“Witches are also powerful manipulators. They can control the innocent minds of people, especially people of their own blood, like their children, specifically,” the speaker’s thoughts became slower and more deliberate... “her daughter. Especially if that daughter also shared a bloodline with the witch’s former lover. They don’t call them black widows for nothing, Harry.”
Harry was clueless, and answered accordingly, “So, who was the bomber? The witch’s daughter? Was she someone we knew?”
“Yes, she was someone you knew, Harry.”
Sarah, who had a natural discernment and wisdom of both her sex and her species, gasped.
The speaker responded even quieter to their hearts, “I’m sorry, Sarah.”
Harry was still slow, “Why? Who is it?”
Sarah, who had been hovering close to Harry, pulled back and stiffened.
“Sarah?” Harry asked, surprised at her reaction. “Sarah, what’s wrong? Do you know who he is talking about?”
“Yes, I do,” she said in a cold, stern voice. “And so do you.”
“Who?! For heaven’s sake?”
The speaker answered solemnly, “Lizzy, your daughter by the witch, Harry.”
Coming soon…
Dances with My Dragon
Chapter One
Belle knew a hundred ways to kill a man. That did not make her task easier. Neither did the rumor she had heard from one of her more intelligent pets stating Eric Rohm had hired the kind of protection that could give witches trouble. Whether or not the report was true, it didn’t hurt to be wary, to be crafty. She didn’t take long to ponder it. She had already been planning for weeks. She walked over to her kitchen sink, carefully took out a cheese slicer and cut her palm. She cried out as the blade quickly cut her flesh. Scars riddled her hands and legs providing proof she had a lot of practice. The wounds healed quickly but the cuts burned and were sore for days afterwards. Clenching her fist, she held her hand over a silver chalice and watched as the blood dripped into the cup. It did not have to be full. Just a swallow or two was all that was necessary. Once the mark was reached, she covered her hand with a clean towel then washed and bandaged it. Her pets would drink her offering and then be bound to her for whatever task she assigned them. Now to call them, feed them, and target them.
Not everybody prayed to the Most High God. Belle Rodum prayed to the cast-out angels who lied, declaring they were gods to foolish men. The old demons typically got away with it, till men caught on and bowed before the real one. Until then, however, Belle’s prayers and conjuring paid for by her victim’s blood got her what she wanted. With blood dripping from her bandage Belle raised her hands above her head and chanted. Low murmurings in a tongue she’d never learned flowed from her. Hypnotic and rhythmic, she gradually increased in volume. A single word spoken over and over, then another added and another till finally a sentence formed repeated a hundred times, “Čia kačiukas, čia kačiukas aš gydau,” louder and louder, till with a clap of her wounded hands she screamed. Then silence. A thick, wicked snowfall silence fell like a dark blanket covering and insulating. It was first warm then hotter and hotter, until a salty rain-like perspiration poured from every pore in her body, drenching her. She tore off her clothes, screaming as the rough cloth touched and blistered her skin. Then it stopped. Suddenly, the heat was gone. A light breeze blew across her burning skin in tingling caresses making the hair on her neck stand in shivering salute.
The creature, a Jormungandr, a demon from Norse legend, slowly flickered in front of Belle, fading in and out of view as though partly there and partly not. It was the descendent of a beast once labeled more crafty than all the beasts of the field. It was shrewd, beautiful. Its head was crowned like a cobra with a ribbed fan that sat behind its skull like an Indian headdress. When it spoke, cream colored jaws and sparkling bright fangs glinted. Its forked tongue flitted through the air, sampling Belle’s aroma like a lover does a bouquet. Its neck, bent just beneath the ceiling, towered over the small-framed witch. Unlike its earthly cousins, this serpent had hands, long, thin, and clawed with opposing thumbs so it could easily grasp and strangle its prey. As it stood before the witch, it moved back and forth swaying to the motion of an ancient song.
Finally, the Jormungandr spoke in a chilling whisper, rasping broken words forged in sin's dark crevices. Piercing the silence like a heroin addict‘s needle breaks the flesh.
“You called, and I have come. What do you want from me?”
“Where is your brother? I called for both of you.”
“You are not the only conjurer busy tonight, Belle Rodum. My brother is engaged elsewhere. Many are feasting. Tonight, much blood is crying out.”
Belle nodded and realized that must surely be the case. Hitler had ordered the assassination of many, and given Himmler’s involvement with witchcraft—he was the son of a witch after all—pets and familiars would be occupied.
“I repeat, time is short. What do you want?”
“You and I have a short journey, then you kill and feed. Simple as that.”
The beast slowly nodded and replied, “Get on my back and show me the way.”
Belle had ridden the Jormungandr before. It was an adrenalin junkie’s dream. Like the crocodile and the scorpion, the ride could end in both of their destructions. Other than that, so long as they both behaved themselves, it was an exhilarating ride for the witch. Moving with purpose, she quickly climbed on the back of the demon. Noticing the silky skin and knobby scales, she grabbed the harness and squeezed tight with her knees. The beast seemed to jump through the roof because of its ability to pass through material objects. As they burst into the night air, Belle Rodum gasped. The wind blew through her hair, and she pressed in close to the beast’s neck. She whispered directions, and within a few minutes they reached their destination.
Ernst Rohm was a socialist who believed in the distribution of everyone’s wealth but his own. As a good friend and the right hand of Hitler’s paramilitary group, he had access to money and used it. The Jormungandr settled easily into the huge backyard of the grand old house that had once belonged to a Jewish banker and now was occupied by Rohm. Immediately Belle Rodum sensed the guardians she had been told might protect Erich Fromm. It was easy to spot them. They were wolf-like Shucks, fierce black dogs, twice the size of a normal animal, with glowing red eyes.
