Member-only story
The Storm Witch
The lightning hits, and there she is.
I never thought I’d see a real witch in action. Sure, I’d heard the stories — more than enough to count, especially from the accounts my father shared — but I didn’t think there would be one out in the wild, plain for the eye to see.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, and her billowing skirt and cape shifted with every touch of the wind. Yet there was no malice on her face. Her expression was oddly peaceful as she held out her hands, palms out, as if she were waiting to catch rain between her fingertips.
But my nightmares had been filled with scarred wretches, each puckered once-wound telling a history of blood turned into magic. My father had told me about the one-eyed crone whose missing fingers had been enough for him to shoot an arrow straight through her heart before she could discard another appendage for a spell.
I was supposed to be the same. The crossbow would be at the ready in a short amount of time, if only I had the will to let the arrow fly. This storm needn’t be a worry on my mind. There would be minimal damage if I acted now. I needed to act now.
But as soon as I held the crossbow up, positioned just so, I saw the witch’s eyes meet mine.
