Alira took a sip from the cup of tea that the thin man handed her and looked up at him as he stood over her, the fire between them making him shadowy and blurry.

“She’s only been gone a handful of years,” Alira said, her voice soft and wavering. “It feels like decades.”

“Grief is strange, especially for short-lived people.” The man’s voice had lost its flippancy and the humour had drained from his face making him appear much older and less approachable. His wide, expressive mouth looked almost angry as he looked down at Alira.

“How did you know her?” The woman found it hard to ask about her mother but she needed to know what this stranger knew.

“Suffice to say I am an old family friend.” He tossed the dregs of his tea at the fire, making a short burst of steam rise in a quick bright hiss. “I know a lot of things you don’t.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm.” Henry nodded as he leaned back, stretching his long legs out before him. He tossed his red-gold curls out of his slanted eyes and grinned impishly. “I knew Erin. I knew she was a Witch from the Temple, which she left. I know she carried many dark secrets.”

“She had to leave,” Alira said in a breathy whisper. “They wouldn’t let her marry my father while she was in the Temple.”

“No, they definitely wouldn’t have let her marry him, that’s true.” He seemed to find the very idea laughable and the mirth in his dark eyes sparkled. “But they also didn’t want her to leave. She was very powerful and a boon to their order.”

Henry sat forward and stirred the fire gently with a long stick.

“She used some old loophole and some finicky trickery with words in order for her to leave the Temple.” He yawned and stretched dramatically. “I believe she told them she wished to find ways to thwart an old prophecy.”

The cold awareness that seemed to shimmer inside her mother’s dagger ran through Alira’s mind as she stared into the flames before her. Shivers ran down her and she looked up into Henry’s eyes.

“Tell me,” she whispered. “I want to know everything.” His laugh caught her off guard. The young man was as unpredictable as the wind.

“Do be careful what you wish for, Not-A-Witch. You might get information you’d rather not have in your heart.” The darkness in his voice made Alira sit up a little straighter and look at him with a frown.

“Then just tell me what you think I’d find most…useful.” He studied her for a moment, his head cocked to the side in a thoughtful pause.

“As you command.” He stood and paced, his arms folded across his chest.

“The history of the witches is...complicated.” He seemed to weigh his choice of words, a smile playing across lips. “What you’d find most useful…” he muttered to himself. Finally, he nodded, stopped and waved a hand over the flames, turning them green.

“The Witches of Morinn were founded many years ago. They were forged from the destruction of the covens that the church tried to root out.”

“Yes, when the church was more active, they hunted all the witches and burned them.” Alira stared into the flames and gasped quietly as she saw images flickering in them. Huge pyres with stakes in the middle, long hair catching fire, silent screams and pleas lost to history.

“They did burn them,” Henry agreed carefully. “Perhaps not as literally as you mean, though.” Alira peered closer and saw that the flames that licked up the thrashing women were golden and ghostly.

“The witches were given certain...information. Something big happened and they were suddenly one coven, not many, and their fury was the anger of desperation imbued with Divine intervention.” In the flames, women of all races and ages danced around their own pyre, religious idolatry the fuel for their revelry. Long, undone hair hung in their feverish eyes, the heat of the fire second only to their anger.

“They had to bolster their numbers, though, and no one would join their ranks while actively being hunted so they resorted to stealing children.”

The flames changed, showing Alira cloaked figures sneaking into small homes, the fires banked, and absconding with small bundles under their arms.

“But then they made the discovery that some families would pay for small miracles with their children, especially girl children who could not be apprenticed out.” Henry met her eyes and nodded slowly. Alira shook her head, not wanting to know what he was about to say as he continued.

“When your mother was taken from her home by the witches—“

“No, they took her in when she didn’t have—“

“I did warn you,” Henry said, the edge in his voice thunderous and angry. “I warned you that you’d not like to hear everything I know.”

“It’s just…my entire childhood is founded on the truth that my mother was an orphan that the Morinn saved…”

“They don’t adopt children. They give boons and take children as recompense. They cast spells and bind spirits as slaves to serve and take children as payment. Girls are the most valuable but a boy will do in a pinch if the family is girl-poor.” Henry’s voice seemed to fade as Alira’s mind was taken over by images flickering in the green fire.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

Black cloaks fluttered in the wind of a cold night as a door opened on a small family, the mother having just delivered a baby. The tallest figure entered the small cabin and unwrapped a new, shiny dagger. Alira recognized her mother’s Witch Knife. She wielded the black blade in a quick flourish and sliced the palm of the infant's hand, deeply, the black blade lapping up the innocent blood. The figure thrust the pommel into the fire, heating it and then quickly pressed it to the flowing wound. The baby’s screaming was muted but Alira could imagine the horrible wail as she watched. Her entire paradigm collapsed as she witnessed her mother’s history.

“Black Baptism, the Right of Blood, the Promise Extracted.” Henry intoned and Alira felt a heated prickling in her eyes.

“What boon did they grant?” She asked, tears tracking down her dirty, thin cheeks.

“A bound spirit to serve the family.” Henry’s voice had an odd edge to it, a heavy, dark anger laced with subservient petulance. She looked at him through the flames as they faded from green to golden. “At your service, Alira.”

