Murdering Her Light

by Michael Clement

  - 30 -

  I woke up in a bed covered in black silk sheets with tears dripping down my face. My pillow was drenched from crying in my sleep.

  They were using me.

  Everything was a lie.

  I curled into a ball and wished that I was dead, sobbing and mourning my lost lovers.

  I just wanted someone to love me.

  I thought that they were God’s deliverance, finally dispensed for me.

  Instead, they were planning on killing me as soon as they could.

  After about fifteen minutes, I cried myself out.

  “Why do you want to be a Warlock?” Zebulon asked me.

  “Fuck!” I shrieked, nearly throwing myself out of bed. “How long have you been sitting there?”

  I pressed myself up against the headboard, pulling the sheets close to my chest.

  Zebulon ignored me, waiting for my answer first.

  “I don’t know,” I finally replied. “When Tori and you pitched the idea, it just sounded good. I’m tired of being other people’s meat. I want to be the one they fear.”

  “Was she holding your hand when she asked you to become a Warlock?” he questioned.

  I shut my eyes and envisioned the conversation.

  “Yes,” I finally answered.

  “She enthralled you,” he told me. “It wasn’t your idea. It was hers.”

  I sat and sulked, absorbing his words. Zebulon sat across from me, quietly waiting for my brain to consume his words and mull over them.

  He was right.

  I had never wanted to become a monster, capable of brutally killing someone else.

  Yes, I wanted power. But, if someone had told me -- you have to murder other people to get it -- I don’t think that I would have become a Warlock.

  Tori had mind -fucked me, to distract Zebulon.

  “ Goddammit ,” I cursed.

  Shifting, I suddenly realized that someone had washed my skin, bound my wounds, and had even shaved both my legs and underarms.

  Then, with a sneaky suspicion, I reached lower.

  Yep, bare as a baby’s bottom.

  “You…” I could barely get out.

  “Yes,” he replied. “It was disgusting, all that… hair.”

  “Why do you care?” I grumbled, feeling violated all over again. The thought of Zebulon shaving my private areas made me so mad.

  “You are mine,” he replied, shattering my train of thought. “I need to keep you clean, or it will reflect badly on me. You’re lucky that I allowed you to have hair at all...”

  I decided to ignore him.

  Fuck it. What did it matter? No one loved me anyways .

  Everyone used me. I was just a thing, like a tissue. Once you blow into it and clean out your nose, you just throw it away into the trash... or save it for one final blow later.

  I was a used tissue.

  Tears began pouring down my cheeks again, and I felt a complete breakdown roaring down onto me.

  “Are you done?” he complained.

  “They were just using me,” I said between sobs. “Probably just like you are.”

  Zebulon scowled. Then, he looked at me closer while I cried, peering at me like I was a bug, or something so foreign that he just couldn’t wrap his mind around me.

  Finally, he scowled again.

  “You don’t know anything about being a Warlock, do you?” he grumbled.

  “No,” I replied.

  I had cried so long that I chirped out a hiccup.

  Choking, I swallowed it down.

  Control yourself, I screamed at myself.

  But, my emotional wounds were raw and bloody.

  It was like, they filleted my soul and left it on the table to flap, like a dying fish.

  He rolled his eyes and threw his arms out in frustration.

  “Do you know that the hexes and curses on your flesh will consume your soul, if you don’t feed them someone else to eat regularly?” he asked.

  “Great,” I complained, as I whipped my nose on the back of my hand. “That's just -- fucking -- great. So, you’re saying that I need to keep killing people every week, or my soul will get burned away.”

  “Yes,” he replied, leaning back. “Yes, that is the issue exactly.”

  “Is that what you have to do?” I asked, looking around for a Kleenex.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Curses are designed for Shadar. Our bodies naturally feed them without risk. It's only human Warlocks who are at risk to lose their souls. They usually become raving psychopaths that kill everyone around them, eventually . That's why Warlocks are banned.”

  “When I become a Sorceror, will I need to still kill all the time?” I asked.

  “Even more so,” he said. “The more curses, the more energy needed to feed them.”

  “So, the Shadar are going to kill me,” I said. “This was all just some perverted game to kill me and distract you.”

  Zebulon laughed. “It is a game, but not one designed to kill you.”

  Then, he leaned over me. “There is a way out... if you are willing to pay the price.”

  I looked up at the spider and shivered. He was my only support now, other than Kara.

  “What is it?” I asked, already dreading the answer.

  He leaned back. “Witches are not forbidden.”

