Jedediah Sharp, Witch Hunter Ordinaire by Rose Mambert
“Thy breath is like the steame of apple-pyes.” - Robert Greene, Arcadia
Jedediah “Red” Sharp spent the evening nursing a bottle of gin in the Eye of the Storm, vexed for all the usual reasons.
In part he was vexed because as much as he liked the ladies, the ladies didn't like him. Something about demon taint tended to scare them off.
The other source of his vexation was his profession – as a witch hunter. On the last job, things hadn't quite gone according to plan. That was the problem with witches – even when you staked one, that didn't always stop her from trying to kill you. The witch had only been playing dead, and had managed to rip off Claude's arm before Red had chopped off her head.
Watching his partner's arm being torn off – well, it had unnerved him. After that experience, the team had stopped working – Red for six months, and Claude permanently. But now his vacation was over. The Inquisitors had finally recalled him and shipped him off to Silence. At dusk he had sought out Sister Annunciata at the wind-rotten harbor tavern. All business, the good Sister had wasted no time giving him instructions or tossing back her share of the gin without leaving behind so much as a copper bit. The church – stingy as always. Even the payment he'd been offered was less substantial than his usual fee, but nobody argued with the Inquisitors.
He glanced around the gloomy tavern as he poured himself another glass. For some reason, everyone was staring at him. Maybe it was due to his looks. He was, after all, tall, young, and – with his bright red hair, pale skin, and knife-sharp features – some may have even said striking. Or maybe it was because someone had noticed his demon taint. Or maybe they just didn't like strangers. They sure couldn't sense any evil emanating from him. When he was young, his mother had sold him to the Inquisitors, who had promptly purged all the evil from him. It hadn't been what he'd call a pleasant experience. Still, he'd been told he ought to be grateful that he was now fit to be a productive member of society, since they'd rid him of all the desires for seduction, destruction and mayhem that he'd inherited from his father. Now there was little left of his father's heritage beyond his yellow eyes and his uncanny ability to find his way around real quick and easy in the dark. The latter being particularly useful for hunting witches.
Ah, yes. Hunting witches. All he knew about this job was that there was a witch living on the outskirts of town and that he had to take care of her. But it was all he needed to know. He downed the rest of his gin and dropped one of his few remaining coins on the table for the oddly cheerful barmaid. Adjusting his long black coat and his dusty black hat, he headed out.
* * * * *
An hour later, Jedediah Sharp stood outside the witch's house.
Too bad Claude was gone, for it meant that Red now had to work alone. With Claude, their tactics had been simple. One in through the front door, the other through the back. This way the witch would have less chance to escape. Red probably would have still considered it a good tactic, too, if it weren't for the fact that Claude was now feeding the worms. Well, most of him, anyway – despite a thorough search, Red never did find the missing limb.
He contemplated the house before him. In truth, he'd expected some dark, run-down shack, with skulls of questionable origin perched on the fence posts, maybe some hard-to-explain mist on the ground, but this place was... well, nice. No eerie mist, no skulls, not even the trace of a cobweb. Instead it was a quaint stone cottage with a thatched roof on top and a well-tended garden all around. It couldn't have been any more normal. An apple tree in the front yard, even.
Looking at the apple tree reminded him that he was hungry. The only offering at the tavern had been some odd-smelling concoction bubbling in a cauldron. His senses were rather acute, but he still hadn't been able to identify what was in that pot, so he'd decided to avoid it. Which meant that his stomach was full of gin. Maybe too much gin. Another advantage of his father's heritage was that he could drink any man under the table and walk out of the bar. Still, with enough effort, he could get drunk. In fact, he was teetering now. Better if he called it a night. No doubt the witch would be here tomorrow. If it were indeed the witch's house. Maybe the old nun had given him the wrong bloody address.
But the apples in the tree tempted him – red and shiny, moon washed, ripe for the picking. Of course, by now the kitchen at the inn where he was staying would be closed. He would have to go to bed without supper – an idea which he disliked immensely.
He glanced at the cottage. It was dark. Not creepy dark, just dark. No one home. The tree was close to the road, seeming to beckon him with its branches as it swayed in the wind. The tree was laden with fruit. Certainly no one would notice if he took one. Just one.
Well, he'd made worse decisions, even without the gin.
He hadn't climbed a tree since he was a child, but he somehow managed to shimmy up it without much difficulty. Perched among the branches, he plucked an apple and was about to bite into the lovely, juicy flesh when a voice floated up from below. “Excuse me – who are you and just what are you doing in my apple tree?”
