The Witchs Apprentice Ch 03 1

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.

"Careful!" She laughed, a finger pointed just inches from his face. "You'll leave a mark!"

"I'm always careful." His smile sparked as the lighthouse flashed.

"Mmm hmmm," she pursed her lips, "that's not what I remember. Let's see how you like it." She arched suddenly, kissing him quickly on his lips before quickly turning and planting her mouth upon his neck.

"Hey, ouch!"

Giggling, the woman—long, dark hair flashed chestnut by sudden gleam of the lighthouse—lightly kissed, then sucked the man's neck. Her other arm snaked around his head. Then, grabbing a fistful of his hair, she paused, her smile a gleam in the moonlight. The giggles stopped. The waves churned in the distance. Those teeth plunged down into his neck.

"Watch it!" But his protests relented in a groan. Giggling, she smacked her lips against his skin.

"You are so going to get it."

"Ooo," she said as she pushed away, stared at him with wide eyes, "what are you going to do, you big, strong man?"

He quickly leaned forward, sealing her lips with his kiss. She pushed against him, smiling, eyes flashing, caught under the gleam of lighthouse. His arms kept her pinned against him as she squirmed. He kissed her laughing lips firmly until the laughs subsided into moans. Sliding onto his lap, her fingertips pushing up through his hair, her voracious kisses fell upon his lips.

Sarah watched, unconsciously twirling a strand of her long, dark hair, her attention fixated on the couple, lightly biting her bottom lip as the brunette began to slowly writhe to the rhythm of their kisses. The driver slid his hands under his companion's blouse, rising to cup her breasts as she arched her back. Sarah's felt her cheeks warm as her thoughts settled on the templar, Steven—did he ever get out of those handcuffs? Those same thoughts fled to her fingertips, which lightly stroked her thigh, then slid higher, fingertips pressing, exploring through her jeans. She leaned against the boulder, giving into the pleasure, a tiny moan between her teeth. She could smell that cheap cologne, tasted again on her lips... Maybe she should go back and check on him.

"I need you; I need to taste you, Becky."

Sarah broke out of her fantasy. She hadn't even noticed that she had closed her eyes, or had undone the button of her jeans. With a parting kiss, the driver of the convertible slid Becky to the side of the seat. He slid ontop of her, his mouth leading the way as Becky leaned her head back to further expose her neck.

"Mmm yes, please," Becky moaned, more breath than words. His head moved downward, but stopped. Sarah heard some scuffling from the front of the car.

"I can't, there's not enough room. Maybe if you laid down..."

No!

Sarah's mind cried, her fingertips just at the edge of her panties. She could feel her heat, just beyond her fingertips, her drenched pussy begging for attention.

"I have a naughty idea," Becky purred. She stood up. Hiking up her skirt, she became a sudden black silhouette as the light house blinked. As the light passed, and moon took hold again, Sarah could see a thong accentuating her well-rounded ass and shapely, cream colored legs. Becky sat on top of the driver's seat, her arms reaching back to the passenger's seat, supporting her. Her loose, dark-colored blouse drooped from her slight shoulders.

Becky once again blocked Sarah's view of the driver, but with woman's sudden gasp, she knew exactly what he was doing. Sarah dipped her fingers lower, underneath her panties, feeling the small tuft of hair, then the heat, her fingers sliding between the lips of her pussy. She imagined, her mind drifting, her fingertips tracing along her wet lips, dreaming of Steven's mouth, his kisses upon her—his lips focusing on that sensitive little spot between her inner thigh and her pussy, the one that would make her toes curl—before his tongue settled upon her clit. She moaned, writhing her hips, as her flinger circled her clit, increasing the pressure bit by bit.

"Oh, God," Becky cried, her voice quaking, frenzied, "fuck me, Mark."

Sarah's fantasy evaporated like a puff of dust from a rain drop. Her eyes fluttered back open, eager to see what came next. Becky was standing on the driver seat, shimmying from one leg to the other as she pulled off her skirt and thong, which were tossed over her shoulder and into the passenger seat.

