Eye of the Coven (2 page)

I unlocked the front door and pushed it open into a dim and quiet apartment. The quiet always welcomed me home but today it was heavy, oppressive, something I didn’t want to trade for the light outside world I’d just walked through.

I dropped the keys on the table next to the door and shrugged off my coat, leaving it on the floor. My mood had sunken to a new low, and I was frustrated at the burning sensation on my arm, annoyed with the fact that it would be throbbing for a couple of days still. I applied disinfectant and swore when it stung. Then I bandaged it up and sat down on the couch. Kitten padded into the living room, mewing, swishing her tail back and forth.

I spread my hands open in front of me, letting the nails protrude until they were sharp and cat-like, curled forward. I moved my fingers and the nails clicked against each other. They were dangerous weapons, with some kind of poison that could send a body into bouts of fever for days if we chose to use them. The last time I’d used my nails was when I was nine. Rebecca’s poison wouldn’t do anything to me, because I was a witch. We were immune to each other’s venom; it took a lot more for one witch to bring another down. The fact that she had thought to use her nails at all showed that she was like a beginner.

I retracted my claws and Kitten jumped on the couch, sitting at the far end. She was black with a white chest, four white paws and a white patch at the tip of her tail. I had meant to name her when I’d found her in the garbage so many years ago, but somehow Kitten stuck and Kitten she stayed.

“Hey baby girl,” I cooed, holding my hands out to her, “are you hungry? Did I not feed you this morning?”

She eyed me suspiciously and mewed again. I leaned over to pet her but she jumped away.

“Dumb cat,” I scolded and reached for the remote. Kitten didn’t come near me anymore. She used to rely on me a lot when she was just a baby and needed me to pull her through. And she still came to me when she needed food, obviously. But since my father died and I’d felt my powers take on a new level, she had been wary of me. I could barely touch her anymore, and if I caught her off guard, she hissed at me.

I couldn’t blame her. Animals were always so sensitive to feelings and atmospheres and things; I thought my sensitivity to those things were similar. A cat was already the kind of independent companion who didn’t need much attention, but since Kitten decided to start avoiding me, it had become very lonely at home.

I pushed the DVD button on the remote and the screen flickered to life. I watched this DVD over and over again; I couldn’t get enough. It was Phantom of the Opera, one of the best films ever made in my opinion. I loved orchestral music, the way that it expressed people’s feelings. But this movie particularly drew me in because of its sinister feel, its good disguised as bad, the curses and secrets, and the sad ending.

My mood was dragged under with the movie, my soul feeling blacker as the Phantom’s character drew me in. I was getting miserable; I felt the room grow darker as I became more somber and Kitten decided to look for somewhere lighter. By the time the credits rolled, I was about ready to break something.

I jumped up, shrugged my coat back on, and slammed the door behind me. I got in my car. I hardly used it, but tonight seemed like a good night, and I drove down the street, looking for something to distract me. My father had always said who we were was nothing to be ashamed of. And I had agreed until I realized that I wasn’t even like the other witches. It was fine when I’d had somewhere I could fit in, but since Nema had been putting the pressure on me to become high priestess, it felt like my life had fallen apart.

The high priestess carried so much responsibility, and if she ever wanted to marry, a husband was chosen for her, someone who could match her power, who would complement her.

It was bad enough that as a witch I would have to marry in the coven. With the warlocks that I grew up with, that gave very few options. But to have someone chosen for me?

It was so much worse than knowing I would never be able to marry for love, never be able to experience love at first sight, without being told who I would be forced to live with for the rest of my life. And for witches “the rest of my life” was a lot longer than for humans. For witches, time worked differently. It was hard to explain; we still had days
just like humans, but if we chose, we could get so much more done. I could speed up my blood, like I did when Rebecca had done it, and it meant that it took me a fraction of a second to do anything. Sometimes, a day felt like a week long.

I slammed on the brakes. I hadn’t been paying attention to where I was going, just speeding down the road, but bright yellow lights streaming from square windows drew my attention, and the warm, homey feeling that it cast into the street invited me to go inside. It was a regular human bar, and when I walked to the door, cheerful music flowed out to greet me.

