Page 12 of Mortdale

Something passed between them, but neither made any step to approach the other. Willow lifted a palm, facing in her friend’s direction, and the other witch did the same. They stayed like that for a while. Until my wife brought her palm to her lips, blowing a kiss in her direction.

A firefly left from her fingertips, landing in her friend’s hand.

Witches were not solitary creatures; they stayed in packs like lycans did, but they never quite fit in the ecosystem of Epiron. The fae, lycans, vampires, and even humans were creatures of habit, hunt and feed, predictable to the core. There was nothing predictable about a witch. In every war, they had always ended up on the winning side. Not because they had won any of them, but because they had never participated in one. At least not directly. Their influence had always been like that of a puppeteer and a puppet, manipulating the battles and wars indirectly without even taking a side, and then simply joining the winning side. That’s how they’d survived for so long. They never engaged in conflict. They found us all violent, brutal, animals.

My men were pretending to steady their horses, but all their attention was on the four-story, dark-tiled covenstead towering over us and the crows lining its stone edges. With dry branches hitting its walls and omens hung on every window chiming each time the wind dragged north, it was easy to believe every tale written about them. The air was poisoned with magic, prickling every sense in our bodies with warning and etching a cold foreboding feeling in our stomachs. Everyone wanted to get out of here as fast as they could.

“They gave you a weird one,” Henry said, glancing at Willow who was now walking in circles around a gargoyle statue spurting water from its horns. “She keeps talking to herself.”

“She’s not talking to herself,” I snapped, surprising even myself.

The head of my guard and one of my oldest friends raised his hands up, quietly chuckling. “My bad.”

Arthur, my third in command, had angled in Willow’s direction as he walked across the courtyard towards us. Unlike Henry who was the son of a witch himself, Arthur had always worked his best to keep away from their kind. He’d grown up in an extremely religious home in the poorest region of Mortdale where faith was often the only thing the clergy fed the poor. And faith knew how to inject fear into someone and infect them with hate.

“Why’s her hair grey? Do you reckon it matches—” Arthur asked, and I grabbed him by the collar of his uniform before he’d say something else like I knew he was wanting to.

“Lower your fucking voice. And careful,” I said to the both of them, letting go of him. “She’s my wife, not one of your bloodwhores.”

Henry chuckled. “Sankta Katarina! People are going to be curious about your witch.”

“She’s not my witch.”

“Well, she’s definitely not mine,” Arthur said, chewing on a carrot meant for the horses. “I would rather cut my cock off and chew on it than stick it in a witch.”

“Promises, promises,” Willow casually said, strutting straight into the carriage.

I shot them another warning look. Though not by blood, they were my brothers. We were all the same. Bonded over the fact that we were third, fourth, and fifth sons who’d been worth nothing more than war fodder to their families. We’d fought, fucked, and fed together for nearly a lifetime. But I needed them to understand that Willow was now my kin despite what she was. She carried my name, wore my ring, and would sleep under my roof until death took us.

She stopped mumbling to herself when she spotted me heading her way. For some reason, she’d avoided looking me in the eyes ever since we’d left the chapel.

“Don’t mind him,” I said, climbing halfway in to throw a small blanket over her lap when she started shivering.

She sniffled, sticking her red nose up in the air. “Hard not to mind such an ugly face.”

I glanced back at one of my oldest friends, who was sought out by the ladies particularly for his good looks. Was my witch blind, too?

A loud drumming sound pulled my attention back to her. She was staring straight at me, her heart running numbers in her chest. The sound was near deafening, and I had to force myself to step back just the slightest.

And then, blood started trickling from her nose.

“Did you hurt yourself somewhere?” I asked, gritting my teeth as I handed her my handkerchief. She’d had a nosebleed twice inside the chapel.

She quickly took it from me, shaking her head. “I’ve been getting a lot of nosebleeds since I was a kid. Is that going to be a problem?”

“Why would it be a problem?”

“I don’t know. You’re the vampire.”

My tongue briefly pressed against my burning fangs as I reached for a cigarette. “I’m not an animal.”

She stuffed the corner of my handkerchief in her nostril, letting it hang like a curtain, and leaned over the seat to bring the tip of her finger to my cigarette, lighting it. “I’ve not met a single violent animal, but I have met plenty of violent people.”

My eyes travelled down the length of her grey hair draped down her chest. “You assume I am violent?”

“I assume everyone is until they prove me otherwise. People learn one of two ways. Either by recognising patterns, or by consequence of misplaced trust. I prefer the first way.”

Her dark-as-night eyes met mine when I licked my thumb and wiped the small bloodstain that had settled on her chin—her skin was warm and soft, and she smelled as if she’d walked through a field of violets. “Arthur means no harm.”