The Witch's Apprentice: Chapter 3
The Cape Neddick Lighthouse, a smudge upon the darkening sky, looked out, casting its yellow, winking eye out into the misty shore of Maine. Waves, long and languid, lapped the boulder-strewn beach, a glistening ribbon rippling up the rocky coast. Eyes closed, Sarah felt the night upon her cool skin. A deep sigh escaped her parted lips, an unhurried breath in the cool, autumn night. Shoulders relaxed, legs dangled over the cliff overlooking the parking lot of the local lover's lane, Sarah's mind swirled with the ocean current, and she silently wished her cares sailed out with the tide of the sea. Her thumb twirled the ring on her pinkie finger.
The breeze promised the chill of winter.
She had betrayed the Blood Witch, her mistress.
The full moon sparkled the waves, a sheen of diamonds that crashed and shimmered against the rocks. Sarah's thoughts, too, crashed upon those rocks, thoughts of the punishment, the torture that waited for her.
No one stood against the Blood Witch of the Cove.
Pain would be the least of it. Sarah had watched others cross the Dark Lady, others who had come to her for favors. They, men and women alike, would kneel, kiss her lily hand, peer into her face, into her pouting smirk, and swear to give anything she demanded, just to get a simple charm, a bauble, or the wispy promise of love, fame, or revenge. The Blood Witch would tantalize the imagination, the red lips massaging that dripping French accent, with promise. Except the amount—price—always floated just beyond reach. She knew what her customers could afford, and rarely could they have delivered what was owed.
Sarah tried to push those memories into the crescendo, the crash of the waves that lapped the rocks far below. But, those thoughts would not die. It hadn't bothered her before. In fact, she delighted in it—the screams, the sobbing, the begging. Now, though, she could see their faces whenever she closed her eyes, wide eyes, faces covered in blood, screams silenced by torn throats—quieted forever. All because each one, each victim, pursued a private little hope. And, after every torturous death, the Blood Witch grew stronger. She could feel it; the two were connected. She could feel the strand of energy, an electric spark that the Dark Lady could use to sap Sarah's own life in order to heighten powerful magic. That was the familiar's purpose—a living battery.
But, Sarah, herself, had even killed—and not just once. The many disappearances in the Cape Neddick area made the Portland Press Herald. She mused, frowning, swinging her legs over the sight of her hunting ground. All it took was just a year of tutelage beneath the Blood Witch. The Witch taught her, seemingly loved her—although that love came with certain consequences—and showed her how to tap into her darker side, the pain she had sunk deep inside herself. Once, before this all started and she ran over the Dark Lady's former familiar, she tried disguising her pain, wrapping herself in tight clothes, or very little clothes. Short-shorts that showed off the cup of her ass, exposed midriff that showed off her belly button ring, short sweater dresses without any panties: all items she flaunted to make the college boys drool and her mom to wave a disapproving finger. Oh, if her mom could see her now.
She sighed, exhaling her problems into the churning ocean. The lighthouse beamed back at her. She wasn't just a battery. This last year proved she was a weapon, the Dark Lady's instrument to be used as she pleased. And it had felt
good
. Sarah had sunk her teeth and claws into those who dared steal a kiss in the lover's lane that lay just below her dangling feet. She lapped up the terror and used it to fuel her anger, rage against those who had it all—a love life, a connection of affection, that promise given, holding hands and lustful glances. It was everything that she had longed for. But now, something happened. She felt
something.
Everything came rushing back after going through the haphazard files that the templar gathered on her. Yearbooks, he even had her yearbooks, which conjured memories of the failed cheerleader try out, the cruel words, but also golden memories of her first crush, and the blue/gray cafeteria reeking of school-pizza and fries. The templar even had her class ring. How did he get that? And why did she find him so interesting? That guy was sent to kill her.
And yet...she twirled the ring on her finger, her thoughts reshaping his lean features, his boyish face, and the image of him running out of his hotel room dressed only in a towel, swinging an enchanted sword. She smirked, the ring heavy on her hand.
The crunch of tires over gravel crushed her reverie. A car—convertible, she could see it between the rocks, its headlights shining in the evening—slowly snaked its way to the empty Cape Neddick Lighthouse parking lot. Just a mere twenty feet below her, it parked. A classic, this was the type of car her grandfather would've raved about—a 1957 Ford Thunderbird. And, her memories drifted, memories of a happier time, some 10 years ago. She was there, at her grandparent's farm in Iowa, the humidity and heat curling her hair. But, she didn't mind. She'd twirl around the chair in front of his work bench, listening to her granddad tell stories. She'd flip through magazines of classic cars, munching on chocolate, while her granddad spun stories. She distinctly remembered seeing this same car on the cover. Here it was, leaping right from the pages of her memories. Chrome glinted from the bumpers, around the tail lights, and even around the windshield. High from her perch, Sarah could also see the figures, their silhouettes made silver by the full moon and highlighted by the blue neon of the dashboard stereo. Next to him sat a woman, her hand twirling through her shoulder-length hair. A full moon, a mild autumn night, a couple in classic convertible overlooking a lighthouse, the waves of the cold Atlantic sounding against the rocky shore: the evening dripped romance.