I stepped inside, noticed the pale red carpet worn by years of shoes, riddled with alcohol stains and cigarette burns. A long, dark wooden bar stretched from one side of the room all the way to the other, and small bar tables were scattered throughout. Most of them were occupied by middle-aged men, a few women who looked roughly the same age and like they could take on any man. In the corner, a group of rowdy youngsters were making a noise. It was so filthy, so normal; I felt right at home.

I made my way to the bar and sat down. Men from all over the room looked up at me for a second before turning their gaze away again. I knew I was pretty. My long auburn hair drew their attention, and my tall, slender body kept them lingering enough for them to look into my green eyes and sense that danger lay underneath. Men had told me before that I was beautiful but there was something dark and deadly about me. The bartender walked over and leaned on the wood over his beer taps.

“Vodka tonic,” I said and he nodded. My drink appeared in front of me seconds later in a glass that had finger marks. I took a sip and felt the alcohol burn down my throat. Just what the doctor ordered.

“That’s a stiff drink to start the night with,” someone said to my left, and I turned. He was young-looking, mid-thirties maybe, and his dark hair made his equally dark eyes stand out.

“Only if I weren’t used to the hard stuff,” I replied, and he cocked a skewed smile.

“You drink rough then?” he asked, and I had to tear my eyes away from what that smile did to his face. He was gorgeous.

“I can handle just a little more than I should,” I said and smiled sweetly.

He smiled and took a sip of his beer. I took another sip of my drink and breathed in
deeply, feeling the tension loosen in my shoulders. This place was already lifting my spirits.

“I’m Devan,” he held out his hand, and I took it warily.

“Cherry,” I said.

“Oh I get it, the hair,” he said, gesturing, and I nodded slowly.

“My real name’s Cherene, but this,” I fiddled with my hair, “was more red than brown when I was growing up, and Cherry stuck.”

It was strange for a man to talk to me like he did; he wasn’t intimidated or scared, just interested. I liked it. Usually, there were two types of men who tried to pick me up. The first were the ones who were terrified of me, and looked like they’d gotten themselves into something they hadn’t anticipated. They were eager to leave the conversation. I had no patience with them; if they thought I was that much of a problem, they shouldn’t have approached me in the first place. I usually tried to draw out the conversation as long as possible, make them almost desperate to get away.

The second kind were those who were stupid, had a thing for danger but didn’t know how to deal with it once they found it, and often thought themselves to be bigger than they really were. They often traveled in groups, and when friends were around, it only made them even more full of themselves. They usually deserved what came to them, and I had no mercy on them. It was wrong for men to mess with women just because they were pretty, in my opinion, and some men found out what it meant to be on the receiving end of abuse.

I never did any of the above without grace, of course. I carried myself with pride and dignity; honor was something I valued, and I never gave someone anything less than what they deserved.

The atmosphere in the room stayed light and casual, and consistent. I liked it. I was used to so many different types of feelings in the air, so many mood changes, that this felt like a break.

Talking to Devan was different. He didn’t seem scared of me, or like he was looking for trouble. He had that unbalanced smile plastered across his face half the time, and I had to admit, it made me feel rather unbalanced too, but in a good way. I didn’t feel vulnerable or fragile, like I’d heard some girls say some men made them feel, but he
made me feel beautiful. It was something no man had ever done to me before.

He felt open, his mood light and cheerful, and his feelings neutral, if not amused, which was something I never felt when men were around me. I liked that he found me interesting, rather than threatening. It set me at ease, and I found that talking and joking came easily.

He liked talking and that gave me a chance to get a good look at him. His eyes were a deep brown with golden flecks that danced when he laughed, and his skin was flawless, like mine, except he didn’t use magic.

“Can I refill that for you?” he said pointing at my empty glass after we’d engaged in silly banter, and a warm feeling spread through my stomach. He’d said it in such a sincere way, asking like he was genuinely trying to do me a favor because it was me, and doing a favor was his only intention.

“That would be great,” I said and smiled a genuine smile. No man had ever bought me drink before.

After several more drinks I was definitely feeling much better, and I could tell that he was feeling the same way. Another song started blaring from the jukebox that sat in a corner of the bar next to a small, empty dance floor. No one else in the establishment seemed to care about dancing, but Devan asked me to dance and I quickly nodded before he grabbed my hand and led me to the dance floor.

