25. Get Witchy
Get Witchy
G reta hissed, blood welling from the nick she’d made with her athame. She stuck her finger into her mouth, sucking on the cut, trying and failing to tune out the downpour pounding the roof of the log cabin.
“Sarciant carnes,” she whispered over the minor cut, watching the flesh stitch itself back together. Mend flesh spell remained one of her favorites. Pity, it didn’t work if supernatural means made the wound, such as a hex from a witch or the claws of a Lycan, their very existence defying natural laws.
“Do you need a hand?” Greta jumped at the kind voice coming from the doorway of the room Geralt dubbed her “chapel” after stumbling on her kneeling bare ass before her altar, arms splayed outward from her body and forehead kissing the floor. Of course, the male took advantage of her nakedness and knotted her after bringing her to two screaming orgasms.
Her cheeks heated, eyes avoiding Helen perched in the doorway. The entire pack probably heard them occasionally and with Lycan senses, Greta prayed to Hecate that Geralt’s stepmother couldn’t scent the stale musk of day’s old sex .
“I’m fine,” she mumbled, unable to look at the older she-wolf. Thunder cracked, light flashing through the window to her right from lightning. Greta blinked, clutching her healed hand to her chest. It appeared even nature raged against Geralt’s absence.
“We might lose power,” Helen said, shoes scuffing the polished wood floor as she walked further into Greta’s sacred space. Greta fought the instinctive urge to tell the female to get out. Geralt wasn’t far off referring to the room he gifted her as her “chapel.” A witch’s practice room was sacred.
A witch guarded her space religiously, preserving the natural flow of energies and dispelling disruptive ones.
“I’ll meet you outside,” Greta stated, eyes landing meaningfully on the spot Helen’s sensible shoes stood on.
“Of course. I’ve got a few of those pot pies you like in the oven,” Helen said, stepping back cautiously, smiling apologetically. Greta blinked rapidly, fighting tears. The female truly embodied motherhood, and she felt bad for insisting Helen step out.
Greta hurried from her position behind the long wooden trestle table bisecting the small room. Helen’s smile widened, a hand reaching out for Greta to take. Their fingers entwined and Greta returned Helen’s smile, letting her lead them to the kitchen.
The mouthwatering aroma of baked yeast and cooked meat lured them down the hall at the back of the packhouse. Greta appreciated Geralt’s foresight in selecting a room for her to practice her craft in the furthest from the flow of Lycans cycling in and out of the house. She couldn’t blame them, guilty of gluttoning herself on Helen’s cooking frequently.
Once they stepped into the open foyer serving as an entryway, a few feet shy of the kitchen, overlapping voices carried to them. Her jaw clenched, and she unconsciously squeezed Helen’s hand tighter. She jumped when Helen’s other hand came to rest on top of hers, cocooning her hand between both of the she-wolf’s.
Warm brown eyes speared into her, witnessing the root of Greta’s anxieties as if she’d confessed them aloud. Sympathy instead of judgement swirled in the brown pools of Helen’s eyes.
She battled tears for the second time that day. Like mother, like son, Greta thought, even though Geralt wasn’t Helen’s biological child. Both patiently allowed her to warm to them, never forcing the connection. It contradicted everything she thought she knew about Lycans from her time in the king’s palace.
Helen jerked her head toward the kitchen, silently asking if Greta still wished to proceed. Her head nodded slowly while she took a deep breath, magick swirling violently in her veins and the rain intensifying outside.
So far no one had commented on the rainstorm that erupted the same hour she learned of Geralt’s deceit. The longer the pack went without word from their Alpha, the harder the storm raged. Other than Helen and Gabriel, the other Lycans gave Greta a wide berth, and she spent most of her time in her practice room, experimenting with different spells, desperate for a solution to rescue Geralt’s daughter and secretly fearful of what would become of their relationship once she served her purpose in aiding the rescue.
Helen gently led her toward the kitchen and they both froze when silence choked the room, all eyes turning to them. Dread crept into her gut. Her hand wrenched from Helen’s and she stepped forward, ears buzzing from the increasing storm outside.
“What is it? Where’s Geralt?” Her voice shattered the quiet, and every Lycan avoided meeting her eyes.
Gabriel stepped toward her, a solemn expression on his normally stoic face. Greta was already shaking her head, magick blazing hot, begging for an outlet.
“Gunter called. He tailed them at Helen’s insistence.” Gabriel shifted his eyes to the female in question before looking Greta in the face. “There was an attack,” he was saying, but she couldn’t hear him, just the phantom screams of her sister witches.
“No,” she mumbled, staring at the Lycan without seeing him. A hand landed on her arms and she jerked away, backing away like a cornered animal.
“No,” she kept repeating, tears stinging her eyes.
“Luna!” Gabriel shouted, drawing her eyes to him then glancing around at the other Lycans suddenly watching her fall apart.
“Luna,” Gabriel repeated, edging closer, hands held up. “Gunter is on his way back. There were two groups of rogues. One attacked Geralt and his warriors, but—” He broke off, closing his eyes for a moment. She remembered his twin went with her mate.
Red eyes met hers when he snapped them back open. “He called as soon as he broke away. There’s another group headed here. For you.” Numbness spread from the center of her chest. She blinked dazedly. They’d never leave her alone, she realized, eyes darting to the window behind Gabriel and the crowd of Lycans.
Dark clouds obscured the sun, reflecting her mood. Her magick changed the moment she met Geralt, transforming into something violent and volatile. Like a Lycan , a dark voice whispered in her head.
Her mother warned her against using her emotions as fuel for power. “Nature demands balance,” her mother would chastise her when she lost control of her temper, causing the pipes in the house to burst.
Well, Hecate demands balance too , Greta thought to herself, looking each Lycan in the eye, forcing stiffness into her spine. Life and death, two dueling brothers fighting for dominance, Mother nature acting as mediator. Thunder boomed and lightning flashed again, calling to the violence in her veins.
She didn’t trust them and she owed them nothing, but this pack belongs to Geralt, her Geralt. They’d kill and die for her, a dark voice whispered to her, teasing the violence clawing for release.
“Let them come,” she said, venom lacing her words. She tired of running, of looking over her shoulder. They’d never stop until she gave them a reason to stop.
“Let them come, and let their blood feed the soil, serving as sacrifice in Hecate’s name,” she snarled, anger twisting in her gut, overriding the dread from moments before.
She tired of losing home after home, no place a permanent sanctuary. Lightning flashed again and Greta swore the room flashed red before returning to full color. She ignored it, giving Gabriel a stiff nod.
“What do we do?” she asked Gabriel, readying herself for battle.