Coven: a dark medieval paranormal romance (Witches of the Woods Book 2)

by Holmes, Steffanie

  “Help us!”

  “Have mercy!”

  “Please, my children will die without me!”

  I wanted nothing more than to shut out their pitiful cries, but they came at me from all sides, assailing me with their misery. I kept trudging onward, setting my face in a scowl, narrowing my eyes, hoping I looked to them terrifying, and not the way I truly felt – shame.

  I could save them all. I could sneak them out through the passage, and out of the city, and help them to run into the forest to hide. I could take from this place right now, and delay their suffering. But what good would it do? I would buy them time, and false hope, nothing more. The scharfrichters had fast horses and keen eyes, they would soon round up every escaped prisoner and bring them back to the dungeon again. The few that managed to escape would soon starve in the forest. No one passing through the woods would help a man or woman condemned to die.

  It turned out, neither would I. “Don’t touch me,” I snapped at an old man who tried to pull my cloak from my head. He snapped his hands back through the bars, glaring at me with derision. The cloak slipped over my shoulder, revealing a flash of the side of my face before I quickly replaced it. The man glared at me harder.

  “I know who you are,” he whispered.

  “Don’t speak to me, old man.” I snapped, but the cold, dark look in his eyes made me pause.

  “I know who you are!” he repeated, loud enough that those unfortunates around him looked up. My stomach clenched with fear.

  “Please,” I whispered, trying to appeal to him. “Stop talking. I may yet be able to save you—”

  “You are the son of Damon of Donau-Ries. You are the one they are hunting, the scharfrichter who abandoned his faith to save a witch.” His eyes narrowed at me. “Five years ago, you burned my daughter at the stake as a witch. You watched, silent as death, as the flames consumed her. You didn’t even give me a body I could bury.”

  I heard my name whispered from lip to lip as the prisoners passed the message down their ranks. I glared at the man, terrified of what his revelation might cost me. He glared back at me, a look of satisfaction on his wrinkled, scarred face. “Fear not.” I growled, masking my fear with anger. “You will be reunited with her soon enough.”

  “What made you turn from your crimes, witch hunter? What is it about your harlot that makes her so special? Why couldn’t it have been my daughter Muriel you saved?” The man’s eyes never left my own. “She was no witch. She deserved to be spared.”

  Muriel. I’d only ever met one girl named Muriel, and I remembered her well. She had been the third girl Tjard and I freed, but only after she and I had enjoyed two days of exquisite torture in the dungeon. A flash of her danced across my memory; Muriel tied to my St. Andrew’s Cross, her full breasts pointing high and her head thrown back in ecstasy while I thrust the handle of a whip up inside of her. Tjard and I had taken Muriel to the edge of Lord Benedict’s lands and set her free, but of course she could not return to her family. They had to believe her dead, in order that they be spared from knowledge that could incriminate them in the future. I wanted to spit the truth back at her father, tell him all the dirty things his precious daughter screamed at me as I twisted her pert nipples, but I didn’t. He would be tortured soon enough, and that knowledge in the hands of my father would be far too dangerous.

  I sighed and turned away, pulling my hood further down over my eyes. The man yelled after me, angry words that sliced through my skin.

  “Why do you turn away, witch hunter?” The man screamed after me. “Can you not bear to face me? You killed my only child, my beautiful girl, and with my dying breath I will curse you!”

  He was trying to get me to lose my temper – perhaps so that I’d run him through with my sword now and spare his suffering, perhaps so the guards would come down to see the commotion and find me here – but I didn’t reply. I couldn’t. I didn’t blame him for his anger, I would’ve hated my daughter’s killer, too.

  I passed the end of the hall and descended a short stone staircase. At the foot of the staircase I saw what I was looking for: the dungeon door, thick and wooden and crisscrossed with heavy iron hinges. It hung open, revealing a few inches of the room beyond. Inside, I heard a woman whimpering, her cries growing in volume as the wheel of the rack creaked and the cruel device pulled her arms and legs from their sockets.