The song was heavy metal and in my opinion, very hard to dance to, but watching how he danced to it made it very sexy. I couldn't help but notice the way his jeans and shirt fit his body so well. He noticed that I wasn't moving very much and told me to just shake a leg and let the music flow through my body. I giggled and tried to be more energetic, but it was a little hard to compete with him. Heavy metal music had never been my thing, but I didn't want him to know that.

The fast, guitar wrenching song was finally over, and although I loved being next to him, I was relieved. A slower song began playing and he quickly swept me up in his arms for another round. Devan's movements were magical, almost like he drifted through the air, keeping tune with the beat. I snuggled in closer to
breath him in.

"You're a great dancer." His deep voice was next to my ear, and I could feel his breath against my neck. I quickly felt the tiny hairs stand up on my arms and my body
felt like it was full of electricity.

"Thank you." I was so wrapped up in the way I was feeling at that moment that I couldn't think of anything more to say than that.

The dance seemed to go on for an eternity, almost as if time was slowed down, and I was wishing that it would never end. Devan was mesmerizing. He suddenly looked into my eyes and his expression changed. I knew he wanted to kiss me. He leaned in and briefly touched my lips and looked at me again as if to get the final approval. I felt his arms tighten around my back, and he kissed me again, this time more hungrily than before. I returned his kiss with pent-up passion.

Suddenly, I had a strange feeling deep in my gut that something was wrong, that this wonderful man meant danger. I broke his kiss and looked into his beautiful eyes. Why was I having this feeling? Certainly, it must be from all of the Vodka Tonics I drank. It probably didn't mean a thing.

The song ended and we walked back to the bar. He bought a few more drinks, to the point that we were both not fit to drive. He had walked to the bar and lived just a couple of blocks up, so he offered to take me there instead of letting me drive home. There was something so gentlemanlike about a guy offering to take care of a girl. Again, not something I was used to. Like I’d mentioned before I hadn’t really had much to do with men, not for longer than an hour at most, and I had always been a strong and independent woman.

When we arrived at his apartment, he offered food, which I declined. He suggested I sleep in his bed and he take the couch. I didn’t know much about how it worked with regular men and women, but that to me seemed like a very unusual, generous gesture. I knew he wouldn’t try anything; he didn’t have that air about him. And the only thing that I could pick up in the atmosphere was exhaustion and contentment. In fact, he seemed almost worried that I would be the one to expect more, which I guess had led me to believe that this wasn’t how things were usually done in the real world. Well, in his real world.

I got into his bed, which didn’t smell like it had been made with fresh sheets in a while, but it was comfortable enough, and the way it all felt was what got to me. It felt pleasant, warm, homey, again, normal. And I liked it.

I woke up to the sound of him shuffling around in the living room and to the smell of fresh coffee brewing. I took a quick glance in the face-sized mirror that hung in the bathroom, but I looked the way I always do. I go to bed and wake up looking the same, with my auburn hair hanging straight without the use of a brush and my green eyes bright.

“Morning,” he said, sounding a little scruffy, and I had to admit that there was something very attractive in that. He gave me a steaming cup of coffee after that, and I settled on the faded beige couch, sipping the coffee. It wasn’t great coffee, but he’d made it for me the moment I woke up and there was something very nice about that.

Now he was busying himself in the kitchen, and I decided I would probably find out whether or not declining supper the night before had been the best move. I had a chance to look around the room.

The faded couches looked like they might have been brown once upon a time, probably generations ago. The floor was wood, but the fake stuff, and scratched where I assumed they’d moved furniture around. Besides the couch I was sitting on and an armchair that looked almost the same, the rest of the seating space was made up of over-sized bean bags and the one wall was mostly taken up by a large TV. It wasn’t hard to see what the priorities were here.

It was such a big contrast to my neat, almost pristine apartment. It looked like somebody actually lived here, which was more than I could say of my place. The few people who had been inside had felt too uncomfortable to sit down.

It was definitely a man’s place: so dirty, so untidy, so comfortable,
so normal.

This world was so far removed from mine. What would it mean for me to be high priestess? It wouldn’t just be about leading the coven. I knew that that alone would mean so much more responsibility. I would have to lead meetings, keep the witches in tow, help them when they needed it, and recruit new ones if it came down to it.

And then there was, of course, the whole marriage thing, one of the things I least looked forward to. I had not had a lot of men in my life, no experience really in dating. I had more experience in beating guys up than in kissing them, I was ashamed to say. They’d all been asking for it, but the fact that more had asked for a beating than kissing was already something that I felt needed some attention.