“No,” she breathed, shaking her head.

“Oh, yes, I’m afraid so.” His sharp teeth gleamed in the firelight. “I am bound to you and your progeny. Indefinitely.”

Alira stood and turned, facing the edge of the plateau. She stared across the dark tree tops, her thoughts racing through her mind at a speed that made her dizzy. Behind her Henry made another cup of tea. Idly, she wondered where he got the water, the tea things, the tea itself. She shook herself.

Alira's mind reeled at the implications of Henry's words. The thought of her grandparents giving away their own child filled her with a mix of horror and disbelief.

"But why would they do such a thing?" she whispered, her voice barely above a whisper.

Henry's voice softened with sympathy as he reached out to comfort her. "Your grandparents were desperate," he explained, his voice tinged with regret. "In the world of witches, it's not uncommon for them to strike deals involving spirits, offering them as power or servitude in exchange for children that might otherwise be a drain on resources. Your grandparents chose to sacrifice your mother to ensure their own prosperity. And the Morinn likely didn’t give them much choice. They could sense her destiny."

Alira's heart ached at the thought of her mother being used as a bargaining chip. Despite the pain of her realisation and the betrayal she felt in never having been let into her mother’s confidence, she couldn't help but feel a swell of pity for the woman who had been caught in the crossfire of her family's ambitions.

“Why wouldn’t my mother tell me…any of this?” Her whisper was washed away by the rustling of the wind and the clink of the porcelain tea pot against the small cup.

“Erin was…” and his voice fell, memories flooding his dark eyes. “Complicated.”

He stirred the fire again.

“I was under the impression that she wished to free me.” Henry’s voice sounded annoyed, and Alira felt a tear drip down her cheek. She brushed it away angrily and turned to face him.

“Maybe she did try. How do you know she didn’t?”

“Because she knew her daughter would become a witch and witch needs a spirit to access her power.” Henry stood and handed her the cup. She accepted it automatically but didn’t drink. Instead, she looked down into the cup and frowned.

“Why do you think I’m a witch?”

“Because you are.”

“I’m not, though.” She shook her head and looked back at the thin man as he crouched by the fire again.

“Tell me, Alira, what you think it takes to make a witch.” He leaned back on his hands, his long legs stretched before him. The bright green satin in the slashings of his sleeves caught the light. His spiteful grin made Alira bite her cheek, thinking.

“There’s an exchange of promises, vows. You give something in return for something.”

“Sure, that’s pretty obvious. Most orders require some kind of vow. Even the church upholds that kind of ritual. You didn’t do that, though, did you?” He sat back up, crossing his legs and picked his nails, bored.

“No, never.” Alira shifted her feet, agitation coursing through her.

“Hmm, must be something else then…” Henry teased, his dark eyes sparkling in the flickering firelight. He motioned for her to continue.

“Hereditary?” Alira suggested.

“You’re a witch because your mother was a witch? Does that even sound remotely plausible?” His annoyed scoff made Alira bristle and the condescending cock of his head flared her anger even further.

“Will you just tell me?”

“No, this is amusing, and I’ve been bored since your mother died. As this is literally the only power I have over you currently, I think I’ll milk this for a little longer.” He laughed at her frown and plucked a blade of grass, sticking it in his mouth and chewing on it. “You’re so close, pet.”

Alira stared across the flames at the spirit in a man’s form and frowned, shaking her head. Finally, she shrugged.

“Blood is one thing. I see that, I understand it. You make a…pledge of some kind with your blood.”

“Very good. And?” His glee was dark and giddy, his eyes a little too bright. “You’re so close, Alira. What else?”

The young woman’s stare went blank as she remembered.

“You give your Witch Knife blood and it either accepts or rejects your pledge.” His eyes were dark, manic flames as she felt her own widen with shock.

“I never…” She unclenched her fist and looked down at her poorly bandaged hand.

“You definitely did,” Henry whispered. “You cut your hand with an unclaimed blade.”

“But…”

“Beloved Alira, you’re a Witch because you can’t escape destiny.” He was suddenly on his feet, trailing a lazy slow circle around her. “You’re a Witch because I need you. I’m not going to be chained to the top of this plateau reading the same damn five books over and over again, no matter how good they are.”

Henry stopped before her and flapped his cloak dramatically. “And you, annoying and bedraggled as you are, have set something amazing in motion.” He spun and waved his hand at the flames and suddenly Alira couldn’t breathe. She threw the cup of tea from her and clutched her throat, gasping for air.

Henry flung himself from the fire, now a towering inferno and grabbed her by the wrists. His hands were cool and dry on her skin and his black eyes were deep pools of unknown shadow.

“You’re going to end my enslavement. You’re going to set me free so I can ride the wind again, so I can make love to the sunshine. You’re going to end this torment and give me access to my full powers. As a Higher Spirit, it is demeaning and unbecoming to be enslaved by such unnatural creatures as humans.”

His heated whispers on her ear felt like they were fading further and further away as the darkness clouded her vision. The last thing she heard was his dark, deep laughter and the slither of fabric as he covered her in his cloak and the world fell away from her feet.