The Sacrifice

What the fuck was wrong with me?

That was what was rolling through my mind as I led her down the stairs and into the kitchen.

I never spent much time in that room. We didn't need to consume much to stay alive. When we did it, it was usually more for pleasure than necessity.

Which was why the witch's stomach was probably so empty. Yeah, Minos brought her food. But what? And how much? Not enough if her stomach was making that noise.

"Wow." The word rushed out of her before she could stop it as she walked in. She didn't want to be impressed by the home of her captors', but there was also no denying that she was. Most people were.

It was a massive place, once built by some oil tycoon as a third or fourth estate. It was a sprawling stone Tudor-style home sitting on ten acres of mostly-wooded land.

The inside had changed through the decades. Ace was the one of us who stayed up-to-date on human trends, knowing things needed to be right if we were going to do our jobs properly. The humans had to accept us as sone of their own. So our home had to reflect that we were.

At present, the kitchen was a massive, open space. The appliances were stainless steel, the cabinets a cream color, and the countertops everywhere—including on the giant island—were wooden.

To the side was a breakfast area with floor-to-ceiling windows that let you see the river that skirted the tree line that was flanked with ancient Weeping Willows.

"But where is the fire?" she asked, her brows drawing together.

"Mostly, we don't need it," I admitted, but waved her over toward the range, turning the knob, making the gas flames ignite.

"Oh, wow."

"You think that is impressive, you got something to learn about ovens," I informed her, taking a certain sort of pleasure in watching her warm her hands over the flame, her eyes wide with wonder.

We'd been around when the humans first invented indoor stoves. I couldn't remember ever feeling as entranced by their discovery as I felt right now.

Maybe that was simply because it had been so long. All humans, in this country at least, had seen a range before, knew how an oven worked. It was novel to see one who didn't.

I had a strange urge to bring her over to the microwave and the coffee pot and show her how those made life easier as well.

Watching her watch TV for the first time would be interesting as well.

"If you don't, may I?" the witch asked, turning a slightly hopeful gaze toward me.

"May you what?"

"Cook?" she asked, waving toward the flames.

"If you can find something in the fridge to cook, go right ahead."

"The... fridge," she repeated, glancing around, not wanting to ask.

"Refrigerator. They even used to call them ice boxes. Keeps the food cold," I added, pointing toward it.

"Right. Yes. Refrigerator. I know about those," she told me, nodding as she made her way toward it, opening it up.

"What's the problem?"

"This is a lot of flesh," she informed me, her voice sounding pained. Then, under her breath, I could have sworn to whisper to the chicken breasts I knew were in there, "Oh, you poor babies."

Fuck.

What did I get myself into, taking her out of the basement? Now she was going to cry over tomorrow's fucking dinner.

"There is some grass and twigs outside, if you'd prefer."

"I would, actually, prefer grass to flesh," she told me, shooting me a steely-eyed glare. "But there are some root vegetables here that are passable. Do you never tend your garden? Why is nothing fresh?"

"Garden," I scoffed. "Whatever is there comes from the store. Do we look like the gardening sort to you?"

"Do you plan to kill me in the near future?" the witch asked, making me jolt back.

The witches, in my experience, were all about beating-around-the-bush, and pleading, and crying. Never point-blank questions.

"I, ah, we have no immediate plans to kill you," I told her.

"Would I be permitted to start a garden?" she asked. "If you can not or will not supply fresh fruits, vegetables, and grains, I could provide my own, should I have the seeds. Which would be much less expensive for you, as well, than buying fresh foods to keep me alive."

"Money is not an issue. But if tending a garden would keep you from getting sad, I am sure Ace will be fine with it."

"I will be fine with what?" Ace said from behind me, making his way into the kitchen.

"With the witch growing a garden to provide for her meals. So she doesn't continue to get sad and make it rain."

"What an irritating power to possess," he said, shaking his head.

Even though the rain had cleared up, he was still wearing multiple layers—an ancient hand-knitted charcoal sweater over a hooded sweatshirt. He was the oldest of all of us. I wondered if that was why he struggled more with the cold and damp than we did, because he had spent so much more time in hell than any of the rest of us.