The Witchs Apprentice Ch 02 1

The Witch's Apprentice Chapter 2: The Witch's Familiar

You're going to die tonight.

Time creaked, shuddered and stopped. The streams of hot water paused from the shower head. Transfixed, Steven's breath gripped his heart. His blood turned to ice.

Words. Words that shouldn't be there. Words written within the condensation that clung to the bathroom mirror, words that oozed, cutting ribbons that gleamed knife-like, dripping towards the motel-beige sink, words that caused the air to be sucked right from his chest as he fumbled for his towel-words that meant

she had been there

. Right there. Standing on the same bath mat that he stood just ten minutes ago. Right outside his shower.

She had been there. The witch. The apprentice. Maybe even

both

of them. And he'd had no idea.

His foot found the towel on the bathroom floor, then danced a jig as it slid. Slipping, stumbling out of the shower, grabbing the shower curtain and tearing it down, he finally steadied himself in front of the mirror.

"Ok...ok...just take it steady, Steven," he whispered to himself.

He breathed, his large chest taking in the hot, humid air as his pulse settled. His blue eyes reflected back through the words, glancing down to the emblem of St. Michaelis, which hung around his neck. Grasping it in his hand, the metal still felt cool, despite the steam that swirled beneath the glare of the fluorescent bulbs. Eyes closed, he murmured a prayer to the saint of the Witch Hunters, letting his fingers trace across the sigil of the bonfire that adorned the charm.

They

knew

.

They knew he hunted them. They had been there, right here in this spot. Just a thin sheet of plastic, which now was gathered around his bare feet, had separated them. They could've caught him, tortured him, turned him into all sorts of vile things, killed him.

Water dripped from his short hair, splashed onto his broad shoulders, and smacked against the shower curtain with a plop.

Lesson three: Security. Secure the Premises.

The brief words of his headmaster echoed in his head with a stern finger.

Steven added,

And that includes putting up the lines of salt and brick dust to block the doors and windows, you idiot!

But the temptation of a hot shower after a frigid day's drive in a car with no heater squashed any rational thinking.

He just got here, just rolled into town. How did they know?

The thought drifted, then cut short-a click. The click of the front door being eased closed, and his blood ran cold again.

They're still here.

Reflexively, Steven reached for his sword, which he usually let lean in a corner behind him. His fingers found only air. Eyebrow arched, he glanced at the corner behind the bathroom door-the other place it could have rested. That, too, was empty. Trying to remember, he retraced his steps. After he had laid out his jeans, shirt and underwear on the bed, he had placed his sword...in the closet, right behind his suitcase. Seemed like a good place to put it, at the time.

His fingertips touched his forehead, smoothing the frustrations that crisscrossed his brow, the words of Meister Clairemont once again echoed:

Lesson One: Security. Secure your person at all times.

If he made it out of this alive, he'd write Meister Clairemont a letter of apology. All of that praise from most of the Meisters, all of those lessons, and now look at him: dripping in a hotel room, naked, holding a towel and standing in the middle of a shower curtain.

Well,

he told himself,

you can only go up from here.

He whipped the towel around his waist and wrenched the towel bar off the wall. Slowly, he opened the bathroom door, spilling the steam into the hotel's bedroom. Peering into the room, he saw...nothing. And that's what concerned him. The shirt, the jeans, the red boxer briefs that he had laid out on the bed were gone.

Someone was knocking on his window.

Many old motel rooms followed the antiquated style of the Bates Motel from

Psycho

-a large single window, next to the bed, a window that would allow him to peer out into a dark, empty parking lot. Except this was different. Blue eyes shone back, blue eyes framed by shoulder length hair the color of midnight, a striking contrast to the vivid white teeth that curled into a smile. Steven looked back, blinking, shower bar raised.

Had her eyes just turned a shade of amber, then back to blue?

A woman was standing outside his hotel-room window. He could have sworn he had closed the drapes, but there she was, peering inside, dressed in a waist-length, wool Peacoat.

"Sarah, the Witch's familiar."

In response, with a quick, fluid motion, she held up a pair of jeans with one hand. Her other hand, which rested on her hip, balled into a fist near her eye and shook in a "boo-hoo" motion. Her lips formed a cute little pout. If it hadn't been his pair of jeans, the gesture might've been cute, maybe even funny.

