Witch Hunter (12 page)

His mind was made up. It was time to enforce his will. The Order would be run by his rules from now on, not Morgana’s. He would ruthlessly eliminate anyone who threatened his position, including smug Head Slaves, snooping fat-bummed journalists, even High Priestesses if it came to it. The witch had to be brought to heel. It was time for her to give in to him. He would take his pleasure at last, and thereafter whenever he wanted to. He knew he could not kill her, but then he was also shrewd enough to have gathered that Morgana was for some reason tied to the estate, and apparently unable to move away. This is why she had brought him here and made him stay under such a cloak of secrecy. He could move the entire coven to a different location, leaving her behind, but he feared she had spells in place to prevent this happening. He had, however, one more ace up his sleeve, and if the witch was not willing to give herself up to him then he was just about ready to play it. If he could not kill Morgana, or move her coven away from her, then the only alternative was to take her home away. He could do as he wished with the coven once the witch had her power base ripped from underneath her. And it just so happened that he knew of a very good way to do this.

Morgana slowly sucked the first two fingers of her left hand and then eased them deep into her warm sex. Her mind was full of the journalist girl. She knew she was The One. She had spied on her from afar before she had turned up for the first class but she hadn’t realised just how similar she was to the one great love of her life. The hair was different and this new girl carried a little extra weight, but the face was almost identical. They could have been twins. They
must
have been twins. Only they couldn’t be, because her previous lover had died of consumption nearly a century and a half before.

The sooner she could get this girl close to her the better. She knew
he
was after outsiders for sacrifice. His attention to the details of the legends seemed pathological. Either that or he was just using the legends as an excuse to vent his more disturbing carnal desires. While she needed to build, he was seemingly more intent on destroying what they had. It was as though he knew that the more girls she controlled, the more her power intensified and the less she would need him. He wanted girls to be ripped and torn by the others. He wanted a fast turnover, some variety. He wanted the fear of him to fuel their lusts. He offered outsiders as their reward, thinking this would bring them closer to him.

She often cursed herself for seeking him out in the first place. However, magic was seldom done by pointing wands or wiggling your nose. Some took a huge amount of resources and time. Many situations were only served by using hard cash, and he was able to provide that. It was not the first time in her long history that she had needed to seek external help. Her coven always needed a god, such was the love of cock she herself had to fill them with. It was complex, but she was a being of pure lust, and so were her followers. Orgies could not survive on cunnies alone. Pricks were needed too. Unfortunately that meant serving a god who put himself first, even above her. These gods never quite understood that essentially they were only there to aid her continued existence.

She took her fingers from her quim and sucked at the juice. She never tired of her own taste. How could she, when she had given herself such sweet nectar? Her girls thirsted for it. They would jump into fire for one more taste. Of course
he
was always after it too. He wanted all of her, all of the time, and she didn’t help by pouring her libido-strengthening elixir of John the Conqueror root into his ear whenever he slept. However, she needed to keep him focused and sometimes potions were the best way, especially now he seemed increasingly intent on breaching the arses of his slaves rather than any of the delightful quims on offer.

A delicate balance existed between Priestess and God. They needed each other but their motives were intrinsically different. He was desperate to fuck her. At times it seemed like his life depended on it. Hers actually
did
depend on refusing it. Many times she had resorted to spells to prevent him raping her. One time she had forgotten to paint on her third eye before she slept and had woken just in time to see him between her thighs, his great prick about to descend. She was only just able to transform it into the helpless, tiny appendage of an infant before it slapped harmlessly against her. Of course she turned it back once the danger was averted. He never seemed to begrudge her using these powers. It just made him more determined to have her.

He didn’t realise that to fuck her was to kill her. Only she knew that as soon as any man breached her
cunnus
to the hilt all her powers would be transferred to him. She would lose everything and he would gain it all. Her immortality would be immediately lost and since she was so ancient she would wither and turn to dust on the spot. The spirit of Paculla Annia would leave her, to be reborn in another place, within another person. She, Morgana, would be no more. The soul she carried would continue, but she would know nothing of it, condemned instead to everlasting darkness.

Before the High Priestess died, over two millennia ago, she had laid this curse. This greatest female paragon of decadence, the woman who had allowed men into her private circle to share in her banquets of debauchery, suddenly found how thankless males could be. They were jealous of her power and wanted her dethroned. Under a guise of being fearful of the rise of female influence in politics, men embarked on history’s first recorded witch hunt, and High Priestess Paculla Annia was their target. When finally seized, she was tortured and raped by a series of those very politicians who claimed her sins were the worst evil. Before she expired she swore to return to haunt them. She would live once more to mock their hypocrisy by encouraging ever greater sin. She vowed never to let any flesh cock inside her again, and mankind would be driven mad by being robbed of this exquisite pleasure.

Morgana carried this soul, born inside her along with the secrets and knowledge of magic that the High Priestess had died with. She would go on living in whatever guise she chose for herself, as long as she never betrayed the soul of Paculla Annia and let a male inside her. It proved hard. As much as she adored female flesh, temptation often threatened to overwhelm her. His was one of the hardest to refuse, not that she would ever tell him that. He thought she just refused him because she was a stick-in-the-mud lesbian, and he was determined to break her. Of course, if he knew he would get all her power if he succeeded, he would never rest for a second until he had done so.

At least he accepted her abilities without question. Most thought her deranged. A local doctor had once tried to get her sectioned, but look where that had got him. The consensus was that her pagan practices were spawned by nothing more than an excess of drink and drugs, which fuelled her inherent wickedness and nymphomania. Many scoffed at her claims to have lived for so long. They would exclaim with incredulity, ‘But we knew your mother, God rest her tortured soul! We brought the fresh towels to your cottage the day you were born! You used to go to school with our children! You would steal the sandwich from their lunchbox and replace it with a frog from the village pond, and then say you had magicked the sandwich into the frog! We were with your mother the day you drove her to madness – the day you were expelled for pulling Tilly Cartwright’s knickers down in class because she said you had burned her cat!’