Red's hearing was abnormally sharp so he was shocked that someone had managed to sneak up on him. So shocked, he dropped the apple. Glancing down he saw a man staring up at him, somewhat perplexed. He had dark, lank hair to his shoulders, a narrow face with two wide-set gray eyes, and he wore dark trousers and a billowy white shirt which only accentuated his thinness. Young, too, around twenty. Not what he expected. In truth, Red would have been less surprised if he'd been caught by an enticing, dark-robed enchantress wearing silver-set crystals. “Your apple tree?”
The man crossed his arms, looking annoyed. “Yes, this is my yard, and that is my tree. You are clearly trespassing. Might I also assume that you were scrumping?”
Red froze, trying to come up with some excuse. Meanwhile, his stomach growled. He was sure that the man couldn't have heard it, but an amused smile appeared on the thin lips. How dare he be so amused? “Yeah, look, I was hungry. I was just going to borrow one apple. Your whole tree is full of them. It ain't like you can eat them all by yourself, is it?”
The man pursed his lips. “They make good pies.”
Pies? Bloody hell. Red suddenly remembered why he was here. The witch. Witches sometimes had henchmen. This guy didn't look like a henchman, but, well, you never knew... “You live alone?”
“Not if you count chickens.” His smile became wry. “You said you were going to borrow an apple. I hesitate to ask how you meant to return it.”
“I can think of a couple of ways,” he muttered. Stephen's stones! This was definitely the wrong house. It wouldn't be the first time that he had ended up at the wrong house, but luckily he hadn't beheaded first and asked questions later. Still, there had been a lot of trouble over that. He'd obviously inherited his sense of direction from his mother.
At any rate, the situation was ridiculous. He was drunk, hungry, and stuck in an apple tree. As if to remind him how long it had been since he'd eaten, his stomach growled again.
The man studied him for a long time. Then he sighed, resigned. “Well, I was just about to make supper. If you're that hungry... you're welcome to join me.” He paused, then added, “Oh, and bring down six apples.”
Red watched as the man turned and headed for the house before he climbed gracelessly down from the tree. Huh. This was an interesting development. His stomach growled again, as though trying to influence his decision. Hell, why not? What was the worst that could happen? A scrawny guy like that, even if his intentions were shady, didn't pose much of a threat.
Balancing the apples in his arms, Red pushed open the cottage door and peered into the main room. It was cozy and inviting, the stone walls adorned with tapestries, a bear skin hide as a rug, a fire already kindled in the hearth. Past a large open archway, he spied the man in the kitchen, already preparing dinner.
When he approached, the man pointed at the table with his knife. “Put the apples there. And I hope that you're a good conversationalist, at least.”
“Uh, no, I've never been accused of that.”
The man sighed. “Well, in that case, just try to stay out of the way. And pour yourself some wine, if you like."
Red dropped the apples on the table next to a decanter of wine. He admired the decanter as he picked it up. A fancy, crystal thing, pear shaped, refracting the light as he turned it. “That's a nice bottle.”
“It was my mother's.”
Shrugging off his coat and hat, Red sat down, unstoppered the bottle, and took a whiff. The wine was deep, fruity, red, and inviting. He poured himself a generous glass. Leaning back, he looked around the kitchen, also cozy and warm, then let his eyes rest on his host, watching him cook. Deft hands separated meat from bone, decimated vegetables into bits. All went into the cook pot. Soon the scent of a spicy stew joined the tantalizing aroma of baking bread.
Next the man reached for the apples. Clink, clink went the knife. Soon a pile of slices filled a waiting crust. From an ornate green glass jar, he sprinkled a generous amount of spices. Bread came out of the oven, the pie went in. The man stirred the pot. Red refilled his glass. The man then returned the spoon to its hook and sat down at the table. He met Red's eyes, then hummed thoughtfully. “Can I ask you something?”
Ha. Everyone always asked, sooner or later. The eyes always gave him away. At night, they would sometimes even glow. “My eyes are like that because of the taint. Demon taint.” He sighed. Admitting to his heritage would probably cost him his free meal, but he couldn't lie about it. Literally. Compulsive truth-telling was a weird side effect of the purging. “My father was an incubus. My mother easily misguided.”
The man surprised him, though. “Actually, that isn't what I was going to ask.”
“Really.”
“I just wanted to know your name.”
“Most people call me Red.” He twisted a lock of blood-red hair around his finger. “Unoriginal, really, when you think about it.”
