Chapter 11
SILAS
"Well, I am not cleaning this up, Witchling," I mutter, hands on my hips as we take in the carnage of the room.
Blood spreads deep and crimson across the floor, pooling and staining the wood grain.
There are bits of the Reverend hanging from the rafters, strips of torn flesh slapped across the pulpit, bone fragments littering the dais.
His heart sits, unbeating and spent on the altar Mercy and I only recently raised ourselves from.
"Yes, well, he deserved it," she mutters, fixing her skirts.
Digging inside the fabric, she produces a long hair pin and works her tresses into a coiled knot on the back of her nape.
Her fair skin is streaked with bloody handprints, painted caresses over her cheek, her throat.
She follows my gaze, lips turning up in a frown at the state of her.
"Hells, we cannot waltz through town this way.
Come, there is a well near the parsonage," she sighs, and I chuckle as I reach for her extended hand, let her lead us to the back of the church.
The night air is cool against my wet flesh, and I shed my body free of my ruined shirt, using it to swipe away at what little it can soak.
Mercy drops a wooden bucket in the well, the splash echoing, but she remains unbothered.
I feel the seep of her Cast even in this land.
"Townsfolk weighted under sleep?" I ask, moving her gently out of the way to haul up the bucket.
"For a while longer," she glances up at the moon as I set the sloshing, frigid water between us.
The red aura fades quicker with each passing moment, the dwindling Cast a concern if we wish to make a clean break.
Bending, I reach under her skirts, gripping and wrenching the under fabric until a thick strip tears free.
I dip it in the frigid water before standing once more.
She smiles as I wipe away the residue drying on her skin, lets me wash her beneath the waning power of the Blood Moon.
"The bodies?" I ask, wringing out the torn fabric before dunking it again. The blood washes out, staining the water a faint pink as I straighten, run the cloth over her brow.
"The earth will swallow them, what the crows have not feasted on.
We will burn the fields, as we will burn the church.
I have worked a weave to plant memory of each being called to here by the Reverend for the members of the households, and the entire town will recall seeing the lightning of a storm strike the steeple.
" There is no hesitation in her voice, and she beams up at me, once cleansed of that monster's foul remains.
She takes the cloth from my hands and begins to work the fabric against my skin but I am besotted in the muck, so the water does little as it trickles weakly against the grime.
Quick as a breath, she bends, lifting the bucket to toss over me with a laugh.
I gape, scrubbing a hand down my face, blinking at her through narrowed eyes.
"You are going to answer for that, Witchling."
Mercy shakes her head, scrunching her nose as she slowly backs away from me, "I fear that I will not, dear Silas.
" Her grin is teasing, cheeky and tempting and every step she takes away from me wrenches my body into movement.
I advance on her, shaking out my hair like a dog, sending droplets flying around us.
"Silas!" she shrieks as I rush her, bending low to scoop her around the waist. I haul her flailing body over my shoulder with ease. "Put me down!" she demands, fists banging against my back, but I only swing my hand up, clapping her right on her plump arse.
"No," I growl, marching us past the front of the church.
The moon is more subdued now, the sky lightening from midnight to a lighter blue hue.
My fingers fly out, flames arcing through the night, catching on the dried wood of the roof.
I do not stop to ensure it catches—it will.
The flames are cleansing, indiscriminate as it eats, erupting to a roar behind us.
Reaching up, I maneuver Mercy around to cradle in my arms. Her hands circle my neck, body pressed against my wet torso.
My feet carry us on the road from whence we came, while shouts and screams of the fire brigade echo into the night.
We leave the village of Harrow's End behind.
"Back to the fields?" I ask and she nods, nuzzling closer to the crook of my neck.
Her head rests on my chest, and she hums, content to feel my heart thumping strong and vividly.
Her fingers scratch against my scalp, twining through the hair at the nape of my neck, and I let her touch her fill, knowing now how precious the sensation is.
Too many turns as immortals left me without a healthy fear of what a life without her would be, and I intend to never let that happen again.
The main house is still quiet as we pass though the Hawthorne property, smoke rising on the purpling horizon of the village.
I set her down at the edge of the fields and she bolts, slipping through the stalks as the sky grows lighter still.
I hear her movements, and my senses attune to her, the chase instinctual.
