The Hunter and the Witch

  The Hunter and the Witch

  A Crescent City Arcana Short Story

  By Rachel Chanticleer

  Copyright © 2015 Rachel Chanticleer

  All rights reserved.

  Smashwords Edition

  With the exception of brief quotes used in reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, events, business establishments, or locales is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover design by the author, using images courtesy of Fotolia.

  Smashwords License Statement

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  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Epilogue

  Infernal Embrace Excerpt

  About the Author

  Prologue

  The Imperial City of Rome

  December 21st, 47 CE

  The cloaked woman pressed two dozen denarii into the guard’s sweaty palm and slipped into the shadows. One by one, her torch lit upon cells holding imprisoned men awaiting trial, or more likely, death. The stench of desperation and all things foul assailed her nostrils and she covered her nose with the side of her hood.

  Maddened wails echoed across the cold stone walls, falling on deaf ears. Condemned souls pled for freedom. Others begged for an end to their misery. These wretched creatures would find no such relief from her; Helena’s mission tonight had but one purpose. She sought a man who should by all accounts be dead—his blood spilt and swept away along with the fetid sand of the arena.

  Instead, Lucius Sempronius Asper lay unconscious in the farthest and darkest chamber, sprawled over a crude mat on the floor. Alive, she noted. But just barely. She glanced into the blackness behind her before snapping her fingers once over the iron lock. The mechanism inside turned over at her will and she lifted the latch. With some effort, she pushed open the door to the cell, sending several rats darting from their refuge.

  Firelight danced over Asper’s prone form as Helena slid the torch into a wall sconce. The gladiator was impressive up close, maybe even more so than when she had witnessed him at the Circus Maximus this afternoon. Stripped of his armor and weapons as punishment for an escape attempt the night prior, he’d managed to defeat multiple opponents tasked to finish him off. All spectators in attendance for the city’s Saturnalia festivities were thrilled by his ferocity as he fought for his life. And won.

  Humiliated twice over by his slave, his master sent him to this frigid prison to rot.

  Once warm and bronzed, the hard planes of his face were now ashen gray. The deep brown color of fresh medjool dates, his shoulder-length hair was damp from fever. Gashes from a recent flogging marred the finely honed muscles of his back. His ripped tunic was soaked with blood and clung to a well-defined rear and thighs. Despite his current state, he still remained quite the sight to behold.

  He did not stir as she approached. Focusing her energy, she closed her eyes and used her powers to determine what life he had left within him. In her mind’s eye she saw him standing on a towering cliff of ice, teetering on the edge. She shook the bleak image from her head—he did not have long. Without her intervention, he would make his journey to the Elysian Fields tonight.

  But she wouldn’t allow it. Not when she needed his strength, his skill in dealing death. The vision she’d seen in the waters of her scrying bowl under the glow of tonight’s moon showed her yet another witch with the potential to become more powerful than herself. Helena couldn’t ignore it. She had to act.

  She had survived too long, sacrificed too much of herself to ensure her talent surpassed all others. If another’s gift exceeded hers, she would become the hunted. They would try to seek her out just as she had done to countless others—unless she found them first. She would not break the vow she made to never again become the prey.

  Thus far, Helena had succeeded in dispatching all the threats revealed to her on Winter Solstices falling on full moon nights. But the murder and magical draining of a fellow witch—a sister in all but blood—was the darkest of enchantments, and her body had become frail over the years. Though her innate gift had increased when she absorbed the energy of each rival, her physical strength had been severely exhausted. The gradual weakening of her body was a cruel tax imposed for using her abilities for such malevolence. Necessary malevolence, of course, but it took its toll nonetheless.

  Bribing her way into Rome’s festering underbelly in order to revive and rescue this dying slave was her last and only chance at survival. And like with anything else she wanted, she’d take it.

  “Do you agree to my terms, slave?”

  Lucius stared at the sable-haired stranger through bleary eyes. He was sitting upon flat, chilled rock, but the visible moon in the night sky told him he was no longer in his cell. When he turned his head to the side, soaring columns came into focus. Somehow, this woman had brought him to Agrippa’s Pantheon. Or had he stumbled here himself? He had flashes of recollection, but nothing was clear. After a moment, foggy memories started to return.

  Yes, his legs did carry him here, with her at his side. Opening locks without touching them and…

  The woman slapped him feebly and asked again. “Do you agree to my terms?” Out of breath and barely able to hold herself upright, she used the stone column for support.

  The thought struck that his back no longer pained him. Leaning forward, he reached his hand around to touch the wounds from his beating, but felt only slightly raised welts where his flesh had been scourged not long ago.

  “What is this?” he demanded.