The man's lips quirked up. “And what do you call yourself?”
“Stupid, mostly. But my mother called me Jedediah.”
Again the quirky smile. “I'm Morgan. And dinner will be ready soon. I suggest we eat it in the other room where we'll be more comfortable."
Dinner was indeed soon ready. As Red sat on the rug around a low table, Morgan brought out the bread, the stew, and some fresh cheese. Red took a mouthful of the stew. It was shockingly delicious. “Mmm, my friend, this might be the best stew I ever had.”
Morgan startled at the compliment, then recovered with a smile. “Thank you.”
There was no more conversation as they ate, just that strange communal intimacy people have from breaking bread together. By the time they finished, Red was uncomfortably full, and he groaned when Morgan announced it was time for dessert. Still, Red managed to fork down one quarter of the pie before he leaned back with another glass of wine.
Relaxed, hazy from drink, his hunger sated, Red felt good. For a moment he lazed in this sensation of physical well being, the room silent but for an occasional crackle and pop of the fire. He felt good – really, really good – except that something was nagging at him. He would have said it was his conscience if he had been able to admit he had one. “Hey, Morgan – dinner was excellent. Even though I probably didn't deserve your hospitality, considering that we met in your tree.”
Morgan looked amused. “You know, few people ever come out this way. It's a bit isolated.” He cocked his head. “What were you doing all the way out here, anyway?”
“Oh. That.” Red ran a hand through his hair, then toyed with his wine glass. “I was looking for someone. Part of a job.”
“A job? What do you do?”
Red looked at Morgan. Sitting there so innocent, so expectant, Red found that he didn't have the heart to say something mean – his usual reaction to that question. In fact, Red was feeling positively friendly towards the man. He'd been so nice, feeding him and all, when he could have called in the constable and had him arrested for trespassing, if not stealing. Which would have been damn inconvenient, to say the least. “I'm a witch hunter.”
“A witch hunter?” Morgan hummed thoughtfully. “And what do you once you find one?”
“Kill her, of course. Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live and all that.” Red paused, swallowing the rest of his wine. Bloody hell, he felt fantastic. Warm and happy as a kitten suckling its mother. “It's an unpleasant job, but someone has to do it. Still... it's dangerous. I'm sort of glad I didn't find the witch.”
“And who said that you haven't?”
Red froze. He stared at Morgan. The expression on his face had changed – it was now wickedly coy. Red's only thought was: What..? He worked his tongue loose from where it had suddenly become glued to the roof of his mouth. “Is that a joke?”
No, Morgan's expression couldn't be classified as coy. No, it was pleased, with a cold undertone of vicious. “Not what you were expecting, am I?” he drawled. “But you know, Jedediah, not all witches are women. My mother,” he said, his gaze flickering to the empty wine decanter, “she trained me well.”
Red's mind limped along as slow as a three-legged dog as he tried to make connections. The decanter. It had been full. Now it was empty. And – now that he thought about it – he hadn't seen Morgan drinking. Also – and this point was of the utmost importance – the man had just admitted that he was a witch.
KILL HIM! Red's thoughts screamed at him, but his body refused to move. “What... what was in that wine?!”
Morgan fiddled absent-mindedly with his earring. Only now did Red notice the witch crystal wrapped up in the filaments of silver. He smiled, coy again. “You may not have expected me, but I was certainly expecting you. Townspeople are terrible at keeping secrets. Did you know that you're the talk of the town? The witch hunter with yellow eyes and crimson hair? So I knew you were coming. I have no interest in dying, though, so I took the liberty of adding a special elixir to your wine. It will keep you from being able to do me any harm.”
The damn witch had bespelled him! Red tried to fight it, willing himself to reach for his pistol, but his hand refused to even touch the grip. “Now what? I suppose you'll kill me. Or just turn me into a toad.”
“If I wanted to do that, I would have done it already.”
“Then... what do you want?”
Morgan smiled. Not coy. Sultry. God help me. “There's a spell I've been wanting to complete for some time. A very powerful spell. But in order for it to work, it requires that the witch transgress with a demon.”
Huh? Transgress? Red blinked, wondering what the hell that meant, even as the witch was already climbing over him, pushing him down on the bearskin rug. He was unable to resist as the witch tossed his weapon aside and then began slowly and seductively peeling off his clothes. Stranger still, his body was responding to the witch's touch. “Wait... what are you... stop!”