Sarah wanted to barf at the sight.
Then, faint, lilting lyrics found their way heavenward. Carried by the strains of an acoustic guitar, she caught the words:
September lily, come here and kiss me, September lily, why don't you kiss me? That's an order...
Sarah's face twisted with indignation.
"What are you morons thinking?" She hissed. "Why would you come
here
of all places?" The engine died; but the car's battery remained on, letting the tune swirl through the crash of the waves. The man turned to the woman. The woman brushed her hair from her face.
"How do you like our make-out spot?" Sarah said, imitating the man, trying to drop her voice an octave, "only six couples were killed here by a murdering shape-shifting cat girl." There was no chance for the couple to hear her. The distance, and the waves, devoured her words. The woman's hand slid a little higher up the man's thigh.
"Like, former murder scenes really turn me on," Sarah continued, her voice mimicking a cheerleader she used to glower at, "like, how did you know?"
"Well, you know, they just took down the police tape. So, I thought..."
"Really? Now
that
really does make me all hot and bothered."
On cue, the girl slid even closer to the driver, inching across the bench seat. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, bringing her close. Her head rested settled into the nook of his neck. They held each other beneath the silent moon, beneath the cycloptic gaze of the light house.
Sarah rolled her eyes.
"You have got to be friggin' kidding me..."
September lily, I see your dark side, I see the reasons for all of your crying, but they're hidden.
The strained lyrics drifted past her, reaching up through the rhythmic crash of the ocean. She paused, looking back down at the couple. Their tender smiles, their laughter, the way the woman stroked his arm—Sarah sighed. Then, she paused.
Now, this was different. Usually, the sight of a couple such as this would stir feelings, feelings of jealousy, bitterness—feels wound so tight in her gut that they'd burn. She'd slink down the mountain, a vengeful shadow, and unleash her murderous wrath. It's what the Blood Witch wanted. And, it felt good—so good. After the screams, after the killing, she felt...she felt empowered. But now, where that fire lurked, there was something else—an ache, an ache made real by her small, wistful, longing sigh. The small seething demon that lurked in her emotions, it was gone. Instead, in its place lurked...curiosity. She felt herself rising like a marionette lifting from the ground. She glided, silently bounded from perch to perch, descending upon the couple. Her eyes, which shifted to the color of amber, never left the two. Within a heartbeat, she was within 10 feet away, crouching in front of a boulder.
A small part of her felt a little embarrassed, and more than a little dirty. The sensation sparked the memory of the college cafeteria. Late at night, when the place was deserted, she watched a fellow student slide her hand up a guy's leg. Sarah remember blushing, eyes darting all over the room. Then that hand moved further still, up to the guy's bulge. She cupped it as he jumped and whispered something into his ear. His eyes, Sarah remembered his panicked eyes, as the girl unzipped his fly, and gingerly removed his hardening cock. All of this was happening under the table, just thirty feet away. But, like always, she was passed over; she wasn't even sure they knew she was there—the invisible shadow. She remembered feeling trapped, not wanting to make a sound, trying to make herself as small as possible by burying herself in her coat. She remembered, too, how the girl kissed his neck, then licked it, causing him to close his eyes. She remembered her hand pumping faster and faster; he squirmed, trying not to buck until that moment he stiffened up. She remembered, too, how she felt, the warmth between her legs stirring as she watched the couple. The woman--that blonde with the perfect eyebrows--drank in his reaction, smiling the entire time he came into her hand. Now, frozen in the parking lot, ears perked, she listened, and watched the couple in the convertible.
The driver, cradled within the Thunderbird convertible, pulled the woman's long, dark hair aside, his lips brushing her neck, made cream by the sudden flash of the lighthouse. She sighed against his lips, which lightly touched, lightly danced over her skin until finding her ear. Arching her neck further, she pressed against his lips, which opened, nibbling on her ear lobe, causing her to squirm slightly in the seat, which suddenly flashed white. His kisses plunged back to her neck, focusing on the nape until she suddenly squealed, jumping up out of her seat.