  I sat up again. “What is the difference between a Witch and a Warlock?”

  “The Devil’s Mark,” he replied. A smile widened on his face, as he relished the word and my reaction.

  “So, I have to make a deal with…” I couldn’t even say his name. We were in a land of magic. I didn’t want to summon the evil one -- fuck -- he might really exist.

  “Kind of,” Zebulon answered. “There is a creature that you could give a home to, which would give you all the energy that you need. You would never need to eat another soul again... unless you want too. It is called the Devil’s Mark or the Witches’ Mark.”

  Leaning forward again, he said. “I have also heard it called the Witches’ Teat, which is more appropriate.”

  “Why is it more appropriate?” I asked.

  “The creature lives in your womb,” he replied. “In exchange for your blood and protection, the symbiote gives off enough spiritual power that you can use your curses and hexes without worry.”

  “But, there is a catch,” he said.

  “Of course there is,” I replied. “What is it?”

  “If something lives in your womb... can a baby still grow in it?” he asked.

  I sat and thought about it.

  “Probably not,” I concluded.

  Zebulon nodded.

  “This is why most witches are female,” he told me. “You come tailor-made with a place for the creature to live.”

  “So my choices are, become a serial killer, or let my soul be devoured by my spells, or become a host for a monster,” I said.

  “Yes,” he replied.

  Every woman thinks about her future children.

  It’s like dreaming of your wedding day.

  What will they look like?

  Will they look like me, or their father?

  Will they love me?

  Etc, etc, etc.

  It's part of being a woman. Just like little boys dream of becoming men, women dream of becoming mothers… at least I did.

  Now, I had to decide.

  Could I live with no children ever?

  “Why are Witches tolerated, but not Warlocks?” I asked.

  “Good question,” he replied.

  “It’s because most Warlocks become serial killers,” he answered. “And, Warlocks can reproduce, where Witches cannot.”

  I felt like crying again.

  The choices felt overwhelming.

  “To take my place,” he confided. “You have to learn to make impossible choices.”

  “Fuck,” I whispered.

  “How does it get inside me?” I asked, already fearing the answer.

  Zebulon looked at m
e. Then, he looked down at my crotch.

  “Fuck,” I answered myself.

  Silence filled the room, as my future children died, one by one.

  I didn’t want to become a serial killer.

  Killing the man who was trying to rape me was fine.

  Killing the man who wanted to rape Luna was fine.

  And, I assumed that I would have to kill four more prisoners to finish Zebulon’s trials.

  Fine. They were murderous bastards. Ending their lives didn’t bother me.

  But, I didn’t want to have to do that the rest of my life.

  One man a week would be fifty-two in a year. If I had to kill more than one, now we were talking one hundred and four men a year.

  Christ. That was awful.

  And, I didn’t want my soul to burn up into cinders.

  “How do I become a witch?” I asked my new Master, making my decision.

  - 31 -

  Zebulon smiled, showing off his fangs.

  “You are willing to walk away from the Gray Walkers forever?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “They are planning to betray me, after they kill you,” I replied.

  “I already know that,” he said. “Why are you willing to leave them?”

  I must have looked shocked, because he said. “What is a little betrayal among lovers? It adds spice to the sex.”

  “To me... it is not alright,” I said.

  He nodded.

  “Humans are very confusing, sometimes,” he admitted.

  Tapping his chin, Zebulon finally said, “In order to become a witch, a local coven will need to admit you to their world. Normally, it would take a long time for them to trust you and then administer the Devil’s kiss. But, we can’t wait for that.”

  Standing up, he began pacing. “There are five covens that we could approach, Solana Ridge, Braun Station , China Grove, Hot Wells, and Buckhorn Saloon.”

  “Those names aren’t very… witchy,” I interrupted.

  Zebulon scowled at me, as he stopped pacing. “They are the public names of the Covens, named after the old subdivisions that they are located in, or in one case the Museum that they took over.”

  “Aren’t those subdivisions all outside of Burning Tree?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Zebulon said. “My city is the biggest in the area, but that doesn’t mean that people haven’t carved out small domains in the ruins of San Antonio.”

  “Which one would be the best choice?” I asked.

  “Each one has their own flavor of magic and political connections,” he replied. “Not to mention their temperaments and resources.”

  “How do they feel about you?” I said.

  Zebulon squished up his face. “They uniformly hate me.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Great,” I said. “So which one do we pick?”

  Zebulon sat down, leaned back, and thought for a while.