A hot tongue lapped against the side of his neck, and he whimpered wantonly, quivering as the witch's hot breath filled his ear. “Oh, don't even try to resist. The aphrodisiac was in the pie.”
In part he was vexed because as much as he liked the ladies, the ladies didn't like him. Something about demon taint tended to scare them off.
The other source of his vexation was his profession – as a witch hunter. On the last job, things hadn't quite gone according to plan. That was the problem with witches – even when you staked one, that didn't always stop her from trying to kill you. The witch had only been playing dead, and had managed to rip off Claude's arm before Red had chopped off her head.
Watching his partner's arm being torn off – well, it had unnerved him. After that experience, the team had stopped working – Red for six months, and Claude permanently. But now his vacation was over. The Inquisitors had finally recalled him and shipped him off to Silence. At dusk he had sought out Sister Annunciata at the wind-rotten harbor tavern. All business, the good Sister had wasted no time giving him instructions or tossing back her share of the gin without leaving behind so much as a copper bit. The church – stingy as always. Even the payment he'd been offered was less substantial than his usual fee, but nobody argued with the Inquisitors.
He glanced around the gloomy tavern as he poured himself another glass. For some reason, everyone was staring at him. Maybe it was due to his looks. He was, after all, tall, young, and – with his bright red hair, pale skin, and knife-sharp features – some may have even said striking. Or maybe it was because someone had noticed his demon taint. Or maybe they just didn't like strangers. They sure couldn't sense any evil emanating from him. When he was young, his mother had sold him to the Inquisitors, who had promptly purged all the evil from him. It hadn't been what he'd call a pleasant experience. Still, he'd been told he ought to be grateful that he was now fit to be a productive member of society, since they'd rid him of all the desires for seduction, destruction and mayhem that he'd inherited from his father. Now there was little left of his father's heritage beyond his yellow eyes and his uncanny ability to find his way around real quick and easy in the dark. The latter being particularly useful for hunting witches.
Ah, yes. Hunting witches. All he knew about this job was that there was a witch living on the outskirts of town and that he had to take care of her. But it was all he needed to know. He downed the rest of his gin and dropped one of his few remaining coins on the table for the oddly cheerful barmaid. Adjusting his long black coat and his dusty black hat, he headed out.
* * * * *
An hour later, Jedediah Sharp stood outside the witch's house.
Too bad Claude was gone, for it meant that Red now had to work alone. With Claude, their tactics had been simple. One in through the front door, the other through the back. This way the witch would have less chance to escape. Red probably would have still considered it a good tactic, too, if it weren't for the fact that Claude was now feeding the worms. Well, most of him, anyway – despite a thorough search, Red never did find the missing limb.
He contemplated the house before him. In truth, he'd expected some dark, run-down shack, with skulls of questionable origin perched on the fence posts, maybe some hard-to-explain mist on the ground, but this place was... well, nice. No eerie mist, no skulls, not even the trace of a cobweb. Instead it was a quaint stone cottage with a thatched roof on top and a well-tended garden all around. It couldn't have been any more normal. An apple tree in the front yard, even.
Looking at the apple tree reminded him that he was hungry. The only offering at the tavern had been some odd-smelling concoction bubbling in a cauldron. His senses were rather acute, but he still hadn't been able to identify what was in that pot, so he'd decided to avoid it. Which meant that his stomach was full of gin. Maybe too much gin. Another advantage of his father's heritage was that he could drink any man under the table and walk out of the bar. Still, with enough effort, he could get drunk. In fact, he was teetering now. Better if he called it a night. No doubt the witch would be here tomorrow. If it were indeed the witch's house. Maybe the old nun had given him the wrong bloody address.
But the apples in the tree tempted him – red and shiny, moon washed, ripe for the picking. Of course, by now the kitchen at the inn where he was staying would be closed. He would have to go to bed without supper – an idea which he disliked immensely.
He glanced at the cottage. It was dark. Not creepy dark, just dark. No one home. The tree was close to the road, seeming to beckon him with its branches as it swayed in the wind. The tree was laden with fruit. Certainly no one would notice if he took one. Just one.
Well, he'd made worse decisions, even without the gin.
He hadn't climbed a tree since he was a child, but he somehow managed to shimmy up it without much difficulty. Perched among the branches, he plucked an apple and was about to bite into the lovely, juicy flesh when a voice floated up from below. “Excuse me – who are you and just what are you doing in my apple tree?”