Steven growled at the childlike gesture. Stepping towards the door, his eyes caught the glint of steel flashing from the closet-his sword. Right where he had left it.

Now it was his turn to smile.

She cocked her head in response, her pout twisting slightly. Dropping the shower bar, dashing forward, he hefted the weapon from its hiding place, pointing the tip toward the woman. Mouth agape in cold horror, eyes widening, her face became even paler. She turned and sprinted away from the window and into the parking lot, all the while frantically whirling the jeans around her head.

"No, wait!"

Steven flung open the door and gave chase, his bare feet finding every stone in the parking lot, the cool autumn air smacking him in the face. He marveled, as he winced, at just how fast she could run in knee-high boots, and how her skirt flitted as she bounded. Sarah glanced back, laughing as she darted into the street. Steven raised a hand, shouting a warning to stop. She watched him, confusion showing on her face, slowing her run.

She never saw the blue BMW.

The petite blonde rolled over the hood of the car, bounced over the top, and fell in a tangle on the pavement. The street light cast a dull, sallow light over her unmoving form. The BMW never stopped. The darkness devoured its red taillights.

Steven approached the crumpled form. Kneeling, reaching out, he touched her bare shoulder, which protruded from her torn coat. Muscle taught, breath caught in his throat, he kept the sword poised in his other hand, looking for movement. He'd read the dossier; he knew just how dangerous she could be.

Still, how could she be dangerous?

She ran into the street like a lunatic. She stole pants. And yet, the images-the bloody faces frozen in black white photos-burst into his mind like a warning klaxon. He'd seen the pictures of the carnage, the bodies split open, gutted. She was capable.

But, he hadn't counted on her being so...lovely.

He waited. Her chest raised and lowered, a ragged breath fluttering. His fingers lightly brushed her hair back, and slid up her warm neck, searching for a pulse. Still, he watched her. Her pulse was strong. He let his fingers linger, lightly pushing the hair from her ear.

He sighed. How he wished the car had done his work for him. Her back was to him, thankfully. He didn't have to look at her face. But, he could still see her-her full lips in a dainty pout.

Still kneeling, he raised his sword, changed his grip on the pommel, pointing the tip downward.

This should be different, not just killing a helpless woman. Her malice should be clear. He pushed her hair further back, exposing the nape of her neck. His fingertips brushed her hairline. Her skin prickled in response.

The dossier. The blood, the pictures of white, wide-open eyes, the pictures of mouths frozen in eternal screams, the pictures of what was left of that high school girl and boy splattered over a RAV4: these images once again flooded into his mind. These ghastly images, and the bloody images of the corpses of former witch hunters, remained in the wake of Temperance, the witch, and Sarah, the witch's familiar—mementos of the trail of death they had brought to this corner of Maine. Had they been merciful? And yet, he hesitated, watching her chest rise and fall with each breath.

He raised the sword.

"May God forgive me.

Vade retro Satana.

" He spoke the words, and plunged the sword downward. The sword wavered, sending the point veering into the blacktop. The world swirled. The street lights spun. He grabbed his head, trying to regain his balance. He heard his sword clank to the ground. Darkness gobbled up the spinning street light.

"Go to sleep, little mouse," a velvety voice said, her breath touching his ear, "you'll need your rest when you wake up."

***

Steven dreamed, dreamed of cold amber eyes that glittered in the shivering darkness. He dreamed he was surrounded by laughing horses. When he awoke, those amber eyes watched him just out of reach of a circle of pale light. Sneering, plastic horses glared down at him. Steven struggled, tried to stand but his arms were hand-cuffed behind him. From what he could tell, he was in the middle of an old carousel, handcuffed to the base of one of the horses. He shivered underneath his towel.

Sarah slinked from the shadows, black boots gliding over the dull metal floor. Instead of the Peacoat, she wore a tight-fitting red blouse. A satchel, Steven's satchel, was slung over her shoulder. In her hand flashed his sword, the sword imbued with the

spiritus sanctus

of St. Michaelis, a sword of holy power that she shouldn't even be able to touch.

"You look remarkably good for someone who just rolled over the hood of a speeding BMW."

She smiled at that, her thumb slid down the blade, testing its sharpness.