But besides the marriage to a stranger I probably wouldn’t love, and the responsibility which I didn’t doubt I could carry, was the fact that if I became high priestess of our coven, I would become known internationally. It meant that I would have to liaise with witches the world over. That’s probably where my husband would come from in the first place, it was hard to think a match would come out of the poor guys in our coven.

How strong was I compared to the witches of the world? If I was that much stronger than Nema, and it was unheard of, then it meant that I was that much stronger than a lot of witches. And that would not go down well. There would be witches who wouldn’t take lightly to my being stronger than them, witches who wouldn’t like being out-powered or being the lesser witch. My power wasn’t something that I could help, but it wasn’t the kind of thing other witches would like. More likely than not, it was something they wouldn’t take at all, and that’s what bothered me.

Being high priestess would make me a target. Now it was only my coven out to convert me, or, if I didn’t obey, perhaps bring me down. I could handle twelve other witches. But the witches of the world? I would have a target painted on my back wherever I went. My own coven would respect me, but the rest of them would hate me. I didn’t feel up to it, if I had to be honest. It was something I just wouldn’t be able to sacrifice. Twelve I could still handle, it was a number I could deal with.

“I’m going to let the dog in, okay?” he called from the kitchen.

“You have a dog?”

“I locked him up last night, I didn’t know if you were fine with animals.”

“I’m fine with them; they’re not usually fine with me.”

He snorted from the kitchen and I heard the click of the bolts being undone. He had a patio there, I think he’d locked the dog out for the night.

“There’s my good boy,” I heard him say before I heard the nails click-clicking on the floor.

A golden retriever bounded into the room, happy to be inside. When it saw me, it stopped in its tracks, deciding what to make of me.

Go, run and hide, I thought, but instead, the dog made strange grunting sounds and then came closer, sniffing.

“That’s strange,” Devan said, coming into the room, “he usually loves visitors.”

“Like I said, animals don’t usually love me,” I said, holding out my hand.

The dog sniffed me warily, and then decided I wasn’t a threat because it plopped down on the cool wooden floors.

“I usually have such trouble keeping him off guests,” Devan said.

I just shrugged. I was surprised by his behavior too, but not because he wasn’t being friendly. I was shocked he hadn’t bolted from the room yet. It was different from the reaction I usually got. Even Kitten didn’t let me touch her anymore.

I looked at Devan. His short dark hair stuck up comically at the back from sleeping, and he rubbed his brown eyes, looking like he was ready for round two. He had day-old stubble on his chin to complete the scruffy look. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from him.

I forced myself to look away from him when he looked at me.

“I don’t know how you wake up looking picture perfect,” he said cheerily, “I feel like Alex here,” he nodded at the golden retriever, “had slept in my mouth.”

I giggled. It was the funniest thing I had ever heard. Of course a dog would never be able to sleep in any one’s mouth, and still I knew exactly what he meant. Well sort of. It’s not like witches got morning breath either, but I’d read about it.

”Excuse me while I go take a shower,” he said and shuffled from the room.

I continued my musings. Nema was old-fashioned. Even witchery had a fashion, and it might be that witches from her generation respected power and left it alone, but witches from my generation weren’t the same. Where girls in school had trouble with each other about looks and clothes we had something similar about looks too, except that we settled it with spells. Spells to make each other ugly, less attractive to the opposite sex, less attractive over all. We all knew how to do them, and we had all learned how to reverse them.

When we got older, we cared less about looks as a way of getting noticed, and more about power. I never really struggled with pecking order, I had always been on top, but the older witches didn’t understand jealousy the way I did. It was universal, and I knew the high priestesses the world over wouldn’t have her values anymore. It was dog eat dog
out there now. Or rather, witch eat witch.

I looked at Alex. The dog had fallen asleep only a meter from my feet, something that an animal hadn’t done in ages. To be that close and then sleep in my presence was amazing. I couldn’t touch him, and I wouldn’t try, but it felt nice not to be rejected by something that knew what I was. I looked around the apartment with the dog at my feet, heard the soothing shush of the shower in the bathroom, and felt the contentment swallow me. I could do this, really do this, for a living. It felt so
warm, so comfortable, so home.