Red's hearing was abnormally sharp so he was shocked that someone had managed to sneak up on him. So shocked, he dropped the apple. Glancing down he saw a man staring up at him, somewhat perplexed. He had dark, lank hair to his shoulders, a narrow face with two wide-set gray eyes, and he wore dark trousers and a billowy white shirt which only accentuated his thinness. Young, too, around twenty. Not what he expected. In truth, Red would have been less surprised if he'd been caught by an enticing, dark-robed enchantress wearing silver-set crystals. “Your apple tree?”
The man crossed his arms, looking annoyed. “Yes, this is my yard, and that is my tree. You are clearly trespassing. Might I also assume that you were scrumping?”
Red froze, trying to come up with some excuse. Meanwhile, his stomach growled. He was sure that the man couldn't have heard it, but an amused smile appeared on the thin lips. How dare he be so amused? “Yeah, look, I was hungry. I was just going to borrow one apple. Your whole tree is full of them. It ain't like you can eat them all by yourself, is it?”
The man pursed his lips. “They make good pies.”
Pies? Bloody hell. Red suddenly remembered why he was here. The witch. Witches sometimes had henchmen. This guy didn't look like a henchman, but, well, you never knew... “You live alone?”
“Not if you count chickens.” His smile became wry. “You said you were going to borrow an apple. I hesitate to ask how you meant to return it.”
“I can think of a couple of ways,” he muttered. Stephen's stones! This was definitely the wrong house. It wouldn't be the first time that he had ended up at the wrong house, but luckily he hadn't beheaded first and asked questions later. Still, there had been a lot of trouble over that. He'd obviously inherited his sense of direction from his mother.
At any rate, the situation was ridiculous. He was drunk, hungry, and stuck in an apple tree. As if to remind him how long it had been since he'd eaten, his stomach growled again.
The man studied him for a long time. Then he sighed, resigned. “Well, I was just about to make supper. If you're that hungry... you're welcome to join me.” He paused, then added, “Oh, and bring down six apples.”
Red watched as the man turned and headed for the house before he climbed gracelessly down from the tree. Huh. This was an interesting development. His stomach growled again, as though trying to influence his decision. Hell, why not? What was the worst that could happen? A scrawny guy like that, even if his intentions were shady, didn't pose much of a threat.
Balancing the apples in his arms, Red pushed open the cottage door and peered into the main room. It was cozy and inviting, the stone walls adorned with tapestries, a bear skin hide as a rug, a fire already kindled in the hearth. Past a large open archway, he spied the man in the kitchen, already preparing dinner.
When he approached, the man pointed at the table with his knife. “Put the apples there. And I hope that you're a good conversationalist, at least.”
“Uh, no, I've never been accused of that.”
The man sighed. “Well, in that case, just try to stay out of the way. And pour yourself some wine, if you like."
Red dropped the apples on the table next to a decanter of wine. He admired the decanter as he picked it up. A fancy, crystal thing, pear shaped, refracting the light as he turned it. “That's a nice bottle.”
“It was my mother's.”
Shrugging off his coat and hat, Red sat down, unstoppered the bottle, and took a whiff. The wine was deep, fruity, red, and inviting. He poured himself a generous glass. Leaning back, he looked around the kitchen, also cozy and warm, then let his eyes rest on his host, watching him cook. Deft hands separated meat from bone, decimated vegetables into bits. All went into the cook pot. Soon the scent of a spicy stew joined the tantalizing aroma of baking bread.
Next the man reached for the apples. Clink, clink went the knife. Soon a pile of slices filled a waiting crust. From an ornate green glass jar, he sprinkled a generous amount of spices. Bread came out of the oven, the pie went in. The man stirred the pot. Red refilled his glass. The man then returned the spoon to its hook and sat down at the table. He met Red's eyes, then hummed thoughtfully. “Can I ask you something?”
Ha. Everyone always asked, sooner or later. The eyes always gave him away. At night, they would sometimes even glow. “My eyes are like that because of the taint. Demon taint.” He sighed. Admitting to his heritage would probably cost him his free meal, but he couldn't lie about it. Literally. Compulsive truth-telling was a weird side effect of the purging. “My father was an incubus. My mother easily misguided.”
The man surprised him, though. “Actually, that isn't what I was going to ask.”
“Really.”
“I just wanted to know your name.”
“Most people call me Red.” He twisted a lock of blood-red hair around his finger. “Unoriginal, really, when you think about it.”
The man's lips quirked up. “And what do you call yourself?”
“Stupid, mostly. But my mother called me Jedediah.”