The sound of her heart racing pulls me closer, the smell of blood soaking into the earth thick but when we break into the circle of felled crops, there are no remains near the Ash wood altar.
Only her grimoire, protected by the flames of candles burning low.
The chalice of water is cracked, water dried at the completion of the Cast.
I chase her to the altar, pressing her front against it, and like the sweetest treasure, she arches back to me.
"Still hungry?" she purrs, tossing a smoldering look over her shoulder and my body, always so close to the edge for her, responds.
"Yes, you are," she gasps, feeling the hard length stab against her.
My hands travel up the sides of her, fingers slipping under the hem of her dress, the silky smooth skin so soft and warm.
She relaxes back against me, head tilted to the sky as I play with her nipples, rubbing and teasing, plucking with measured pressure.
She gasps on a cry and I swallow that too, kissing her with all of me.
I let our tongues explore, pushing the taste of her sweet cunt into her mouth.
The crows interrupted earlier, but now, I intend to take my time.
"Grab the altar," I rasp against her lips, pulling my hands free from her breasts.
My palm presses to the middle of her back, gently guiding with a firm hand until she rests against the wood.
She hums, staring at me with a cheek lain over the pages of her grimoire, smiles as I push up her skirts and lift her leg to rest there as well.
Mercy gasps as the cool air hits her and she is divinity, like this.
Dripping with me, thighs are streaked with blood of her offering, remnants of my lust left in coin sized bruises over her thighs.
I trace my fingers over the globes of her arse, full and soft, kneading the flesh until she moans and drips.
She hides nothing from me, exposed and writhing with the wind cooling her heated flesh.
"Please," she whimpers, and it is sweet music to my ears.
"I love to hear that silver tongue beg, Witchling," I murmur, blanketing her back to press a kiss to her shoulder.
Her hands brace over rough wood, and it takes nothing for me to free my hard length as I seek out her lips, so plush and wicked.
Both of us cry out as I sink my aching cock into her warmth and it feels like the first time, every time.
Breath stalls, then leaves my lungs as my body acclimates to hers.
Inch by inch, I feed her with a punch of my hips.
I still, holding myself above her, thighs pressed tight to her backside as she swallows me.
"Perfection, the way you take me, Mercy.
" My body thrums, vibrating with unrestrained energy that coils like serpents between us, inviting and claiming.
"Missed this. Missed y-you," she moans. I collar her throat, drag my lips down the slender, delicate column of her neck.
She squeezes around my length when I suck on the tender flesh beneath her pulse point, laving my tongue, licking sweat from flesh.
Her eyes fly open, body twisting to an impossible angle that sends me deeper inside her tight channel.
"Shame we lost the head," she pants, gripping my wrist, holding me tighter against her as a beautiful blush stains her cheeks.
I slow my thrusts, stall my hips, gazing down at her quizzically.
"What?"
Her shoulders lift, tongue pressing against the inside of her cheek, "It was.
..intriguing," she admits. My cock throbs inside her, both of our bodies demanding I move, but she has the prettiest color creeping down her chest from her confession.
What my Witchling wants, I provide. I let my eyes flutter shut, summoning the flames, and when I open them again, I see the gourd and flaming maw reflected in her wide eyes.
She tightens to a vice, a surge of warmth flooding from her that drips from between us, slicking her thighs.
"This is working for you?" I bark on a laugh and she shoots me a wicked grin, rotates her hips in teasing lilts.
“Yes. Keep the head.”
I grip her waist, bending her body across the altar, and she holds on tight as I pound into her, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh punctuated by her moans.
I do not relent as she writhes and runs, she knows the words that will stop it all, yet she does not utter them, just arches her head to the sky and allows me to give her everything.
Flames roar around us, jumping from the candles impossibly high, the power between us whipping into a vortex of wind and flame.
Sparks fly, catching on the brittle husks, spreading in sweeping arcs, as consuming as our love.
Beneath us, even the Ash wood burns, but the thin pages of her bound tome remain unblemished, as do we.
I pour into her over, and over, needing no rest or respite from the pleasure, from the depths of her body and soul.
"Silas!" she cries as my fingers slide over her hip, delve between the soaked folds of her softness, circling that space that makes her scream.
Her name falls from my lips, a prayer older than this land as we burn together, the moon falling to make way for the sun, consumed by one another until nothing lingers in this field but ash and smoke.