The High Priestess (The Tarot Club 3)

This time the sunkissed man chuckled, and even I fed off the sensuality of the sound. “No, not at all. Turns out the girl I ran off with preferred the fairer sex, so alas, I was forced to turn to politics, drowning my sorrows in governmental lies and taxes.”

Marie snorted. “You’re full of shit, Nicu.” His answering grin told me all I needed to know - he wanted her, but not simply for one night, as a partner. Perhaps this gathering would be more beneficial than I had hoped. “The tent to the left in the middle is yours. If you have any issue with your accommodations, you can let either myself or Marta know.”

It was a dismissal, but Nicu did not leave, proving once more that they were equals.

“Do you mean to tell me that my tent is next to yours?” He raised a brow in Marie’s direction and I fully expected the little Witch to blush beneath his implication. Instead, she responded in kind. “It doesn’t matter how pretty you look, I don’t shit where I eat.” The crass American phrase simply made the Romanian laugh, shrugging as he walked away, back towards his people. Only a fool would dismiss his interest for he was here for the long game, of that I was certain.

The sun beat down unrelentingly, but I remained by Marie’s side, quickly discovering that most of the information I sought seemed to come to her, as if both the people of the village, as well as the new arrivals, sought her approval. In hosting this gathering, she had usurped Julian and Marta. Did she understand that? Was she prepared for the ramifications of her actions?

I didn’t know the Witch well enough to determine that, but I wanted to.

The second French clan arrived soon after the Romanians and I watched members of the crowd dance and leap into the arms of others, reunited in both joy and grief, yet Marie held back, content to stand on the periphery of the commotion. Julian swaggered through the crowd, clapping various members on the back in greeting, highlighting once more the history he boasted when it came to these people. But it still didn’t stop some of the newcomers from seeking Marie out - from hugging her and whispering words of encouragement. I may not understand human customs and traditions, but I was certain that even if she was content within her new found family comprising of Charlain’s club, this was what was missing in her life, for humans were not created to be solitary creatures, and Witches were still human, despite the Magick they yielded.

The heat created the illusion that the day was dragging, but I didn't relinquish my position, no matter how badly I wanted a taste of the wine the men before me were passing around.

The last entourage arrived from the Italian side of the alps. These clans appear so similar, yet the differences are striking. Each person in attendance is dressed in black, creating a sea of darkness amongst the green fields, the red poppies somehow breaking it up. Yet another painting I needed to sketch to memory, for in the center of it all stood Marie, her white-blonde hair whipped by the wind as her steel blue eyes stared over the crowd, taking them all in.

The Italian delegate was a female who seemed to dance with each step she took, as if her body were simply designed that way.

“Ginevra.” Marie purred her name with affection, suddenly sounding far more French than she had the entire day.

“It is so good to see you, my friend, even if it is under sorrowful circumstances.” Without hesitation, the woman swept Marie in for a solid hug, clutching her in a way that was meant to sooth her sorrow.

"Are you staying?" It was a question whispered in the Witch's ear, and if I hadn't confined myself to the shadows right next to her, I would have missed it.

Marie shook her head, denying any possibility of remaining in the village that had seen her grow from a child into a young woman, and then into someone far more powerful than this part of the earth had beheld in centuries.

The crowd ebbed and flowed, and as the evening finally cooled the earth, I finally relented leaving the Witch's side, unfurling my body from the shadows until I was once more a corporeal man.

I allowed the crowd to swallow me, certain that at this point in the gathering many were inebriated on wine and human connection. Groups paired off with one man strumming a guitar whilst another sang a wailing limerick of tune, while another group danced to a song played through cellphone. It was chaos contained.

I watched the crowd part for Nicu, the people here almost in awe of him, whilst Ginevra sat quietly amongst her people who danced and sang. Julian confined himself to his circle of supporters, and for the first time in a public social setting, he didn't have the dark-haired girl clinging to him.

Marie finally glided through the crowd, the hour late enough that she could retreat to her tent without raising suspicion. But if she wished to slink away inconspicuously, she failed because the entire crowd watched her.

By the time she parted the heavy canvas flaps of her tent, I stood before her, somehow needing further interaction with her - even if she despised it.

"What the hell are you doing in my tent, Demon?" She was irritated, but exhausted enough that her tone lost its usual bite. I ignored her question entirely, offering her one of my own.

“What is your plan, little Witch? Will you lure your ex-lover to the riverbank first, or kill him and drag his corpse there?”

Her blue eyes turned to steel as true irritation rippled through her. “My plan, Demon, is to killyou and offer you to the river, or is your memory faulty in your old age?”

That snark was delightful. The fact that she wasn’t cowering from me - trying to bargain with me, made her all the more intriguing.

She stepped towards me, and I allowed her to close the distance, the High Priestess staring down the Demon.

Another flicker of a painting - something to commit to memory - solidified in my mind.

“You and I both know that you want to fuck me more than you want to kill me.” I allowed the truth to hang between us, for if I was to oversee the Witch’s pairing with someone else, I would swallow the sounds of her pleasure first.

She grunted, a low animalistic sound emanating from the back of her throat in her rage, and I danced out of the way just in time as she swung towards me, a silver knife in hand.

“I’m open to knife play if you are, little Witch.”

And I allowed her cry of frustration to lift my mood as I stepped back into the shadows, disappearing from her tent entirely.