The Sacrifice

In front of that pentacle image, someone had set up what appeared to be a makeshift altar.

There was an old broken stoneware bowl that I remembered from one of the many remodels over the years set with various rocks, some worn soft from the river bed that skirted the inside of the woods around the property, and a bushel of dried herbs from the yard, bound with twine. There were feathers gathered in a drinking glass—bright red Cardinal, massive brown and white hawk, a shining black raven. There was even a collection of animal bones stacked in a neat pile, likely remnants of dinner from one of the owls around the property.

We had taken them away from their coven, but clearly not their practice.

Which was why I was here in the first place, I reminded myself, forcing my gaze away from the altar, stepping over the tray of food left at the bottom of the steps to be taken back up. Everything was gone save for the slivers of chicken.

Fucking witches and their refusal to eat meat.

"Hey, where are you?" I called, moving through the mostly-dark space, the only light inside from the minuscule barred windows. "Witch?" I called, squinting into the darkness.

She wasn't on the bed or in the bathroom area.

"Witch!" I roared, blood starting to pump, wondering if she was like that red-headed one who'd tried to escape, slowly tunneling through the wall. Or like that one with the cat-like eyes who'd hanged herself by her sheets.

I didn't care so much about the witches as a whole, but they'd made an agreement; they'd signed a treaty.

One witch each generation.

To come to us.

They didn't get to run away.

They didn't get to kill themselves.

And it pissed me off when one of them thought they could find a way around the rules.

Anger always started the Change.

As my pulse pounded harder, I could feel my fingers elongating, talons poking out through the tips. My teeth got more pointed, my tongue forked. There was a telltale burning in my shoulder blades, flesh separating, making room for the black wings to start protruding out. The crushing ache in the top of my hairline was the small, blunted horns making their way out of my skull.

The fire burned through me, chasing off the cold that had set in from the endless rain. If you touched my skin, it could nearly burn you.

On a roar, I made my way back to the bed, hand grabbing the bottom, flipping it and flinging it across the room, barely even noticing the sound of the wood cracking and splintering all around.

Then there she was.

Curled in the fetal position on the cold, hard floor, her white dress and cloak wrapping up a tall, but slender body.

The flowers were gone from her hair, and the intricate braids the witches were known for were worked free, leaving her raven hair slightly curled, spilling over her shoulders and back, half concealing her face.

At the roar, or at the sudden disappearance of her hiding place, the witch gasped, jumping up, scrambling away until her back hit the wall, bringing her knees in at her chest, and wrapping her arms protectively around them.

Fuck.

She was a looker.

I didn't remember ever thinking that of any of the others. Maybe because by the time they were let out of the basement, they were older, wilder, their spirits so broken that any beauty they might have possessed seemed dusty and faded.

This woman was fresh.

Dripping with the fruity aroma of youth and the acidic scent of fear.

With the Change on me, I could make out each individual scent. The herb-like smell still clinging to her hair. The salt of sweat. The must of her clothing from being in a cold, enclosed space. And, finally, the fucking intoxicatingly sweet scent of her pussy. Even through the layers of clothes. Even though she wasn't turned on.

Fuck, I couldn't imagine what she would smell like if she was.

Not that I was thinking of fucking a witch.

It went against everything we believed in.

We were on different sides, after all.

Contrary to popular belief, witches weren't the evil ones. These tree-hugging, moon-dancing, earth-loving worshippers of the God and Goddess.

They were the good ones.

Us?

We were the bad guys.

Still.

There was no denying her beauty. It was in the creaminess of her flawless, milk-like skin, in the softly pointed chin, the delicate cupid's-bow mouth with fat, pouty lips, in the delicate nose with the slightly upturned tip, the high cheekbones, the proud forehead, the golden, honey-brown eyes framed by thick black lashes that almost looked fake.

But the witches didn't do fake.

No makeup, no manmade fabrics.

The only thing this witch had that she wasn't born with was that crescent moon tattoo high on her forehead, the tips sneaking up into her hair, small and delicate and a symbol of the life we had taken her away from.