Little Witch

Chapter One:

8 months later...

The bright morning sun shone through the curtainless window, illuminating the room. Soft patches fell against Davina's face as I watched her sleep. Her chest rose up and down, her breathing awfully slow. She was exhausted and reminded myself not to worry. Magic in the quarter affected her differently. Davina was part of the ritual, I was not. I kissed Davina's cheek and untangled myself from our embrace. The sleek wooden coffin glinted in the light. I unlatched the lid, shoving it open.

Inside lay a man. His hair was dark and his skin grey, covered with black veins from the slow decay of his body. I touched his cheek gently, feeling a great sorrow for him. I glared at my hand, wishing pain and heat upon my palm. The skin seared and sizzled until blood began to peek from the cut. I pressed my palm to his mouth, allowing the blood to bleed onto his lips. His dark eyes blinked open, mindless and empty starring nowhere. They moved with another blink, catching my own.

"I'm sorry. I imagine that whatever is left of your family will be retrieving you shortly," I whispered. Even though he said nothing, his eyes spoke a great deal. I pressed my lips together into what could be described as a smile. "Or maybe not."

I closed the lid as I spoke, letting his eyes follow me as it fell. I wiped the blood onto a tissue, healing the small injury as I walked down the creaky wooden steps. Father Kieran sat on his knees praying at the altar. I offered him a smile. He was alone here, almost as often as Davina and I were left upstairs hidden beneath layers of protective magic. Being one of the few humans who knew about the supernatural existence, I felt sorry for him. My existence, vampires, and werewolves, ghosts and apparitions are all things that were never meant to be public. But he was one of the few that never asked many questions, especially after his nephew Sean O'Connell slaughtered his fellow seminary students and killed himself in the process.

Father Kieran opened his eyes. "You're going out?"

"For Marcel," I said. "Like always."

Father Kieran was used to me being out every other night and not returning till morning, with Marcel barging down his door and demanding to know where I've been because I never said a word. Of course, the Father didn't know where I was any more than I did. Tourists were kind and willing to take in a young girl for the night. You learn many secrets about the city when you walk around in the dark and you get to know people in odd places.

St. Anne's church was a short walk away from The Abattoir, I could make it in minutes if I ran and a bit longer if I walked. The Abattoir was Marcel's home and he housed his own vampire family inside its walls. Thierry was quick to greet me at the entrance. Thierry was Marcel's closest friend and right-hand man.

"Marcel's waiting for you in the office."

"Where else would he be?" I bit out, pushing past him up and walking up the stairs.

I entered the office and kicked off my heels, settling myself into one of the pillowed armchairs. Marcel hardly looked up from the documents that he was glancing over. "Do you really have to do that?"

"No," I smiled sweetly. "But do you really have to keep my poor sister locked away? No."

He scoffed. "How's the housemate doing?"

"Davina's drained but fine. I imagine that's not who you're asking about, though. The corpse is still dead and decaying. Does the corpse have a name?"

"I didn't expect so much magic to happen at one time."

"Well it did," I scowled and repeated myself more aggressively. "The corpse's name. Which Mikaelson is he?"

"His name is Elijah." Marcel's eyes narrowed. "This doesn't change anything, T. The Mikaelson's are the enemy."