with her stealth.
Attempting a deep breath, he looked up to see what quality of wench lived among these woods. She would have to be single—most likely homely at best. No husband would live here, much less allow his wife to wander these woods alone. The female would become enchanted with him. Mortal women always had, and it ended with their broken hearts—which is why he avoided mortals entirely. An eternal, especially a clan leader, could not connect themselves to mortals. To ensure the continuation of the species of purebloods, it was highly suggested eternals only procreate with eternal. This fact reminded him of Alastair’s betrayal, adding to his pain.
/> He reluctantly raised his eyes to inspect her. His breath caught. Thick, raven dark locks framed an ivory face with flame red lips while empathetic emerald eyes surveyed his condition. Wearing a white peasant’s dress, she appeared ethereal moving toward him through the mist. His breath came out in a rush, and his pulse seemed to scream within his skull. Without a word, she positioned herself under his bad shoulder and bore his weight easily. He was astonished a body so small could hold him up. Silently, she guided him along. He asked her no questions, putting all his energy into moving. The pain was good, though. It meant the liquid silver hadn’t been released to encase him in a frozen prison.
The scent of plants he hadn’t encountered in years quickly assaulted his nose. Then the source came into view—a small cottage surrounded by herbs. That’s when it all came into perspective. The woman was a witch, and one of the ancient arts. He stiffened with the realization. She looked up at him with luminous green eyes framed by thick lashes that held nothing but concern. He considered he might be wrong. His internal alarm had not sounded. Nevertheless, he’d seen ghastly things done by witches and their herbs, especially the three prominent species framing her stoop. The pain of the silver arrowhead imbedded in his now stiffened muscles screamed in protest, and all his previous thoughts became a blur.
****
Aisleen opened the door, and he was forced to bend low over her as they entered. As his chiseled face came closer to hers, her pulse accelerated. His heavy breath blew across her neck, leaving behind a tingling display of goose bumps. She berated herself for the reactions her body was having. Had it been so long since she’d been around a man? Yes. However, even with her husband, she’d never experienced reactions like she was having now.