She just laughed at them. They knew none of this. It was all a fabrication she had planted in their minds. They didn’t understand the powers she had to make them believe whatever she wanted them to. Sure, she didn’t quite understand them herself, and couldn’t remember casting most of these memory-warping spells. And true, her memories of her long existence were now clouded and sometimes seemed more like dreams than reality. However, clearly the
soul
within her fully understood all of its powers and it made sure all the intricacies were covered on her behalf, by magic.
It
clearly acted for her, ensuring certain realities never came to light. The soul of the dead Priestess didn’t want them knowing the truth. It didn’t want another witch hunt.

A few locals took her for what she was. Despite the scoffing, a couple of the old farmers still paid her good money for the spells she cast to ensure a good yield. Once upon a time the girls of the village would come to her for potions to rid themselves of anything from colds to big feet. They would beg her for spells to cast over the good-looking lads in the hope of getting them up the aisle. There were plenty of them, now in old age, that she had taken sexual favours from half a century before. If they wanted her potions she would make them bare their backsides and bend over to take her fingers. If they came in twos for protection she would make them strip their knickers and rub their cunnies together before she handed anything over.

All of these had forgotten this now, or claimed to have. They were the ones who denounced her the loudest. They said she was a deranged fantasist, a deviant with evil at her core, a siren who tried to lure innocent girls onto her sinful rocks. She was a pervert, they said. She caused babies to be stillborn and put dead rats in people’s drainpipes. When they woke to find their garden blooms all withered and brown, it wasn’t the unexpected frost, it was
her
, drinking evil potions and urinating upon their flower beds. To think she had once given these women their first orgasms.

Of course, while they aged she stayed young, and there were other generations that had their first kisses with her, felt her fingers inside their virgin quims. But now the girls were fewer. The new influx was of rich executive types with either very young families or kids that had grown and gone. The incomers didn’t know of her. No one cared for the old tales or knew the traditions of the village. No one sought her out to hear if the whispers were true. So the money that used to pour in had all but gone too. When she had enlisted
his
help, she had by necessity bowed to his wish for girls only in her own image. This had cost her most of her already scant coven. She was forced to start almost from scratch.

The new girls came from far and wide. They were goths and Satanists of a new tradition, hedonists and thrill-seekers who cared nothing for morals or reputation. He found them for her through clubs and contact websites. However, he didn’t realise that powers were diluted the further you went from home. She was tied to this village, to this cottage where she was born. She could stray, even for a few years, but her strength would dramatically wane. Last time she had gone for too long her lover had died in her arms coughing up blood, and there was nothing she could do to prevent it. No matter what threats she faced, she
had
to stay at the cottage, the source of her power. She had to surround herself with local girls, to lure them in and breed the magic.

She was one of the few who realised that magic was a living force. Some, like her, could even hear the constant buzz of it as it whipped and swirled around the ether, rushing into the bodies of the believers. The more believers, the faster it swirled around them and the more power it generated. The magic moved easier around the bodies of the locals because they were born emitting the same resonance. Whether we know it or not, all of us are tuned in to the individual forces of magic and nature that swirl around our home. In compact areas, like villages, this expands to encompass every dwelling, every street and wood and field within its boundary. In towns and cities it becomes ever weaker, mainly because there are so many outsiders not tuned in to the same resonance. If you stay long enough, you will eventually subconsciously tune in. Homesickness is caused by the conflicting magic of a new place. That indefinable comfort you get whenever you return home is actually the feel of the magic you are naturally tuned into, re-entering your body.

Some, like her, knew how to be one with nature and utilise the powers of the magic. However, she also knew she was tied to it at its source. Her home was under threat so she was beholden to
him
and his ill-gotten wealth. That weird-eyed, fuck-loving devil who liked boys ever more each day and wanted to rip apart the fat-bummed local girls. Without her home she was lost. If she could not surround herself with the same girls, her power would diminish. The new ones took ages to train and to tune in.

Bit by bit he was draining her strength, prising her fingers from their grip on supremacy. She could not act boldly against him because if he was removed, or forced to act in bitter revenge, he had ways to ensure the dreaded road might yet be built and she would find herself evicted. Her home would be gone for ever, buried beneath four lanes of tarmac. She would be finished. There was no spell great enough to defeat the power of greed in the guise of progress.

Mimi was her last chance. Not only was she the image of her last love, but she had been born there too. The timbre of the magic between them was
exact
. She had felt it the moment the girl stepped into her class. It was stronger still when she stroked her big bottom through those tight jeans. She could feed off that magic. It would make her instantly stronger. The closer she was to this girl, the greater the power she would gain, just as it had been with her last great love. With her she might be able to ride out the storm and then start again. Forming a spell to draw Mimi in was therefore paramount.

She had already pulped the damiana leaves with the deer’s tongue. She had burned the photo she had found and crumbled the ashes into the pestle to blend it into the mixture. She took her two fingers from inside her and saw that she was ready. She put her sticky fingers into the pestle so that the mixture coated them. She scooped out more and held herself open with her other hand so she could plunge them back in and get the mixture deep inside her. She stirred the fingers around and whispered the girl’s name. She took the cut ginger stem and wiped it six times across the hood of her swollen sex, so that it might burn hard whilst she rubbed herself. This was to represent the passion she intended to visit upon the girl whose name she still whispered through her gasps.