  I reached out for the door, then paused, my hand resting against the cold wood. In the room beyond was my father, a man I hadn’t seen since I’d left his employ five years ago. A man I abhorred, but also feared. And here he was, in his element, with all the tools of his trade at his command. Why did I come here? Why did I choose to confront him in his domain?

  It’s your domain, also. I reminded myself, clenching my hand into a fist. An image of Ada flashed before my eyes, her curvy hips spread wide on the St. Andrew’s Cross, the comfortable feeling of the leather whip pressed against my palm. The burst of pleasure I got from teasing her body to oblivion. Out of something abhorrent, I’d managed to create a haven. I knew the ways of the dungeon just as well as he, maybe I did stand a chance after all.

  Ada’s face loomed in my vision, her eyelids half shut, her cheeks flushed with colour, her lips open in a silent O. Her presence in my mind steadied me. My heart hammering, I pushed against the heavy door, swinging it inward just wide enough so I could slip through. I darted along the wall, into the shadow behind a large furnace used to heat up pokers and brands. The furnace wasn’t lit, and my bulk fitted behind it nicely. I crouched down, and held my breath, listening for any sign that I’d been spotted. He will be too engrossed in his work to notice the movement of my shadow, I told myself, but my heart pounded against my chest all the same. I leaned forward slowly, peering around the edge of the furnace, and waited for my eyes to adjust to the gloom.

  A single lamp shone, placed on a sconce fitted to the frame of the rack. On the rack, a naked girl, barely thirty summers old, lay stretched out, her body streaked with a bloody lattice from the whip, her fingers mashed beyond recognition from the screws. The room stank of shit and blood, vile perfumes of the executioner’s craft.

  Above the woman loomed a figure I recognized instantly. He’d thrown off his black cloak, for he would have quickly grown hot from his exertions. His black tunic fitted tightly across his chest, pulling at his shoulders where his muscles bulged. My father always kept himself in peak physical condition, he believed it was part of his duty to his Lord, in case he was suddenly needed in holy battle. His head was bent down, focused on his task. His greying hair fell over his face so I could not see his eyes. His hands on the wheel were steady, unfaltering. He gave the wheel another quarter turn.

  “Please,” the woman sobbed, her body stretched so tight that she was pulled off the table by the taut ropes. “I have nothing to confess. I am innocent. You have to believe me—”

  “Ah, but we both know that is not true, demon.” My father said as he slapped her cheek with the back of his hand. I focused on the room around him, searching for other figures in the gloom, but I could see none. He was working alone down here. ”Your own daughter gave you up as a witch, so there is no use trying to convince me of your innocence. There is only one way out of this torture, and that is through the cleansing fire. Now, speak to me of your evil deeds through this poor unfortunate you have possessed, and tell me who else is in your coven, and I shall cease your torture and hasten your death.”

  “I’m innocent! I am no demon!” The girl sobbed, her delicate face screwed up in agony.

  Other scharfrichters would have had their way with a witch that pretty, taking her body by force before they ripped her limb from limb, but my father was not one of them. He was too righteous, too pure. When he looked at that naked body, he didn’t see anything to desire -- all he saw was evil. And that made him more dangerous than anyone.

  He reached down for the wheel again. My body turned cold. I couldn’t watch this. I stepped out from behind the furnace, raising my swor
d as I moved into the circle of light.

  “Father,” I whispered, my word hanging in the still, silent air, carrying all the weight of my anger behind it.

  His head snapped up. His eyes met mine, a righteous fire burned behind them. He blinked when he recognized me, and the corner of his mouth turned upward into a strange, twisted smile.

  “You will not use that word in my presence,” he said, his voice calm. “You have betrayed me, and you have been corrupted by this witch you were supposed to be saving. Now, you are an outlaw, a man cursed. I have washed my hands of you and your weakness, Ulrich.”

  “I am not weak.” I growled, stepping closer, the sword point still directed at his disgusting mouth. “And you’re a fool if you think that this torture is saving anyone.”

