Witch Hunter
Dark medieval paranormal romance
Steffanie Holmes
Bacchanalia House
Contents
Witch Hunter
Copyright
A Taste of What’s to Come
1. Ada
2. Ada
3. Ulrich
4. Ada
5. Ada
6. Ulrich
7. Ada
8. Ulrich
9. Ada
10. Ulrich
11. Ada
12. Ada
13. Ulrich
14. Ada
15. Ulrich
16. Ada
17. Ulrich
18. Ada
19. Ulrich
20. Ada
21. Ulrich
22. Ada
23. Ulrich
24. Ada
25. Ulrich
26. Ada
Excerpt from Coven
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About the Author
Other Books By Steffanie Holmes
Witch Hunter
A Dark Medieval Paranormal Romance
Witches of the Woods – Book I
Steffanie Holmes
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to real persons, living or dead, found within are purely coincidental. All characters are consenting adults above the age of 18.
All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Copyright 2015 Steffanie Holmes
http://steffanieholmes.com
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ISBN: 978-0-473-33419-2
Created with Vellum
A Taste of What’s to Come
"It is safe here," I said. "The nearest village is a day’s hike from the grove. This is why I have come–"
He held his finger to his lips. "You're not safe here," he whispered. "Not while you're with me."
I did not know what to say, or if I should say anything at all. He could break me in two with his bare hands. His gaze was so hard, so cruel. Were the men the Goddess sent always this fearsome? Is it some kind of test? His grip against my shoulder tightened, his fingers digging into my skin. I whimpered.
"You are beautiful," he whispered. He said it with venom, as though it were an accusation. He released my shoulder and raised his hand toward me. I sucked in a breath, half expecting him to slap me, but instead he stroked the edge of my breast, just above my nipple.
My reaction to that simple touch surprised me. Far from frightening me, when he touched my skin it sent a shiver through me, as if every hair on my body stood on end. My stomach contracted at his touch, and my nipple swelled before him. He stroked it again, and my stomach clenched further, my skin like fire beneath his finger. I let out a low moan.
The warrior leaned forward, so close that I could feel the warmth of his body across my cool skin, even though we did not touch. His smell invaded my nostrils – a hearty scent of horse and smoke and sweat and something much darker and forbidden.
He leaner closer, closer … and brushed his lips lightly against mine. The touch sent a jolt through my whole body, and I felt light, as though I might float away. He brushed my lips once more, and before I could cry out, he pressed himself against me, the warmth of his chest burning against mine, and devoured my mouth in his.
He cupped my chin with his free hand and pulled me to him. His tongue parted my lips and probed inside, and I bent up eagerly, enjoying the sensation of our tongues dancing together. His taste was fresh, clean, not reeking of alcohol like the other men in the village.
As his kiss deepened, the fire rushed through me, flames licking at my limbs, dancing over my face. The heat inside me burned, threatening to devour me.
Ada
The Great Pestilence came to our village in the autumn of 1351.
I was twenty-one years of age, too young to have experienced the horrors of plague before. I wept for every woman who threw herself upon the steps of the church with blood spurting from sores on her neck, for every man who collapsed beside the road, for all the children carried from their homes and thrown on the smouldering pyre that burnt all day and night outside the village gate.
My aunts – who I lived with in a tiny cabin on the edge of the forest, some eight miles from the village proper – had seen the plague come twice before, many years before I was born. They dealt with its presence in the same way they dealt with everything in their lives; Aunt Bernadine sat in her chair by the window and smoked her pipe, occasionally yelling curses at no one in particular, and Aunt Aubrey baked blackberry pie.
Three days after the first man dropped dead, my aunts stopped going into the village. Aunt Bernadine, although sour both in expression and countenance, had a knack for protection spells, and she felt certain the wild-garlic and cats-blood we sprinkled around our house would keep the deadly plague from crossing the threshold. They ordered me to stay inside with them, to wait for the plague to move on from our lands, but I couldn't sit idle by the fire doing needlepoint while others died around me. I wanted to help. But they refused to listen.
"People are dying," I said over breakfast on the fourth day of my imprisonment.
"People die all the time, Ada," muttered Aunt Bernadine. "'Tis no business of ours."
"We know spells, we have amulets. We could cast a circle around the whole village–"
Aunt Aubrey shook her head as she set a fresh loaf of bread on the table and carved off a thick slice for each of us. "A protection spell of that size would draw down more power than we three could possibly control. That kind of magic is more dangerous than the fetid air outside."
"What about a salve for the buboes? We could at least make people comfortable–"
"Enough!" Aunt Bernadine barked, throwing her bowl of broth down on the table with a clatter. "If you want to get yourself killed, fine. Go to the village, rub your salves into infected flesh, kiss the lips of decaying babes, hold cold cloths to the foreheads of the dying. I don't care. It will be a relief to finally eat one meal in peace."
