Chapter 3
MERCY
The sun drops low on the horizon, casting the fields in hues of oranges and gold as I weave through the cornstalks, hands full of tokens to prepare my altar.
To the west, the scarecrow looms, raised and crucified, each part of him arranged with purpose from the straw in its chest to the gourd on its head.
All lovingly and adoringly grown and selected. A guardian.
I step into the clearing, heels bare, no barbaric barrier between nature and my flesh.
A large, circular chunk of Sacred Ash near as high as my hip, roughly hewn by my own hands, calls out as a beacon for the Olde Gods to turn and see.
Runes carved into the edges drip crimson with the same blood I used to mark the village, binding my power, expanding the scope of run my dark avenger will have.
I have no plans to keep him leashed for long, and this ensures his protection beyond this land.
Underfoot, stalks of corn are bent and neatly laid, a thatch work of woven crops in a perfect circle.
My grimoire sits closed upon the Ash, patiently waiting for my silent command as I set out the offerings, bits of hair and teeth and bone and sweat gathered from those who will serve as sacrifice tonight.
A gift to the Dvergar, bastions of balanced nature our Kindred hold in reverence, each offering finding a home to the Noreri, Sueri, Austri and Vestri. And in the center of them all, a skull.
Charred in places, pocked with the passing of time, but reverently prepared with carved staves and bind runes, blessed with meadowsweet and moon water.
Crows caw as they circle overhead in the fading light, dark omens to the good people of Harrow's End, but I see them for what they are—watchers. Protectors.
And by Odin's eye, they carry my prayers beyond, bear witness with their hungry orbs, endless depths that devour the world.
Feathers glint blue in the dusk, powerful wings spread wide as they sing their blessing from the realms beyond.
I smile as I turn back to the altar, secure that my path is sanctioned.
Justified. The air charges around me, prickling at my flesh, raising it to meet the thrum of power blanketing my Cast.
My heart beats heavily in my chest, nature’s first, perfect rhythm, a steady gallop reverberating in my ears as my hands splay wide over the Ash wood, collecting wind and flame and earth and water from the air.
Through my tunneling vision in the dying light I see the wisps of magic humming around us, seeds planted, seeds sown.
I grasp for the intangible tether with my hands, with the hands of my mother, Asta, and my mother's mother, Sigrid, and back and back, the threads of my ancestry woven into the bones and sinew and blood that flows through my veins.
I am their power as they are mine, and blood of my blood I call on them to wield the power of my birthright.
Violent winds erupt around me, sending spirals of my orange curls twisting like vines around my throat, my face, across my chest and yet I persist. I command.
And it comes.
In sweeping waves, the gusts berate against the Ash wood altar, against my body, against the crops in the fields.
The stalks of corn sway in rolling lulls, and I hear the crack and sway as this harvest so lovingly planted offers up its vitality in sacrifice.
Green pales to gray, the yellow cobs leeched white with pocks of green and black as the yield rots.
My hands move, twining through the air, guiding the flow of energy as the night rises, the moon above bright and brilliant.
My mouth moves, tongue over teeth, incantations of intention falling past starved lips, spoken in a rasp of the Olde tongue.
The crows circle lower, cutting through the moonlight as specters, thinning the veil with every pass of their watchful gaze.
The veil is thinnest here on this night, in this place.
Ribbons of the cosmos bend and twine around my hands, every crook of my finger a looped knot in the loom of my design.
My heart beats harder, louder, nearly frantic with anticipation as I open myself to receive, the elements caressing against my body.
My hands fling high. The flames of the lit candles stretch higher still as the earth and air offer their power from the decaying crops.
I funnel it all into the charred skull, see it settle over the proud curve of the brow bone, seeking and searching for entrance to the porous mineral.
It takes purchase in a slow embrace, the shimmer of the air reflecting the light from the moon as it coils tighter, constricting the skull in a racing fury, faster and harder and—
The first crack is loud. The second, more of a shatter as the weight of my intention reduces the skull to dust, a return to nothingness.
My eyes raise higher still, following the rapidly spinning specks in the swell of magic and mayhem.
A circle of red encapsulates the Blood Moon, the equinox rising in a cycle unbroken, unbent, unbowed by the will of man.
I feel it in my toes, the tingles rising past my ankles, my body a conduit for the earth, and at once I am both Caster and vessel, power and nature.
My vision tunnels as the dust of bone twists higher, the flames of the candles overburnt as wax melts in puddles, and the brittle pages of my grimoire rattle. It pools in my gut, like a stone, warm and heavy and grounding, but I feel the moment of release.
Welcome it.
Head thrown to the sky, I open my mouth on a battle cry loud enough for Mother Freya to hear.
It shakes my bones as it claws up my throat, ravishes my tongue, explodes into the night.
My vision whitens as the climbing dust bursts, falling in fractures of light all around me.
Flames scorch themselves out at once, plunging the space into quiet darkness.
My body bends forward, arms dropping, dead weights as I collapse against the altar with a heaving chest. My lungs work to draw breath, the scent of smoke and burnt wick clouding my senses.
I try to steady myself, to orient my body on the come down of untested, hybrid magic.
I am still panting against the altar, head bent, when I hear it first.
The snap.
My body stiffens and I slowly push myself to rights.
The light of the moon shines pale over the altar, the roiling smoke from snuffed wicks hazing the air.
My body feels the darkness first, the potency enough to raise the hair on the back of my neck.
I turn, slowly, eyes scanning over the cornstalks, blood rushing under my skin.
The night stills, but I cannot stop the pounding of my heart, the panting breaths that fall against the shadows as my animalistic instincts warn me of the danger I am in.