Again the quirky smile. “I'm Morgan. And dinner will be ready soon. I suggest we eat it in the other room where we'll be more comfortable."
Dinner was indeed soon ready. As Red sat on the rug around a low table, Morgan brought out the bread, the stew, and some fresh cheese. Red took a mouthful of the stew. It was shockingly delicious. “Mmm, my friend, this might be the best stew I ever had.”
Morgan startled at the compliment, then recovered with a smile. “Thank you.”
There was no more conversation as they ate, just that strange communal intimacy people have from breaking bread together. By the time they finished, Red was uncomfortably full, and he groaned when Morgan announced it was time for dessert. Still, Red managed to fork down one quarter of the pie before he leaned back with another glass of wine.
Relaxed, hazy from drink, his hunger sated, Red felt good. For a moment he lazed in this sensation of physical well being, the room silent but for an occasional crackle and pop of the fire. He felt good – really, really good – except that something was nagging at him. He would have said it was his conscience if he had been able to admit he had one. “Hey, Morgan – dinner was excellent. Even though I probably didn't deserve your hospitality, considering that we met in your tree.”
Morgan looked amused. “You know, few people ever come out this way. It's a bit isolated.” He cocked his head. “What were you doing all the way out here, anyway?”
“Oh. That.” Red ran a hand through his hair, then toyed with his wine glass. “I was looking for someone. Part of a job.”
“A job? What do you do?”
Red looked at Morgan. Sitting there so innocent, so expectant, Red found that he didn't have the heart to say something mean – his usual reaction to that question. In fact, Red was feeling positively friendly towards the man. He'd been so nice, feeding him and all, when he could have called in the constable and had him arrested for trespassing, if not stealing. Which would have been damn inconvenient, to say the least. “I'm a witch hunter.”
“A witch hunter?” Morgan hummed thoughtfully. “And what do you once you find one?”
“Kill her, of course. Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live and all that.” Red paused, swallowing the rest of his wine. Bloody hell, he felt fantastic. Warm and happy as a kitten suckling its mother. “It's an unpleasant job, but someone has to do it. Still... it's dangerous. I'm sort of glad I didn't find the witch.”
“And who said that you haven't?”
Red froze. He stared at Morgan. The expression on his face had changed – it was now wickedly coy. Red's only thought was: What..? He worked his tongue loose from where it had suddenly become glued to the roof of his mouth. “Is that a joke?”
No, Morgan's expression couldn't be classified as coy. No, it was pleased, with a cold undertone of vicious. “Not what you were expecting, am I?” he drawled. “But you know, Jedediah, not all witches are women. My mother,” he said, his gaze flickering to the empty wine decanter, “she trained me well.”
Red's mind limped along as slow as a three-legged dog as he tried to make connections. The decanter. It had been full. Now it was empty. And – now that he thought about it – he hadn't seen Morgan drinking. Also – and this point was of the utmost importance – the man had just admitted that he was a witch.
KILL HIM! Red's thoughts screamed at him, but his body refused to move. “What... what was in that wine?!”
Morgan fiddled absent-mindedly with his earring. Only now did Red notice the witch crystal wrapped up in the filaments of silver. He smiled, coy again. “You may not have expected me, but I was certainly expecting you. Townspeople are terrible at keeping secrets. Did you know that you're the talk of the town? The witch hunter with yellow eyes and crimson hair? So I knew you were coming. I have no interest in dying, though, so I took the liberty of adding a special elixir to your wine. It will keep you from being able to do me any harm.”
The damn witch had bespelled him! Red tried to fight it, willing himself to reach for his pistol, but his hand refused to even touch the grip. “Now what? I suppose you'll kill me. Or just turn me into a toad.”
“If I wanted to do that, I would have done it already.”
“Then... what do you want?”
Morgan smiled. Not coy. Sultry. God help me. “There's a spell I've been wanting to complete for some time. A very powerful spell. But in order for it to work, it requires that the witch transgress with a demon.”
Huh? Transgress? Red blinked, wondering what the hell that meant, even as the witch was already climbing over him, pushing him down on the bearskin rug. He was unable to resist as the witch tossed his weapon aside and then began slowly and seductively peeling off his clothes. Stranger still, his body was responding to the witch's touch. “Wait... what are you... stop!”
A hot tongue lapped against the side of his neck, and he whimpered wantonly, quivering as the witch's hot breath filled his ear. “Oh, don't even try to resist. The aphrodisiac was in the pie.”