I pushed back my stool. "Fine," I said through gritted teeth. Aunt Bernadine glared at me through her knotted hair.
Aunt Aubrey glanced between us, her eyes anxious. She grabbed my arm. "Don't go out there, Ada. We need you here. Without you–"
Aunt Bernadine shot her a wicked stare. "Leave her. Ada obviously has a death wish. We shouldn't stand in her way any longer."
I wrenched my arm from Aunt Aubrey's grasp. She collapsed into her chair, tears falling from her drooping eyes. I felt awful for leaving her, but I could not remain inside a moment longer, especially not with Aunt Bernadine in one of her moods.
Silently, I collected my bag of herbs and ointments, strung my amulet – a small figure of the Goddess I'd carved from the bone of a deer I'd shot in the forest – around my neck, tucking her into my dress so she wouldn’t be seen, and wrapped my warmest cloak over my shoulders. As I slammed the door behind me, I could hear Aunt Aubrey break out into sobs.
Although all witches have the ability to call on the power of the Goddess, each witch has her own gifts. Aunt Aubrey has an extraordinary empathy for animals – she can sit for hours in the forest, surrounded by her creatures. She sings to them, strange sounds I cannot understand,
but they always respond to her. She can also sense the minds of people - she can’t read thoughts exactly, but she can tell if someone is being truthful. It’s really annoying.
Aunt Bernadine, on the other hand, is a force of nature, like a hurricane. She controls the elements, manipulating earth, fire, water and air to her will. She is like fire herself, fierce and unpredictable, burning up everything in her path.
I am a healer. At least, I think I am. Aunt Bernadine says I'm too young to be much of anything except a nuisance. Although I don't yet understand how to draw down power, and I can't manipulate nature like Aunt Bernadine or sense things like Aunt Aubrey, plants and recipes and remedies – these make sense to me. I can reach into my little garden and pluck leaves and roots and flowers and transform them into something useful. Some of the women in the village come to me for remedies – for strep throat, colic, and a special concoction of herbs that prevents pregnancy. If the men ever found out what I was doing, they would punish me for sure … but the women understand. They will not tell.
I hurried along the path that connected our cabin to the main road into the village, my pouch of herbs tapping against my leg. I'd lived in the woods for my entire life – my mother died giving birth to me, and so my aunts - my mother’s sisters - raised me. The village was one of several in our valley, all under the control of Lord Benedict, who lived in a castle on the other side of the forest and owned the land for miles around. Aunt Aubrey frequently travelled the length of the valley, for she had a great reputation as a diviner and a wise woman, and every summer and autumn she would take me on her travels. I would help her make potions and poultices, and listen as she cast stones and read the fortunes of farmers from the stars.
Aunt Aubrey had intended to continue her rounds as usual, but after the plague had spread along the valley, she didn't dare leave our house. That meant being cramped up with Aunt Bernadine and nowhere to escape, and I couldn’t forgive my usually kind aunt for her callous disregard of the village in despair. Aunt Bernadine was just cold and cruel, and I knew better than to expect her to feel empathy for those dying around her.
I passed onto the road and began to walk toward the village. The countryside was eerily silent. The fields – which were usually teaming with men from the village planting and ploughing and weeding and harvesting – stood silent and overgrown, weeds choking out all the edible crops. There was too much work, and not enough healthy men to finish it. Ahead of me, I could see a plume of smoke from the pyres that burnt outside the village gates. I shuddered.
As I neared the village, I could smell the bodies as they crackled over the fire. As the flesh burned away and all traces of the plague spiralled into the heavens, the sound of wailing came from behind the village gates. The villagers weren't even able to give their loved ones a proper Christian burial. The plague took everything – all we were left with was a pile of ashes and the faintest whiff of roasted pork.
I stood at the edge of the field and watched the men as they tossed a fresh cartload of shrouded figures onto the flames. The first two shrouds they consigned to the flames were small, barely three feet in length – they must have been children. The men staggered under the weight of one particular body, stiff now under the shroud, and heavy. They strained and cursed as they manoeuvred it from the cart and dragged it toward the pyre. I couldn't turn away. As they dragged it, the shroud fell away, and I was able to glimpse the dead man's face.
It was Andreas, the village cooper.
I'd seen Andreas but four days ago, when he'd come to visit us in the woods. He was a kind man – he hunted in the forest and would always bring us venison to eat. Andreas and Aunt Aubrey had a special friendship – they would often walk off together, wandering all over the forest. They never seemed to say much to each other, but a visit from Andreas would always set her smiling for days.
Four days ago, Andreas had been alive, laughing and drinking mead around our hearth. He and Aunt Aubrey went for one of their special walks, and then he brought down a small deer and taught me how to dress a venison roast for the pot. Now Andreas was bloody and bloated, his hands blackened from the gangrene, and his skin roasting on a pyre.
I turned away, tears fresh in my eyes.
