The Witch's Toy ✔

25: calling for the devil

Raphael's POV

"Honestly, I would've thought you cared less about that witch girl." Madame Blanc's fingers took hold of my chin, forcing my head up.

I felt tremors go through my body, making me more nauseous than I already felt. My skin was pallid and clammy as sweat trickled from my forehead and down my face. I'd watched my fill of humans and their pain from long-distance relationships, but the bond between Yu Rui and I was something different. We were only hours away, but it's effect was wearing me down. I was in more physical pain than the one my heart could take.

"My magic won't last for long, puppet boy. You should know that sorceresses like me are certainly not at their best after being cursed and locked up in the same manor for centuries," she continued, head tilting to the side to study my face. "You turn into a puppet boy without that witch girl, yes? Call for the devil and ask him to sever the tie between you and that girl." Sympathy seeped into her voice, but if she thought I would fall for something as simple as that, she was wrong. "I'm almost in pain myself, seeing you suffer like this."

I mustered enough strength to jerk my head away from the Madame, the chains that bound me to the wall rattling in response to the sharp movement. Black dots danced in my vision, the edges fuzzy and unclear. "I would rather be forced to sleep for another ten years than ask that bastard to do something like that," I growled.

Madame Blanc's ruby eyes darkened to a cherry red. "Fine. If you won't summon the devil, I will." Twisting away, she marched to the center of the room we were in, her long, gaudy skirts swaying around her ankles. She pulled a piece of paper out from her bodice, holding the thin sheet between her middle and index finger. Words started to come from her mouth in a steady stream, filling the silence between us with a dark chant.

My jaw tightened, teeth grinding against one another. I was familiar with this language, though it was one not many witches or shamans used anymore. Dark magic. Magic used by those who, at a young age, came into contact with either mortal death or an angel of death and miraculously survived. I didn't know who this Madame Blanc was, but surely she must have had an unfortunate childhood.

As she chanted, the air around us became colder, a dark miasma spilling into the center of the room. Placing a sharp nail against her wrist, the Madame sliced her flesh open. Tainted blood the color of oil gushed out, pouring onto the floor in a steady stream before breaking off in drops that made divots onto the marbled floor. Her blood moved in its own, drawing double circles with runes carved into the outer circle.

The dark miasma didn't seem suffocating at all; it somehow lifted some of the pressure off my throbbing temple and muted the pain that had spread like wildfire across my entire body. I didn't want to accept it, but being a demon so close to one of hell's gates only gave me strength.

"Ah, the Madame Blanc," a familiar voice purred, coming around her like a shadow. He wrapped an arm around her waist, face centimeters away from hers. "My sincere apologies for taking your Samael away from you, but I assure you he misses you dearly. Your manor is a far more comfortable place than his princely throne, apparently." Completely blackened eyes rolled around in annoyance. "He likes to remind me every day."

Madame Blanc's fingers came up to his face. Her wrist was still open, but the blood had already stopped flowing. "But Luc, don't you know that I've gotten myself a replacement?"

"Hm, what was that, dear Madame? A replacement, you say?" Curiosity made the whites of his eyes bleed back, the darkness receding to his irises. "If you want someone to keep you company, you can always ask for me."

"Oh, please." She scoffed, but I could tell that she enjoyed the devil's coquettish play. "You know I don't have enough blood and energy in my body to continuously summoning you."