"That one," she replied coolly, "I didn't plan. Sometimes, fate just works out in your favor. Sometimes...it doesn't. Sure had you fooled." She lifted the sword, letting it reflect the dingy light. Swinging it, the blade looked too large and clumsy in her small hand. "Funny, I've never been able to touch one of these before. You want to know why? Do you, Steven Monroe, fledgling knight of the Order of St. Michaelis, want to know why I can now touch your...sword?" She lowered the sword, letting the blade slide down his chest, down his stomach, resting it suggestively between his legs. Sarah's smile lit up. A thin trail of blood followed the sharp blade. The silence between them lingered, hushed only by the sounds of crashing waves that lapped the nearby beach, which lay somewhere in the night. Silence shattered as the sword clattered between Steven's legs.

Sarah slipped down to her knees, just beyond his feet, just beyond a good kick. Lithe, her body moved with grace, silent, her lips moved to a cold smile.

Steven's breath tightened. Muscles taught, he readied for her to leap, to do something, something violent.

Instead, her hungry eyes never left him; she watched him, and licked her red lips. He tugged on his handcuffs-they were tight. His fingers felt for his silver ring. He touched the cold metal around his finger, hiding it from her view. Wearing nothing more than a cheap motel towel, the autumn night cut down to his bones, leaving him shivering on the floor of the carousel.

"You going to bore me to death?" He said, trying to look brave through chattering teeth.

"You're not playing the game. Even if you know the ending, you should at least play. Don't be such a spoilsport. Everything went so smoothly, except, "she paused, eyeing him, "aren't you curious?" Steven stared back. At this moment, simply being cold would be a pleasant holiday. This was frigid. His body trembled; his hair, still damp, dripped piercing cold droplets down his back. Sarah shrugged her shoulders.

"Fine, be like that. I was hoping this wouldn't have to get nasty."

"Nasty?" If Sarah saw Steven's eyebrows raise, she never let on. Instead, she overturned his Satchel, spilling its contents. From the pile of papers, folders, and charging cords that littered the floor, she plucked out an overstuffed manilla folder. Steven's eyebrows inched even higher.

"You're kind of a slob, you know that? Everything is just crammed in here..."

"Wait, ok, how were you able to touch the sword?" He asked. She stared up at him. A giant minute passed between them. A smile crept to her lips; she winked, then opened the folder.

"I don't think," she said, thumbing through the mass of paper that nearly slid out, "I want to tell you. I want to see what you're..." Her voice trailed. She gently sank back, sitting cross legged, all attention focused on an envelope that had been folded in half. From this envelope, a small ring dropped into her hand. With her focus distracted, Steven slowly took his ring off his finger, feeling for the flexible pin that was coiled inside.

"My...high school ring." The pink stone winked beneath the dull light, and Sarah's fingers devoured it with their touch, feeling the soccer ball that was cut on one side of the ring, "Sarah" and her graduation year cut on the other side. "My dad bought this for me. I was going to go to college. I had been accepted; I was going to be a nurse. I was...before I..." The amber in her eyes frosted natural blue. The electric, catlike poise that emanated from her ebbed. Her shoulders slumped. Blinking away tears, she said, "Before I met...her. Before she turned me into...this." She sat, hunched in silence, letting the glittering ring dance in her cloudy memories.

Steven had the pin into the lock. Its flexibility made it tricky to use, but if he could just twist in such a manner...

*Click*

The noise, that tiny noise, cut through their silence, popped from the dark. Steven winced. He just couldn't help it. Opening his eyes, he expected the malevolent amber glare. But, it was the eyes of blue; it was Sarah. Still, he was free. He kept the handcuffs behind his back, not daring to take them off. He might get out of this alive.

"And you were sent to kill me. You would've, too." Tears pooled in her eyes, eyes gazing at something in the darkness, something that Steven couldn't see. She snuffled softly. "I'm really caught. There's nowhere for me to really go."

"I'm sorry," Steven heard himself say, "I-what you did-" His voice died in the night.

"I'm sorry, too."

"You're sorry? You're a murderer. You're an abomination." In that instant, he wished he hadn't pushed it. He expected her to come leaping forward, ripping out his throat. He expected that those words to be his epitaph. She hadn't moved. She glanced back down to her ring.

"The sword's a fake."

Steven blinked.

"That's why I could touch it. It's not blessed."