  “I think your best bet would be the Witches who reside in the Buckhorn Tavern,” he finally said. “They view themselves as Texas Rangers. In the past, they dedicated themselves to throwing off the Warlock Kings reign in the past. Now, they try to protect the people that live in the ruins of the downtown.”

  “Won’t they object to a Warlock then?” I asked.

  Zebulon grinned. “I have something that they want.”

  He stood up and scuttled over to a large wooden armoire.

  Removing a black cloak, he threw it onto the bed.

  “Get dressed,” he said, as he picked up an old rotary phone.

  I climbed out from under the sheets and wrapped the black silk cloak around me. I was still naked under it, but at least I was covered up. It would have been nice, to some real clothing, but if I asked for something more, Zebulon would probably take the cloak away from me. I didn’t want to walk into the Buckhorn Saloon naked.

  Turning, I saw myself in the full-length mirror on the wall.

  With the hood over my head, I looked like the evil witch out of a Disney movie.

  I had always seen myself wearing a white cowboy hat and riding next to the Lone Ranger. Instead, I was fast on my way to becoming the villain in the story, instead of the hero.

  “I need the Buckhorn girls,” Zebulon said into the phone. “Bring them to the truck, along with a complement of guards.”

  “Follow me,” the spider said, setting down the phone and leading the way out of the room.

  We walked through the caverns under Burning Tree, until we reached his garage again.

  A large, old army truck with a covered canvas back sat idling. Shadar guards holding machine guns held onto the sides of the truck.

  The guns surprised me, even though Calden had shot me with a pistol. Apparently, more weapons survived the invasion than I thought.

  Zebulon told the drivers, “Take us to the Buckhorn and be prepared for trouble.”

  Then, he climbed into the back of the truck.

  I followed him. Two women were wearing orange jumpsuits with manacles around their ankles, wrists, and neck. Both of them had gags in their mouths. They looked malnourished, dirty, and they smelled awful.

  “Let’s go,” Zebulon shouted.

  Both of the women stared at me with hatred in their eyes.

  “Oh, this is going to go well,” I said out loud. “Are they prisoners that you are returning?”

  “Yes,” Zebulon said. “It will buy us a conversation.”

  Sitting back, I tried to stay calm, as the truck roared out of the garage and headed southeast. Through the canvas back, I could see several other trucks following behind us, filled with more Shadar.

  The surrounding landscape was desolate. Most of the buildings had been severely damaged and abandoned. Cars littered the roads, making it difficult to travel. Several times the vehicles had to go up and over sand dunes on the roads or around some other man-made barrier.

  Both of the women continued to stare at me with hatred in their eyes.

  “Can they use their magic?” I asked.

  “If they try,” Zebulon replied. “I will kill them.”

  That didn’t make me feel any safer.

  Finally, after almost an hour of driving, we entered the ruins of the downtown. Gutted buildings loomed over us, looking like buzzards who were waiting for us to die. We passed the Torch of Friendship. I’m sure that it wasn’t called that on this world, but I was too nervous to ask Zebulon in front of the witches. I had always thought that it looked like a massive at-sign used in email addresses. It was probably named something stupid, like Santa Anna’s mighty sword.

  We drove for another half hour, before the sound of a massive party began filtering into my ears, over the trucks loud roaring. But, I couldn’t see anything, other than the fact that it looked lighter outside from dozens of electric lights.

  The truck stopped, and the guards swarmed around the vehicles.

  Zebulon got out, dragging the two prisoners with him. I followed, praying that we would survive his plan.

  There was a large crowd surrounding a massive red adobe building on my right. A huge longhorn skull was nailed to the building's exterior. Metal bars covered its windows and guards walked on the roof with bows in their hands.

  Almost a hundred dirt bikes were parked in front of the tavern, along with horses, and even a few camels. The saloon doors were open and thunderous music blared into the street. Spotlights over the building drew attention to it from miles away.

  It was a monster magnet, but for some reason, they weren’t attacking it. Maybe it had something to do with the runes that covered the red adobe walls. They were written in black paint, or possibly even blood.

  I could feel their power reaching out to me. A wave of fear gripped my stomach, and I wanted nothing more than to run away.

  Swallowing hard, I focused on the crowd who had been partying in the road before we arrived. They looked to be mostly human, but I did see some non-humans in the group. A tall giant-like man stare
d at me hungrily. While I studied him, he opened his tusk lined mouth and licked his lips. In the torchlight, his skin looked blue, like the color of a robin's egg.