  “A second chance. That is, if you’re willing to work off the debt you now owe me.”

  “Debt?” He stood, feeling stronger than he had in hours. “What debt do I owe you, woman?”

  She laughed, a shrill and empty sound. “You owe me but your life, slave. And should you wish to keep it, you will honor your debt.”

  “I have no time for this foolishness.” Looking around the immediate area, he was certain the guards would be close by—ready to shackle him once again and throw him back into that cage. But he saw none. Just a few late-night revelers wandered the streets, merrily shouting ‘Io Saturnalia!’ to anyone they passed.

  The woman wrapped skeletal fingers around his wrist. “You will make time, Lucius Sempronius Asper.”

  At once, his heart felt as if it were covered in rime. He clutched his chest and fell to his knees. If his heart was encrusted with frost, his back was surely on fire. Searing pain spread across his shoulders and spine as the lash marks reopened. Fresh blood trickled down his side when he fell to the ground. His head nearly burst as her cackle rang in his ears, though her mouth did not move.

  She bent down to meet his eyes. �
�This will be your fate if you disobey me. I brought you from the edge of death, and I can take you back to it. I will keep you alive in this state of torment until the end of time, slave. You will know no reprieve. And if you slip into madness, I will restore your sanity so you may know every second of the agony.” Her green eyes flashed and the freezing grip around his heart tightened. “What I want from you is simple. There are those who must die so I may live. You will kill them for me.”

  The woman released him and the pain ceased. With a deep inhale, Lucius sat upright, wincing at the peculiar feeling of his skin knitting back together.

  “A sorceress,” he spat between breaths. “You will be burned for this.”

  Amused by his assertion, she quirked her lip. “And who will listen to you? You are a slave. A fugitive.”

  He considered her words. And quickly decided she was right. If he took her to the Vigiles, they would think him a fool. Gods, he hardly believed this himself. And after the watchmen had a good laugh, they would promptly send him back to prison—or execute him on the spot—if he was lucky.

  Standing, he shook his head. “Why do you require my assistance? Can you not do this yourself?”

  “They must be killed using more…primitive means.”

  Lucius’ gaze fell to the floor. “They must be killed by one’s hand, not magic.” It was a statement, not a question. He seemed to have gone from one master to another. Again to be used as a weapon. A nameless, faceless, wielder of death. Once for amusement, and now as an assassin for a witch.

  “I will ask once more. Do you agree to my terms?”

  He glared at the woman. This woman who held his life in her bony hands, threatened him with eternal suffering if he did not do her bidding. With a snarl, he reached for her neck, but before he could make contact a flare of emerald light arced in his direction, throwing him against a column and down the front steps of the temple. As she approached him slowly, the pain returned, more quickly and severely than before.

  “You cannot injure me, slave. Just as my magic will prevent you from inflicting harm upon yourself. As much as it disagrees with you, you are bound to me. And I will have your answer.” She raised her arm, his pain intensifying as she curled her fingers into a gnarled fist. “Now.”

  She stood above him as he writhed under her torture. His body contorted in spasms and he bled from his nose and ears, the warm fluid coating his face. “Y—,” he sputtered and coughed up more blood.

  “I can’t hear you, slave.”

  “Yes! Yes, I agree.”

  “Very well.” Her invisible attack ended and Lucius drew in long, stabilizing breaths. “Now your work begins.”

  Chapter One

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  February 17th, 2015 CE

  Bethany Hayes chewed on her lower lip. Looking from mirror to mirror in the cramped dressing room, she took in her appearance from different angles.

  “I don’t know, Aunt Mae. This one is just so…red.” She sucked in her stomach. And snug, she added silently.

  “Well? Come on out, darlin’, and let’s see it.”

  She let out a defeated groan and slid the curtain open. Her aunt’s eyes widened over her gossip magazine.

  “No good?” Beth asked, frowning.

  “Bless your heart, child. Did you even look at yourself in it?” Aunt Mae tossed aside her reading material.

  “Ugh, yes. I’ll try a different one.” She reached to pull the curtain shut but Mae rushed forward from her chair and swatted her hand away.

  “Turn around, sugar.” Her aunt stood at her back as Beth faced the mirror. The 1950’s red velvet dress had a square neckline and a ruched waist flaring into a full pleated skirt with tulle underlay. “See how well it accentuates your shape?” She gestured to her niece’s hourglass figure, making a dramatic silhouette with her hands. “Darlin’, you’re beautiful.”

  Beth sighed then worried her lip.

  “And you’re wearing this dress. No arguments,” she declared with a decisive nod. The bell hanging from the front door of her vintage clothing store, Mae’s Closet, jangled and one of her regulars sauntered in. “Mornin’, Mrs. Wallace!” Aunt Mae called from the back of the shop. “I’ve got that purse you had placed on hold right behind the counter.”