"No. It's your magic. That's why I passed out. You found a way to break the blessing of St. Michaelis. The Magister himself gave me this sword. "

"He gave you that amulet, too. I knew you were coming, Steven. It wasn't the magic of my mistress; they told us you were coming."

"You're lying."

Sarah shrugged her shoulders and stood up.

"I shouldn't be able to touch the sword, I can touch your sword. I shouldn't be able to touch your amulet, either." She pulled back the loose-fitting sleeves of her red blouse to reveal her hand and forearm. Face contorting into a mask of pain, black fur quickly covered her slender forearms. Her hand popped; her teeth clenches, bones shifting beneath the black fur, her hand coiling back to produce claws where painted-red nails had been.

She was beside him now. He could feel her warm form, the electric energy. He could have escaped the handcuffs. He could have thrown off the handcuffs and brought his hands down around her throat. Maybe he could have snapped the cuffs around her own wrists. Instead, he waited. He waited for that claw to reach out and confirm his dark thoughts, to send his world crashing around him. The back of a claw traced the skin around the amulet, a careful, relaxed pressure that touched the piece of silver and held it in front of the young knight's face. No bolts of crackling power, no cries of pain-nothing happened.

He opened his eyes. He hadn't even known they were closed. He looked into those amber eyes, expecting to see death behind them, to feel those claws tear out his throat. Instead, reflective blue-December eyes shone back. A soft, silky smile spread, revealing white teeth. That smile swallowed his world.

The pit of his stomach opened; he felt like he was falling. Why? Why had they done it? Were they supposed to kill him? The training, the years in that infernal school-did it even matter now? From those questions welling within him, a fire grew. He ground his teeth. Sarah place a warm hand, now human again, on his chest, raising it so that she could see her class ring gleaming on her pinky finger.

"You're just as trapped as I am."

"I don't understand. Why? Why would they do this?"

"My mistress never said, just where to find you and what to do with you. You had to die. And then...you gave me this." Quietly, her breathy, whispery words drifted into his ear. Her body pressed against him, warm, the silk smooth against his arms as her breasts pushed against him. Her other hand slid up his arm. Their fingers entwined, briefly, before she touched the open handcuffs and closed them back round his wrist. Lost in the warmth, the touch, his attention sparked at the sound of the click.

"Wait, what are you doing..." he began to say. But Sarah's mouth found his, her soft lips pressing against his for a slow kiss. Her fingertips twirled about his ear. Gone was the betrayal by his order. Gone was the thought of death. These faded into the world of now; his world became that kiss, the sensation of Sarah, adrift in the warm scent of vanilla. He kissed back, pulling against his bonds, seeking to take her in his arms. She pulled back, her eyes shifting to their ocean blue as the serpentine smile returned to her lips. Her finger traced down his nose before she brought her lips crashing against his.

Her teeth caught his ear lobe, pulling, tugging, before splashing a cascade of kisses down his neck. He gasped, aching, his skin on fire as her teeth bit down and her fingertips played across his chest. She was gone then. And the world drew back its curtain to reveal the dingy carousel. Gasping, he blinked, trying to focus his reeling senses.

"What are you doing?" He gasped. She stood before him, her black hair flowing around her shoulders. She picked at her buttons, revealing the soft cream of her skin until finally the blouse was off in a silken pool around her leather boots.

"Feeling human again," she answered. With a flip of her head, her hair fell back, revealing her breasts, her pink nipples. The black skirt fell next, revealing her black lace panties. He drank the sight of her with his eyes, his smile matching her own. Bending over, taking her exaggerated time, she removed her panties, giving him a slow show of her lithe form, her small breasts, and the little black landing strip that adorned her mound. We just her pair of black boots, she straddled him. He arched his hips upward, pushing against her with his throbbing cock.

Her lips were once again by his ear. "Oh my, something is getting in the way," she teased, pressing her breasts against his chest. Again, her teeth found his muscled neck. A deep groan escaped his lips. She pulled the towel away and he felt her wetness pressed against his cock. Her fingertips found his hair, pulling his mouth into her neck, which he obliged by kissing, letting his tongue twirl across her skin. She gasped, a slight little intake of air, again grinding herself against him.

Their eyes suddenly locked. They shared that moment of ecstasy as she slid him inside of her. Slowly, he began to arch his back, magnifying her slow rhythm. Her hot breath against his shoulders.