The three Shucks caught the scent of the Jormungandr as soon as it settled on the ground. Their job was to alert the house when an uninvited guest arrived. The baying and growls drove all pretense of surprise away. Within seconds, they bit and struck at the Jormungandr’s feet and belly. As fast as the Shucks were, the Jormungandr was faster. With a quick back hand, it broke the back of one of the huge beasts. The animal hit the ground with a yelp, then nothing. With its giant mouth, the Jormungandr clamped down on the head of another of the wolf-like creatures. The Jormungandr shook viciously, popping the big dog’s head off its shoulders in a cloud of spurting blood and gore. The second Shuck, seeing what had happened to its companions, turned and ran but only managed a few feet before Belle Rodum’s lance pierced its black pelt. Its cry wrecked the night and then everything grew quiet.
“Well,” the witch thought, “that didn’t go as planned, but we are here, and there is work to do.”
The Jormungandr climbed over the fresh corpses of the animals it had killed and slithered up to the back door of the house. It bent its head against the door frame and pushed. The door groaned, and the brick-framed anchors broke. The demon crashed through the ruined door frame and sniffed the house, flicking its tongue in every direction searching for Rohm. Its head swayed back and forth, then it caught the scent of the one it had come for. Belle Rodum watched the dark serpent hunt, her eyes wide, her face lit like a child’s on Christmas morning. She turned to face the direction the Jormungandr had gone and saw a stairway. She placed her foot on the first step and was thrown backward by the rapid fire of a Thompson submachine gun. She felt the bullets pierce
her flesh tearing through her. Blood spurted from her arterial wounds like water from a hydrant.
At the top of the stairs stood her prey. His famously scarred face obvious, leaving no doubt to his identity. Belle Rodum stood there. Rohm watched, fascinated, waiting for pain to mark her, her eyes to roll back, and her body to fall. None of that happened. She took a deep breath and sighed. Looking up the stairway toward Rohm, she laughed.
Under protective spells Belle Rodum’s wounds closed and regenerated. Rohm’s face paled as he raised his gun to fire again, but the Jormungandr’s lightning assault struck him square in the chest. Bones cracked, his lungs collapsed, and his eyes widened. The beast was about to press his mouth over the fallen man when the witch shouted, “No! The Führer wants proof, and if you eat him, somebody will have to sort through your droppings, and it won’t be me!”
The Jormungandr smirked and withdrew from the stairway, turning to look back at the witch. “My task is over. You are on your own. Good evening.” With that, it stiffened like an antique photograph staring at her, growing fainter and fainter until, like smoke on a windy day, it was gone.
Belle Rodum slowly walked up the stairs and stared down on the broken body of Ernst Rohm. The dying man sensed someone was hovering over him. He opened his eyes and strained to focus. Disappointment crossed his face. Slowly he gasped out, “Why?”
She answered honestly, “Hitler’s orders.”
Rohm coughed, then laughed, “I knew it was coming... He will destroy you too…”
Belle Rodum leaned over the man and whispered, “The kisses of an enemy are deceitful.”
Author Notes
Thank you for reading The Princess Who Forgot She Was Beautiful. If you liked it, please consider leaving me a five-star review!!
“Princess” is the first book in a series five. I hope you like twists and cliff hangers. But—spoiler alert—the heroes and heroines get together…well, sort of…well, maybe not… kinda…? Depends actually. But the North Star doesn’t lie.
Anyway, things you might like to know: I live in the little community where the adventures are set. There is a café where my characters eat breakfast and wait on patrons. People where I live actually talk like East Texans.
Other Books by William David Ellis
Dragons and Romans for sale at Amazon.
A Roman legion squares off against a dragon conjured by a demonized high priest of child-sacrificing Carthage. And that’s what history actually records. What happens next is the action-packed tale.
If you like the supernatural, action, dragons, and alternate-history fantasy with a little cussing, and a little kissing, and some horror and gut-busting tension thrown in, you will love Dragons and Romans, winner of the B.R.A.G Medallion.
Free!
Read my short stories at my website: williamdavidellisauthor.wordpress.com
Books to Come
The Princess Who Forgot She Was Beautiful is the first in a series of five books. The next book, Dances with my Dragon will be out as soon as my fingers quit tingling from typing, and I can get my editors to quit polishing and fixing, which means by mid-summer.
Next, Kisses of my Enemy will launch, hopefully, by Christmas 2019.
Then book Number 4, currently entitled #4, and finally, the series will conclude with #5 soon after. Spoiler alert—the North star didn’t lie.
I would love to hear from you.
[email protected]
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
William David Ellis is a storyteller. Whether it’s weaving an old narrative into an entertaining and illuminating yarn or fashioning something brand new from wisps of legend, he can tell a story. Both oral communication and the written page bend to the will of this wordsmith. Other than that, he is the son of an English teacher, the husband of an English teacher, and the father of an English teacher. In spite of them, he occasionally punctuates and is prone to a lapse of consciousness where the Muse of inspiration grants him the heart of a skillful writer. His contributions to publication include columns in small and large newspapers across Texas, short stories, and novels, one which has been exhibited here, and the rest which are either shipwrecked on the shores of imagination or being gestated as we speak.
For more on William David Ellis go to his website: https://williamdavidellisauthor.com/
The Princess Who Forgot She Was Beautiful (The Harry Ferguson Chronicles Book 1) Page 23