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CHAPTER FIVE: CUSTOMS OF DEATH
CORTLAND
The warped clay tiles that balanced precariously on the roof seemed to crumble under the heat of the beating sun, meaning that I had to make quick work of where I stepped, choosing my seating carefully as I looked over the dingy village.
Looking down at the sagging roofs and stone-cottaged homes, it was difficult to believe that she came from here. The place seemed almost ordinary in comparison, and yet I knew that this village breathed Magick with every visitor that walked its cobblestoned streets.
She was an enigma, the little Witch with the white hair. Did she understand how powerful she was? Did Charl?
It wouldn’t take The Magician long to call me because I had no doubt that my little Witch was already calling him, demanding answers that he could not give her - not when we were bound to fix the current crisis the world found itself in - the one that most were oblivious to.
Charlain’s little Club was made up of delightful creatures that were all sensuality and Magick. You couldn’t sift through Magick, invite it into your veins and not be a sensual creature, for sensuality and lust served as a base instinct, and when you really understood the art of Magick - the art of Witchcraft, it relied on a person’s ability to listen to their instincts.
But the French Witch below? She was something different because she didn’t just invite the Magick into her veins, she was born into it, taught to speak to the creak from a young age - to harness the wind itself. Rituals and spells that others practiced and perfected, pouring over texts of old, she would have learnt around a fire through stories that were passed down from generation to generation. And who better to learn from than Jeanne des Montagnes herself? Charl had failed to mention that, but then Witches and Demons shifted from friend to foe instantly, so it didn’t surprise me that The Mage was keeping his cards close to his chest.
Jeanne was a powerful enough Witch that had summoned a Demon on enough occasions that even I had heard of her. It was due to her - her lineage - her Magick, that made this village so powerful. It also made the village a magnet for all creatures dark and depraved, and without Jeanne around to protect her clan, I shuddered to think what may become of it - of them.
If Marie was expected to take Jeanne’s place, the village elders needed to put those thoughts to rest. It was as if the very idea of the village repulsed Marie - or perhaps that was the boy who claimed to be her husband - and then in the very next breath claimed to not want her.
Let it be known that humans were not high up on the intelligence hierarchy. I was certain that even whilst she stood naked before him, with his dick hard, he would still deny his lust for her - his want for her.
I caged that image into my mind - the one where the French Witch was naked and begging, and then my phone rang. And just as expected, The Magician was calling to berate the Demon.
I sighed, leaning back against the clay tiles, propping my elbows onto the ridge of the roof itself as I answered the call.
“Mage.” It was my way of greeting him, and depending on his mood, he either appreciated the greeting, or was annoyed by it. I still couldn’t tell how he truly felt about our arrangement, which saw Demons and Witches working together. He was too mercurial to read, his emotions shifting far too quickly.
“Don’t fuck with me, Demon.”
Today he was annoyed.
“I take it our little French Witch ran to you to complain about the big bad Demon.” I threw in enough teasing into my tone that I knew it would rileCharlain up. He was so easy to read, willing to lay down his morals for his Club.
“She wants to kill you.” He ground out, and I could almost hear the sound of his teeth grating against each other. I fought the urge to chuckle.
“She doesn’t want to kill me, Mage; she wants to fuck me. She just hasn’t figured that out yet.”
Charlain’s chuckle was filled with warning. “You know that the Witches are off limits. We’re trying to retract these new laylines that are disrupting Magick as we know it. So far, the only way we’ve managed to get that right is through powerful pairings - my Witches with key players in society, and you are not a key player.”
“Yes, yes,” I drawled, ensuring that I sounded bored. “I am to play matchmaker. Find the French Witch someone who’s her equal and make sure they ride off into the sunset, once more balancing out the imbalance. Did I get it right?”
“Careful, Demon, judging by your tone, some may believe you are not as invested in this situation as others.” Charl’s tone had my vision blurring in rage, and I had to blink - had to huff a breath of country air through my nostrils just to center myself.
“Are you lecturing me, Mage? Does reciting the information we both know to be true make you feel superior in some sense?” I allowed my jovial tone to sink low, letting the threat - the monster that I truly was - rise to the surface.
“Let me educate you, Mage.” I pressed on, refusing to let his tone slide. It would do no good for Charl to assume he was in control - to assume that he was above me somehow. “Fucking someone, doesn’t mean that they are automatically paired.”
I expected him to rage - expected him to threaten me - to demand I stay away from her. Instead, he chuckled, and it was filled with patronization.
“Don’t underestimate Marie’s ability to kill. She was raised on Magick far darker than a Demon born of Lust could ever comprehend.”
Charlain positioned her as the threat, and instead of filling me with the urge to pull back - to retreat, all it did was pique my interest in the French Witch more.
“Do me a favor, though,” Charl pressed on, oblivious to my own response to Marie’s darkness, “put me in touch with a backup Demon. If you do try something, and she ends up killing you, I wouldn’t want to have to start canvassing for a new Demon alliance simply because you couldn't keep it in your pants.”
Before I could whip him with my own words of wisdom, Charl hung up, leaving me with more questions than answers.
The building gave a slight shudder moments before I heard the water fill the pipes that ran between the stone walls, my Little Witch undoubtedly cleaning herself off after our tussle. But I didn’t allow my mind to conjure up images of her lathered in soap, washing the foam from her pert breasts I had a clear view of at the riverbank.
