Néon Raider ♉

Bus-Alpins Witch

Danielle Pastèque, moved her head to rhythm of the heavy metal hit song, Gorgon, by Nitrous fog, her favourite band. It boomed on her modern woofer speakers as she lit the black, purple and yellow candles in front of her book of shadows. She had to send a legion of Demon soldiers to the deepest pit. She had caught and exorcised them from shifters as they infested the Lycans of the Northern Durleigh clan.

Danielle sighed, picking up her crystal hilt Athame. Her reputation was down the drain recently after news of Vos's arrest and Léon Parcifal's up coming jail time that had spread like a wild fire. The rivals of the Verdon Lycans of Eastern clan, revelled in the news. The feared Beta male was going to jail.
She had done protective spells for Léon and other gangs. The spells had all worked, protecting them and ensuring their success until recently.
Bullets couldn't penetrate their bodies and any time investigators or police officers investigated them, the road usually led to a dead end.

"Argh!" Danielle screamed placing the her pentagram on the sacred circle. Vos DeLana had neglected to come for his cleaning and protection rituals. He had grown lazy and proud. Now the chord of Damage had found him and this screwed with her legacy and Léon's well being. That was the last person she wanted in the middle of all this.

"Shut up." Danielle screamed at the legion of Demons she had apprehended and imprisoned in a coke bottle.

She was being overly dramatic when she did that. She could have locked them up in a crystal stone or trapped them in a mirror, but it gave her much joy to treat them as the basest organisms that they were. They'd been prowling...feeding on human and shifter emotions alike, fuelling fear and distress. They fed on hope, happiness and love. They were the worst cowards she encountered.
"You can whine and and bang all you want. Screech, for crying out loud. I'm sending you off to Tartares." Danielle screeched.

Danielle moved the laptop from her alter. She needed to make space for her spell.

She was a modern witch. Many in the modern era thought witches still used cauldrons, lived in marshes and caves. She lived in a modern apartment upstate in Marseille, instead of a cauldron for making potions, she owned a Burette, Bunsen Burner, Beakers, Erlenmeyer flasks, test tubes, tongs, funnel, crucible, to name a few. She found chemistry to be quite fascinating and had majored in it in college.

She met most of her clients online. So she had a blog with traffic of over 2000 visitors daily. She moved towards her glass style library and retrieved her golden chalice, marched to her sacred circle, held the chalice up and incanted,

"Rex Infernum, Non servierunt tibia, Thesaurizant tui a daemonio, Ad quos eieci in sempiternum, Tartara mittit æternam." She incanted.

"Send them no more."
Danielle struck her Athame to her palm and drew some blood then drew and invisible circle with her Athame and a whirlpool of dark smoke arose. It blew her retro style mesh panel pin-up dress and ruffled her victory roll up vintage hairstyle, as she opened the coke bottle lid and the Demons were suctioned into the three dark whirlpool, their deadly screeches reverberated into the midnight.

"So shall it be." She completed the spell, Swirling her Athame in circles, shutting the doors to Tartarus. Yes. That's how powerful she was. She owned the doors to the underworld. Those particular hoard of Demons will never find the portal back to realm of the living. She stood as guard and would banish them all. She cleaned a bead of sweat from her arched brow, careful not to blot her perfect winged eyeliner.

As she placed her tools on their respective shells, something moves from her special silver box. Where she kept her most priced possessions. The Talisman she'd fashioned from her crush's' hair, the con artist. Léon Parcifal. The box shook with a violent rage. She panted. She had woven his karma into the talisman. This way, she could watch after him from this far away. She had to call him. She fidgeted for her IPhone.
She had met Léon Parcifal
Léon was in trouble.

She had met Léon Parcifal at her brother, Ferdinand's funeral. He'd flown from Cannes to Marseille. They'd been friends. Partners, even. Ferdinand did spells and rituals for Léon's gang and when he'd died, she had taken over the responsibility.

With her, Léon was himself. Or so she thought. He couldn't hide what he was, she knew everything. She was a grande witch of the seventh order. When Léon found out Ferdinand had a sister, he was intrigued and so, they'd gotten close. She had cried one night on his shoulder when they'd gone out for a drink. In an attempt to console and keep her company he'd taken her home. She'd hung to his neck for dear life, kissing him and telling him how much she loved him.

They made sweet love that night. She remembered it all to well. It was the greatest sex she ever had. And that was the last time it ever happened. He had gotten so angry for letting himself go. He did not want to give her false hope. And she had manipulated him.
He wanted a strictly platonic relationship. So, he dictated to her. She had cried, but had gotten over it. They were still the best of friends. She shrugged. She wasn't lucky enough to be loved by the handsome knave Léon Parcifal. But she remained loyal to his safety. Her obsession.