I turn on my heels, scanning what I can of the horizon.
There are no more sounds save for mine—even the crows have fallen silent.
There are eyes on me.
They burn against my flesh, send a shiver down my spine, and though I cannot see them, I feel them.
Shadows creep over the dead crops, twisting tendrils that reach for me, lift a lock of my hair, twirling it in inky fingers and from the depths, I hear a rasp of a voice, spoken against the shell of my ear.
"Run, Witchling."
I do not hesitate. My body lurches, crashing through the wasteland of the west field, too loud to hide, but self-preservation demands I keep moving.
I twist, losing my orientation, pushing deeper into the maze, unsure if the Aegishjalmur branded on the inside of my thigh is enough to keep me protected from what comes.
I feel it everywhere, a barely there caress over my arm, in the stinging swats of the husks as I thrash through the rows.
I go still, listening hard for the rustle of leaves, the crunch of twigs snapping, but instead, my eyes are drawn to the now abandoned post of the watcher.
There is a ravenous growl, and then I am moving once more, tearing through the field as a terror of my wildest dreams hunts me. I can hear him now, footfalls heavy, power inching out closer and closer to mine, reaching for me, the Caster who summoned a soul from beyond the Veil.
With every step, it gains. A heady surge of excitement and terror fuel my flight, the thrill of it all nearly too much as a large body crashes against my back.
I cry out as hands, more talon than man, scrape against the exposed flesh of my neck, arms rigid and iron as I am pressed against the hard planes of a solid chest.
"Witchling..." the voice grunts, thick with disuse.
I remain caged against him, my dark avenger, made by my own hands, imbued with my power.
He towers above, and when his fingers find the column of my throat, I arch against his chest, stare up into eyes that burn hot as coals.
From the face I carved into the pumpkin, flames burn from within, warming his body, scorching mine in all places our flesh meets.
The gash of his mouth twists, a jagged, rakish smile gracing the reanimated body of Silas Cohen.
He regards me curiously, searching my face, and my soul settles, my body going lax in his strong arms.
"Silas," I whisper, voice catching as the hand not gripping my throat roams, gathering up the folds of my skirts, exposing me bare to the chill of the air.
Every caress leaves fire in the wake of his touch.
His own throat works, struggling in this form to create words, but I can feel his need pressed against my lower back, the tension in his coiled muscles.
His mind and body are at war with one another, but I have no want for restraint, not when his hand slips between my drenched thighs, and he cups me with a primal groan.
A whimper escapes my lips, and in a breath he is on me, hands dragging us both to the ground until my knees press to damp earth.
I fall forward, catching myself on my palms, his knees bracketing the outside of mine, hands finding my waist as he flips my body beneath his.
There are leaves and dirt and magic in my hair, but he towers over me, eyes burning.
Desperate to feel him, my hands reach for the clasp on his breeches, nails scraping against newly solidifying skin as his body works to draw enough power to stay solid.
One of his large palms pushes my thighs open, pinning a knee to the ground.
Dead stalks poke into my back and arms, but Silas lords above me, drenched in my magic, stroking the gourd I selected to represent his cock.
His abdomen heaves, the muscles well defined as he straddles the line of this realm and the Veil, but the space between us is too great.
I claw against his flesh, nails scraping new skin in shallow lashes, marking it as mine.
Marking him, as mine.
A drizzle of liquid slips past his maw, coating and slicking me.
It is warm and sweet smelling, and I gasp as he rubs his long head through it, smearing a mess over my most tender parts.
His body crowds mine and in a slow, measured thrust, I welcome him inside, consecrating his transformation in the cradle of my thighs.
I cry out at the intrusion, shaking and stunned, relishing in the feel of him as he fills me on every rock of his hips, long and deep.
We moan together, his cock stretching me to the very limits of what I can take, but I hold him closer.
My hands rip at the fabric of his shirt as his hips grind deeper, desperate for there to be nothing left between us.
His new skin is unmarred, save for the bind rune of my Cast seared against his chest, and I latch onto it, pressing my palm flat.
He hisses, his movements growing erratic, and Gods, with every drag of him inside of me I have never been more pleased with a harvest yield.
My eyes fall to the space between us, and it is beautiful, even as it forms, the yellow skin of the gourd covered at the root of him as his flesh returns.
Primal grunts spill from his torn mouth, the heat of his flaming eyes warming my face as he grabs my hips, rutting me onto him with an untamed wildness that sets me ablaze.
With every powerful thrust, the familiarity between us returns, bodies reconnecting souls never meant to be untwined.
Silas shifts onto his knees, positioning my hips higher, cupping my bottom to slide me up and down his length.
The pleasure is world shattering, body breaking and just the barest pressure from the pads of his fingertips over my core has me singing my joy into the night, squeezing his shaft with every clench of my walls.
A curse falls from his lips as I cry out his name, loud enough to shake the skies, to rattle them and raise the entire village, but I cannot care.
Silas is man in all but head as he comes deep inside of me, his body shuddering and rocking, the roar beastly.
I stare up in awe, watch the tilt of his pumpkin head as he admires the space we are joined, both of our chests rising and falling with exertion, dripping with sweat.
He reaches down, bending over my body once more to cup my face gently, reverently, but makes no effort to free himself from where I hold him inside.
Instead, his fingers turn my head slowly, searching for signs of harm.
Now that the baser urges have been satiated, his body and mind should settle enough to complete the tasks at hand.
"Witchling?" he asks, voice more even and stable as his wits return to him.
"Yes, my love?"
"Why in the Hells do I have a pumpkin for a head?"