Witching Hour

༺ 43 ༻

Marty says, ‘Never meet your heroes.’

    "Young... Strong..." She remarked, studying herself with interest. There was nothing different about her. Her skin was still brown; her hair, curly; her legs, still tall. But when she looked up and smiled, a smile that could make the hair on anyone's back stand, I knew —that wasn't Laura. She was Vrha.

A few feet away, the Sister Superior shook. Her lips were parted, but no words came out, as she appeared too stunned to speak. At last, she regained her composure.

    "I plead forgiveness for my disrespect, oh great one." The old woman bowed as much as her cane would allow. Rather than address her, Vrha took in her surroundings, her eyes darting from place to place as she walked down the stage's steps. The woman babbled on, though. "I was overwhelmed by the magnificence of your glory. You see, we have been eager for your return for years and have prepared—"

    "There are this many of you?" Vrha finally gave her attention, facing her squarely.

The question initially startled the Sister Superior, after which she broke into a bright grin. "Absolutely! We all gathered here today to honor this momentous occasion. Your feats and extraordinary power have garnered support since you were gone. We, your loyal followers, see truth in your ideologies and believe you alone can save this fallen world—"

Shutting her out again, Vrha's eyebrows gingerly raised. "I do suppose it makes the work easier." She was mostly talking to herself, but the elderly lady paused her speech to listen. When Vrha didn't make to continue, she asked. "Pardon me your mightiness, but perhaps you could be so graceful to explain which work you speak of."

Instead of replying, Vrha lifted her left hand and snapped her fingers. Instantly, the Sister Superior caught fire, the flames engulfing every part of her body. The rest of the women in black cloaks followed a split second later and in less than a minute, each one of them was reduced to nothing but ash.

In my spot in the floating cages, my jaw fell. The entire Vrhanian Coven was gone, killed by none other than Vrha. She'd mercilessly burned them alive, the very ones that had facilitated her reincarnation. I'd been told Vrha was cruel, but I hadn't realized it was enough to twist my stomach into a thousand tiny knots.

It seemed to happen in slow motion, Vrha casually taking in her "work", then turning her gaze away. We made eye contact and my heart forgot to beat. It wasn't the kind that filled you with excitement or cheerful anticipation but with fear, possessing every fiber of your being. I wanted to look away, but I couldn't. No one looked away from Vrha.

    "You." She pointed at me. "You're of the true blood, but it's unusual. Tainted." With a wave of her hand, all three cages vaporized and I crashed to the floor.

The impact of the fall shot pain through my butt and right leg, causing me to groan. No matter, I couldn't afford to stay down, so I frantically shuffled to my feet. Her head cocked to the side, Vrha watched me patiently, even many beats after I'd gotten up. I expected to see malice in her face, maybe murder, but I got none of that. Her gaze was just curious.

    "What's your name, little girl?" She probed.

In an attempt to push down the lump blocking my throat, I gulped. "Marty."

    "Marty." The word rolled off her tongue. "Odd name, but much could change in 115 years." At that moment, her eyes appeared distant, as she appeared to enter a world of her own. "I haven't seen another true blood in that long. Hell is lonely and for a reason. If I had been united with those who betrayed me, I would have waged war, even in the spirit realm. I'm wiser now." Her focus returned to me. "Untrue bloods are a bother, but the problem lies in sorcerers themselves. There are far too many in existence."