Where A Witch Goeth

Chapter Six: Ain't We Got Fun

The moment the vampire's mouth closed over mine, he drew breath against my watery burden, and a strange but tremendous urge to evacuate my lungs overtook me.

Undrowning was a terrible process, and that was all I had to say about that.

The vampire had turned me swiftly to the side as I delivered up every teaspoon of water I had inhaled, but aftewards he laid me flat on the ground as I struggled to reintroduce air to my ragged, abused lung tissue.

Then he rose, spat, rinsed his mouth with pond water, and spat again.

I shit you not, he spat. Twice.

Growing up with a toxic father had led me to consider myself as thick-skinned as the next witch, but as I lay on the ground struggling to return to life, I was rather offended by the vampire's gesture.

Being nearly dead, I forgot to focus on the important elements of my situation, and fixated all my overwhelming feelings on the implications of his salivary expulsion.

Did I really taste that bad to a bloodsucker?

My voice was hoarse and uneven as I called from my position flat on my back. "Hey, thanks for the assist, but let me tell you something, buddy: spitting after you perform CPR on a person is just fucking rude. Even for a vampire."

He was crouched by the pond's edge, still sluicing water to his mouth, but now he turned to stare at me. His expression was shadowed by night, but his voice was much cooler than mine. "C-P-R," he said thoughtfully. Then he shook his head and added, "You have a foul mouth, witch."

I struggled to my feet, promptly sank back down. Apparently, standing requires muscles, and muscles require oxygen, which was still in short supply in my extremities, though it was beginning to return to my brain. Returning oxygen didn't just mean returning thought processes, however. It also meant returning sensation. My noggin was beginning to hurt terribly. I wrapped my hands around my forehead, and the coldness of my fingers provided a moment of relief. Enough for me to focus.

"Where is Nick? Shit, where is Abraham? He wants to eat my marrow. Don't let him, okay?"

I didn't know exactly why I was appealing to this jerk. Mostly likely because he had just saved my life, and therefore some instinct prompted me to hope he wouldn't immediately renege on the sentiment and let one of his kinsmen murder me all over again. And speaking of their kinship, I added. "Hey, why aren't you dead?"

"I am dead," he said stiffly. "Blood Cursed by your ancient sorority of evil."

I flapped a hand at him. "No, not dead like...uhh, nevermind."

I had no energy to have this debate about the sins of the sisters with him. Should I be held responsible for every demonic thing a black witch has ever done? No, obviously not. Was I going to convince a vampire, who, probably through no fault of his own, had been cursed with the worst black magic the world had ever seen—a terrible, towering feet of witchcraft that kept on kicking ass and taking lives, generation after vampiric generation, long after its weaver had died and gone to hell? No, obviously not.

Vampires hated witches on principal. This was ancient news. Abraham, the only vampire I had ever met until now, had seemed a possible exception to the rule. Then again, he was probably crazy, so I wasn't sure I could rely upon my brief acquaintance with him to guide me in interacting with his kinsman.

Seriously. Abraham—where the hell was he? I peered across the pond. No longer on the rocks beneath the falls, that was for sure. Had he healed enough to make the climb to the cave? There was a lot of blood up there for him so consume in his endeavor to fully heal.