"Mmmm," she murmured, a throaty moan, "take me."

That moan came with a smile, a smile that Sarah could now suddenly see. Becky was turning around. She had placed both of her hands over the driver's seat, and onto the trunk of the car. Bending over the driver's seat's head rest, so that he hips were braced over the headrest, she spread her legs. Wriggling her ass, she glanced over her shoulder to see Mark's reaction. Mark was fumbling with his belt. In just a moment, Becky would face the trunk of the convertible, the parking lot, a large boulder, and a black-haired woman who was lying against that boulder evidently enjoying the show.

Shit!

Sarah had no place to go. The lighthouse turned, spotlight beaming. She froze, drenched in its white light, a statue caught in the most embarrassing pose she could think of—jeans pulled down, hand buried underneath her panties. Her breath sealed in her chest in a tight panic. When the light flicked away, Sarah was looking straight into Becky's wide-eyed, shocked gaze, a gaze that certainly mirrored her own.

Becky winked.

Even in the grey moonlight, Sarah saw that wink. Becky's eyes, hooded in a pleasure, continued to watch, and those eyes that not only eased Sarah's panic, but heightened something else, a low-burning lust that made her quiver beneath her fingertips—the sense of a secret connection that she craved. Becky's smile tilted, turned mischievous. Her body rocked with Mark's first thrust. Her head dipped, partially covering her face with her hair. And through the tangle of brunette, her gaze remained, focused on Sarah. Her low-hanging blouse shifted, plunging her neckline, showing bare shoulders and a white bra. Her lips became a cooing little "o."

Sarah shivered, feeling the heat, the wetness between her legs. She plunged a finger inside her slit, then two, mimicking Mark's thrusts increasing rhythm. She could hear the slap of his hips against Becky's ass, each stroke earning a gasping moan that rose in pitch. Sarah wished, yearned, for strong hands on her own hips, to feel the strong thrusts, Steven's thrusts that would drive his cock deep inside her, her breasts bouncing with each stroke. Sarah's other hand slipped to her mouth, biting down on the meat of her palm, muffling her screams. Seeing this, Becky's own moans intensified, and she bucked against Mark, matching his thrusts with her own.

"Yes, fuck me, please fuck me, fuck me hard," Becky begged.

Sarah writhed, the imaginary hard cock inside of her, filling her, driving into pussy. She could hear the slopping sounds of her fingers as they thrust inside her, Becky's moans, which were becoming shrill, and the smack of Becky's ass against Mark's hips.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God..." Becky cried.

Sarah's muscles clenched, her toes curling. Biting down hard into her hand, stifling her own screams of pleasure, she came. Her skin became goose bumps, and tiny electric waves played over her. Panting, she slowly pulled her fingers from her pussy and, eyeing Becky, flicked her tongue over them. But, Becky wasn't watching her anymore; her eyes were transfixed on something behind Sarah.

"Mon Dieu, ma petite chatte." The voice held no love, no humor, but, even with that high-born French accent, the tone was as course and dry as the gravel that Sarah found herself sprawled in. "Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. Now, what am I supposed to do with you?" The voice belonged to her mistress, the Blood Witch of the Cove.

Sarah's skin instantly chilled, and she felt her muscles and her energy sap, as the Blood Witch fueled her own power with the life-energy from her familiar. She was casting a spell.

Sarah tried to cry out to the couple, to tell them to run, that their lives depended on it. But, it felt as if she were covered in a lead blanket, beneath an ocean of sand. She could only turn to see her mistress, to try to plead their case with her eyes. The Blood Witch stood, her dark silhouette—dagger-like, jutting from the darkness—suddenly illuminated by the cold light of the light house, her eyes just pinpricks of burning blue.

The car radio continued to croon,

September lily, no ordinary flower store lily, you're fragrant and lovely, like an ending.

Summer's gone and baby so are you.