Sacrifice – Prologue

The voices rose and fell in perfect unison, blending with one another until it was impossible to distinguish between them. The coven had been casting this particular spell for well over an hour and it was draining on everyone.

Gwendolyn fought down her distaste, struggling to keep her focus on her sisters. Linked as they were by mind, voice and touch, any dissension would be felt at once.

A bead of sweat trickled down her forehead, but she didn’t dare free a hand to wipe it away. She was aware of her mother’s fingers curled around her own, the grip tight enough to hurt. The force of her will burned through Gwendolyn like fire. It drove them all. As leader of the coven, Myra was the focal point.

The object of their night’s work sat in the centre of the circle, patient, motionless, accepting her fate. A sacrifice for the “greater good”. It made Gwendolyn sick to the heart.

For a witch, her sisters were her friends and family, people she could turn to in any crisis. It went against everything they stood for to kill a witch, even from another coven. Every sister was a friend by association, an ally against their common enemy. What they were doing was wrong, but it seemed Gwendolyn was the only one who thought so.

“Concentrate!”

The word drilled into Gwendolyn’s mind, the pain sharp enough to make her jump. She managed not to lose the rhythm of the chant. One slip now and they would have to start over. Myra would punish any culprit severely, daughter or not.

Myra tilted her face towards the moon. The rest copied her, their voices rising in volume and tempo. The witch on the ground opened her mouth as a ribbon of smoke twisted up from the interlocked fingers of her sisters. It streamed in snake-like tendrils across the intervening space and into the witch’s open mouth. She rolled over on the ground, her body jerking as the smoke filled her. The witch’s breath came in ragged gasps, but still the spell continued.

Then at last it was over. The final wisps of smoke vanished, and the witch lay still. She might have been dead but for her tortured breathing and the fine sheen of sweat coating her brow.

Gwendolyn’s mother made a curt gesture. Three sisters knelt by the prostrate witch and laid their hands on her. They sent a little healing strength into her body. The witch opened her eyes, managed a weak smile, but it was obvious to everyone present that she was dying.

***

Myra surveyed her coven. The spell had been a success, though it had left many of her witches exhausted. Now the first part of her revenge could begin. It was fitting that a witch should be the instrument of it. If it worked, and there was no reason why it shouldn’t, they could finally destroy their enemy once and for all. The age long battle between witches and vampires would cease and they would emerge victorious.

She already had her first target selected. He who had wiped out half her coven in a single stroke. He was the biggest threat, so he would be the first to die. After him, the others would be easy prey.

Myra looked over at her daughter. Gwendolyn stood a little removed from the others. She was always apart, a loner. It wasn’t natural. But then nothing about her daughter was natural.

Gwendolyn took no pleasure in their craft. She made no use of her talents and avoided rituals as much as possible. As far as Myra was aware, Gwendolyn had never used her abilities to harm another living creature. Her mind was in constant discord with the rest, a weak link. Perhaps Myra should have chosen her for the task, but Gwendolyn was still healthy and young. At eighteen, her powers were freshly awakened and would strengthen her sisters for years to come.

A witch was only able to produce a child every ten years and there was no guarantee that it would be a girl. The coven had no use for boys or the men who fathered them, and they were always discarded. There had only been two girls born in the last thirty years, and one of them lost shortly after her birth. It would be up to Gwendolyn to help rebuild the coven and replace the sisters the vampire had taken. But would she? Gwendolyn had a will of her own, and Myra had never yet been able to break it.

Myra turned her attention back to the stricken witch. She was sitting up now. Her eyes reflected the moonlight as Myra crouched beside her and laid a hand on her forehead. Her skin was unhealthy to the touch.

“Do you feel it at work inside you?”

The witch nodded.

“Are you ready to do what must be done?”

“I am.”

“Then go with our blessing, sister. Our future is in your hands.”

***

Later, when Gwendolyn was certain the coven slept, she pulled on her cloak for warmth and slipped into the forest. The witch had departed on her suicide mission; there was nothing Gwendolyn could do about that, but with luck, she would be able to save one innocent life at least.

***

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