  As she hurried to attend to her customer, Beth closed the dressing stall with another sigh. She pushed the blonde side-swept bangs of her textured pixie cut aside and chanced another look at herself in the dress. Soft and luxurious, the material hugged and highlighted her curves. Swishing the skirt from side to side, she allowed herself a little smile as it hit playfully just below her knees. She had to admit she felt pretty great in it. This was nothing like the simple, understated outfits she usually wore. Her conservative parents would not approve. But it really would be perfect for her good friend Nikki’s annual Mardi Gras costume party tonight.

  “What are you worried about, girl?” she mumbled as she reached back to undo the zipper. Shimmying out of the dress, Beth grudgingly admitted she knew exactly what was making her anxious. And it wasn’t the disapproval of her mother and father. That, she had more or less made peace with.

  It had been four years since the last time she went to Nikki’s for Mardi Gras, but what had happened on the ride home was as fresh in her mind as ever. Having recently turned twenty-one, she did have a bit to drink that night. One rum and coke. That was it. She had sipped it the first hour she was there and had plenty to eat during the party. When the police had given her a Breathalyzer test she barely blew a .02, proving she was well within the legal limit for driving.

  She slipped the dress back on its hanger and hung it on the hook before getting back into her own clothes. As she pulled her sweater over her head, the ragged pink scar along her shoulder blade caught her eye in the mirror. Aside from the broken ankle, the laceration on her back was the worst injury she had sustained from the rollover crash. Caused by bent metal protruding through the collapsed roof, the gash was several inches long and required almost two dozen stitches. She had other minor cuts and bruises, but the trauma with the most lasting impression couldn’t be seen.

  Some people black out when they’re in an accident but Beth remembered everything, right down to the song on the radio, “Seven Nation Army” by The White Stripes. And the part she knew she’d never forget was the sudden blaze of strange green light in the darkness.

  Not to mention the man standing behind it.

  His eyes were empty as he watched the force of the blast veer her car from the road, sending it spinning into an embankment. When the car finally settled, the rock song’s iconic riff thundered in her ears and tires spun in the air. Upside down and struggling with the seatbelt latch, Beth saw him approach. Her breathing became ragged as her lungs filled with the cloud of fine powder expelled when the airbag deployed.

  After the belt unlatched, she fell hard onto something sharp and scrambled upright. Over shattered safety glass and thick Louisiana mud, she crawled through the open window the best she could with an injured ankle. At this point she didn’t even feel any pain. He was getting closer and every instinct she had screamed for her to get away from him as fast as possible. That she could worry about her injuries later.

  She didn’t make it very far before the initial shock wore off and her body refused to go on. The man had followed and stood before her as she collapsed in the dirt along the edge of the road. His face was grim with resignation.

  Surprising herself, she started to shout at him. Not from fear, but out of rage. Too angry to be frightened, she demanded to know why he did this and who—or what—he was. Her heated tirade seemed to catch him slightly off guard and a frown line creased his brows. He quickly schooled his expression into that of apathy and reached for her.

  With a defiant scream, Beth lunged forward, and for a split second the strangest feeling washed over her body. Almost like blood rushing back into an appendage that had fallen asleep. Immediately following the brief pins-and-needles sensation,
the same green flash that had flipped her car from the road surged from her fingertips and hit the man square in the chest. He stumbled backward and her jaw dropped. Examining her hand, she wondered what in the hell had just happened. When he recovered, she spied the hint of a smile on his lips. He took another two steps forward, stopped, and scrutinized her for a moment. Coming to some internal decision, the man closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh.

  And as abruptly as he entered her life, he left it, walking away from her into the pitch black stretch of highway. Shortly after, she finally passed out.

  Beth shook her head and buttoned up her jeans. Devout Southern Baptists, her parents didn’t believe her tale of an otherworldly ability. They were convinced the accident was her own fault—a consequence of drinking and partying with her no-good friends. Any mention of “magic” was not to be uttered in their presence.

  She had been crushed by their emphatic denial and the wedge between them grew when her gift continued to manifest itself in incredible but unreliable ways. Perhaps with the occasional bit of telekinesis, or clairvoyance, but it unfortunately came and went without warning. Beth had yet to master it and was lost without any support. Her parents were more comfortable when she stayed quiet about her so-called abnormality, and at times there was an undercurrent of intolerance and hostility directed her way. She’d eventually given up on waiting for them to change how they felt about her newfound talents and left home to live with her Aunt Mae.

  The bell on the shop’s front door sounded again and her aunt wished Mrs. Wallace a great day.