  “You were always weak,” he hissed, “You let your mother corrupt you, and now you will forget your duty at the first sign of willing female flesh. I knew I should have killed you that day, but I gave in to sentiment. I thought that with her gone, I could remake you as a pious man, a creature worthy of the divine love of God. But your soul was corrupted by her demon, and now it has taken you over completely. You are evil, Ulrich, and you are not my son!”

  Ah, a flicker of emotion. I had hurt him. He felt my betrayal as his own shortcoming. Maybe I could use that somehow …

  Damon let go of the wheel, and rose up to his full height. Even though I was taller than he, his presence still filled me with dread.

  “Help me!” The woman on the table screamed at me, her naked body straining against her bonds.

  I flicked my gaze down to his belt. He wasn’t wearing his sword. Of course not, he’d thought he was alone down here. I had to keep him distracted, keep him spitting his pious bullshit at me while I came close enough to strike him down. With my elbow I indicated his prisoner. “You claim to be a man of God, but no god could will this. No god would appoint men on earth – men desperate for power, searching for meaning in their own useless lives – to dish out justice on his behalf, a justice based on lies and heresy. You are an aberration.”

  “I should have known,” he repeated, his eyes searching my face, darting to the point of my sword, aimed toward the base of his throat. “I should have known you would succumb to the temptation of female flesh.”

  “At least I’ll have lived my life knowing what it is to love!” I cried back. “What do you have? The two people who loved you most, who loved you despite who you are, they are dead! They died because of you!”

  “Your mother was evil,” he replied. “Your sister, too. They are descendants of Eve. They were placed in my life to test me, and like Abraham before me, I did not fail. Their deaths will ensure my place in heaven.”

  Something inside me snapped. I ran at him, my sword held high, the point aimed at his throat. He was too far from me but I closed the gap between us in a couple of heartbeats. Damon stood still as I came at him, his eyes boring into mine, unblinking, his face passive. His statue unnerved me; he was so confident in the face of my attack. Was there something I didn’t know?

  At the last second, just as my blade was about to drive home, Damon lunged to the side, and flung up his blade to deflect my thrust. His drawn sword had been obscured by the folds of his tunic, and when he’d seen me, he’d deliberately angled his body to the side to hide it. I should have known. I should have anticipated …

  As our swords clashed, I realized I was in a bad position. My brash attack had cost me my advantage. Now I was on the defensive, blocking his blows as he came at me slowly. He was a master swordsman, and he wasn’t going to lose his calm. Instead, he took his time, waiting for me to make a mistake: a single hit that landed too high, a step that wasn’t as precise as it should have been. He would keep on coming as my mistakes compounded, and then he would have me.

  “You are tiring, son.” Damon sneered, as our blades pressed against each other, mine an inch too low. He had me; he could slide up the blade and cut me before I had the chance to deflect the blow. He knew it, and he knew I knew it. “Will you surrender to me now, and grant your soul redemption? I will drive out your demons, and you can go to the next realm as a pure man.”

  “I’ll see you in hell,” I growled, as I flung myself forward, my elbow flying up toward his nose. He hadn’t expected it, and didn’t move fast enough. My elbow connected with a crack. Damon’s face crumpled, and he bellowed as blood gushed from his broken nose. He staggered back, breaking our bind as he flailed wildly.

  I lunged toward him. Damon threw his blade up and manage to deflect my lunge, but my blade opened up a wound in his shoulder. I cried with triumph as I stepped to the right and prepared to attack again.

  The woman screamed. Behind me, another door clattered open. “What’s going on in here, Damon?” someone yelled. “I heard a commotion.”

  “Who’s that? He’s attacking the scharfrichter.” Another voice cried.

  “Get him, you idiots!” Damon screamed.

  Feet pounded across the floor. I made one last desperate lunge at my father, a wild blow that he glanced away easily. I tipped off balance, my body swinging over, exposing my side. Something stung my shoulder. At first there was no pain, only a strange numbness that crept down my arm. I heard, rather than felt, my sword fall from my fingers and clatter to the ground.

  Something else bit my side. My heartbeat thudded in my ears. All around me, I could hear men shouting, could see the flickers of light as swords cut through the air. But it all seemed far away, as if it somehow didn’t affect me at all.