The plague took everything.
The village gates were bolted shut, but the wicket was unlatched and no one stood guard, so I pushed it open and climbed through. With so many men taken by the plague, they could not spare the guards, and most of the villagers accepted the comings and goings of those living on the farms and in the woods outside the walls.
In summer, the village was a pretty sight, with flower garlands strung between the houses, and the market stalls brimming with the new season's bounty. Even now, in the early onslaught of winter, it usually appeared ethereal, covered in a light dusting of snow. But now it was a village of ghosts, of death and pain and mourning. The streets were deserted, fires burning unattended at every crossroads in an attempt to clear the air of the miasma. The houses were unkempt, many decaying as there was no one occupying them. Strands of garlic, blackened by the smoke that drifted through the village, hung from every door.
The wailing grew louder.
Not wanting to stand outside any longer than necessary, I made my way past the new village well and the deserted marketplace to the home of Heloise, wife of Huldrich the village candlemaker, who had died some two months previously.
Heloise was a gentle, kind woman, and she was still in mourning for her husband, despite the fact she bore the scars from his cruel treatment. She had been coming to me for years, ever since the birth of her second daughter Ida, for the herbs that prevented childbirth. "I won't bring another child into the world to suffer in his hands," she'd often said, as I ground the herbs into a paste for her. Huldrich was a cruel man who often beat his family.
"Heloise!" I whispered, knocking once on the door. She opened it, and I took one look at her worn, tear-stained face and knew what was wrong before she even opened her mouth.
"It's Ida," she whispered. "She's taken ill."
"How long?" I asked. If I caught the symptoms early enough, my herbs might have some effect.
"Four days," she said.
Four days. I knew at once that it was hopeless. After four days, the fever would have taken hold, and livid spots would have appeared on Ida’s flesh, marking her for the grave. But I couldn't let Heloise see my resignation. A lump of anger formed in my throat – anger that my friend's child had to die, anger that my aunts had kept me inside for four days when I might have been of some use in the village.
My fears were confirmed when I entered Heloise’s home and found Ida sprawled in her bunk, coughing violently. The air was thick with smoke from a fire at the hearth, and I saw Ida's bedsheets were already soaked with blood.
"I will do what I can," I said, setting down my basket.
Gently, so as not to place the girl in any pain, I cleaned her body, made a salve to dress the boils growing from her neck and armpits, and a concoction of herbs that would reduce the pain. There was nothing more I could do. She would be dead within the next three days.
Heloise made us some tea and we sipped it together by the fire. She leaned in close and whispered, "Ida will die, won't she?"
I did not want to lie to her. "I have done what I can to make her comfortable. I am sorry."
"The Devil will take another innocent life," she said bitterly. "At least we will soon be free of the Great Pestilence forever."
"Why do you say this?"
"Elder Ernust sent news of our plight to the good Lord Benedict, who has pleaded with the bishop to intervene. Our village is the first in all the Lord’s lands to be afflicted, and he believes there is a supernatural explanation. An official envoy arrived early this morning, straight from the Bishop himself. Waltraud saw them up in the forest near the boundary of the Lord's estate. According to the Bishop, the outbreak can only be caused by one thing–"
"What?" I leaned forward, suddenly afraid.
; "Witches," Heloise whispered, crossing herself fervently. "The plague is God's punishment upon our village for harbouring witches."
My heart hammered against my chest. I struggled to keep my hand steady, my voice calm. "There are no witches here.”
"The Bishop says there are. He has sent word to bring the best scharfrichter - a witch hunter - in the state down from Ulm to draw and trial them. Waltraud says the witch hunter shall arrive within the week." Heloise closed her eyes. "Too late for my Ida, but perhaps the witch hunter will save other children from … from this horrible death." She burst into tears.
Witch hunter.
Panic seized me. It was all I could do not to run from the room. But I couldn't leave Heloise – she was my friend, even if she didn't realise what I was. Instead, I gathered her into my arms, patting her back and reassuring her that although the Devil may have cast his hand over her daughter, she was strong enough to resist, and she would go to heaven. I mixed Heloise a sleeping draught and left her be.
I pushed my way back out of the wicket and ran down the road into the woods, my heart leaping against my chest. I had to warn my aunts.
"Aunt Bernadine, Aunt Aubrey!" I burst through the door of our cottage, gasping for breath. It was no short distance between our home and the village, and I had run between them in my haste.
"What on earth, child–"
"Look what you've done," snapped Aunt Bernadine. "You've upset my soup. I demand to know what–"
"A witch hunter!" I cried. "A witch hunter is coming!"
Aunt Aubrey gasped, the ceramic jug she was holding falling from her hands and smashing against the hearth. Aunt Bernadine's head snapped up.
"Where did you hear this?"
Witch Hunter: dark medieval paranormal romance (Witches of the Woods Book 1) Page 1