  My legs gave out. I fell forward, and hit my head against the side of the rack. Red welts appeared in my vision, and I was dimly aware of some pain shooting through my skull. I tried to throw my arms out to catch my fall, but I couldn’t seem to move them. I collapsed on the floor, my head swimming, my vision a blur of colour and flashing light.

  Ada’s face came into view, so clear and real I reached out to touch her. She loomed closer, her breath warm on my cheek. “Stay strong, my love.” She whispered, and her soft lips kissed the tops of my eyelids.

  And the world turned black.

  Ada

  Brunhild and I sat together by the cooking fires. She was telling me salacious details of her recent affair with Catrain, a beautiful auburn-haired woman who sat at the next fire. Catrain had ten summers on Brunhild, but my friend seemed to find this age difference extremely tempting. “She’s taught me so many things,” she gushed. “She has this way of moving her tongue, just so—”

  I was only half listening. All this talk of tongues had got me thinking of Ulrich, and all the beautiful, deadly things his tongue was capable of. As discreetly as I could, I touched the place between my legs that had been aching nonstop for the last couple of days. I missed him. I needed him. And I still had weeks to wait before I could perform the scrying ceremony again.

  Maerwynn clapped her hands for our attention. Brunhild cut off mid-sentence, and we both looked toward the head witch. Maerwynn stood on one of the stone benches, her white shift dancing around her stiff body, her hair pulled up off her head in a severe style, wound with a thin vine that encircled her head like a crown.

  “Tonight the moon is waxing, and it is the perfect time to perform a ceremony for our new friends.” She said, her eyes landing first on Bernadine, then Aubrey, and finally me. Although she called us “friends”, that sharp gaze suggested anything but. “We will welcome these three women into our coven by combining our powers for the cause of good. Centuries ago, their line was cursed by an evil man, a powerful witch in his own right who wished to possess the great lineage. He bade them seek out a man every seven days to lie with, or else they would lose their power. He tied them forever to the dominion of man. But no more! I declare that no witch should live in servitude to mere men! We have the power, and we will give our sisters back their freedom. Do you agree?”

  All around the circle, the women nodded. Some clapped and cheered. Brunhild squeezed my hand, grinning at me gleefully. I felt light. Di
d Maerwynn really mean it? Could she really rid us of the curse? If so, that was the greatest gift she could give us.

  If she can lift the curse from me, then perhaps she can break the oath that binds Ulrich and Clarissa, and then we could be together, free from any magical intervention. If…

  …if Ulrich survives.

  I didn’t want to think about that now. Not while Maerwynn was beckoning everyone to their feet. The ladies of Haven set aside their empty dinner bowls, drained the last of their drinking horns, and began chattering excitedly about the ritual. “Isn’t this exciting?” Brunhild pulled me to my feet. “We haven’t done a group ritual for nearly three months now, and now you’ll get to benefit from it. I can’t wait to see your aunt Bernadine in action. Catrain says she’s supposed to be even more powerful than Maerwynn herself.”

  I nodded, not sure of what to say. “What do I do? I’ve never been part of a coven ritual before.”

  “Don’t worry,” Brunhild squeezed my hand. “Just follow my lead.”

  She dropped my hand, and tugged her shift over her head. Stunned, I could only stare at her lithe, naked body as she sashayed her hips toward me. I tore my eyes away, only to see to my horror that, one by one, all the women began to peel off their garments. Tunics and shifts were tossed aside, cloaks and stoles folded neatly and placed on the seats. Leather boots unlaced and placed in neat lines. Out of the corner of my eye I saw my aunts pulling off their clothes.

  I turned away. There was really only so much my eyes could handle.

  “What’s going on?” I cried.

  “We perform all rituals skyclad, of course.” Brunhild flicked a stray strand of hair over her beautifully curved shoulder. “It heightens our connection to the goddess. C’mon, Ada. You can’t be the only one in clothes.”

  Feeling self-conscious, despite the fact that every other woman was already naked, I unclasped my shift and pulled it down over my shoulders, then over my hips.

  “Now what?”