Bit of a Bite

Dragon's Blood and Models

To say Annabelle’s scene from the exorcist had put her on edge would probably be the understatement of the year.

After her proclamation, the necromancer folded up like a poorly built stack of cards. Falling to the floor in a heap of skirts and pale limbs, she looked almost peaceful until you noticed the blood smeared all over her face.

Allison shook her head, drawing a heavy blanket off of the couch to drape over the woman’s pale shoulders. There wasn’t time to ponder the pangs of fear that ricocheted through her. Take care of the necromancer, bless the house, and get home.

The whole thing seemed so simple it was silly.

Until you factored in the demonic growl that had torn from Annabelle’s lips, there was nothing simple about that. She could think of very few demons remotely strong enough to possess Annabelle. And none of them had any fond emotions towards her.

So the shaking her hands as she drew herself up from tending to the exhausted necromancer were to be expected. Hell, she doubted anyone would see her as silly if she just lost it and started screaming bloody murder.

The neighbors might, her inner voice reminded her. Putting her back on track, trembling fingers and all moving to take care of business and push back the rising fear that was threatening to choke her. Focus.

The torn shirt was evidence, that was the first thing she needed to get rid of. Extracting it from the loose fingers that clutched it was the easy part—deciding what the hell to do with it after that was a bit harder. It required her to wander in Annabelle’s hole in the wall. She shuddered at the idea of finding half decomposed bodies and forced her feet to move.

Goosebumps flooded over her skin as she stepped onto the linoleum in the kitchen. Her free arm automatically reached towards the wall for the tell-tale switch that would bring some light into the room.  Just as her fingers found it, her foot bumped against something solid. She swallowed back a scream against the oppressing shadows of the room and threw the switch.

An old cauldron. Her foot had collided with an iron cast cauldron about the size of a bean bag chair complete with gold inlays all depicting savage scenes. Each engraving told a separate story, yet they wove together to form an intricate pattern. Human sacrifice, armor-clad men with snarls on their faces, heaps of bones in an empty field.

Things Allison could have gone a lifetime without seeing.

After witnessing Annabelle’s magic, she knew the cauldron and any other necromancy or witchy things she found were just for show. Something to make her more ignorant clients believe they were getting the real deal, when any self respecting magic user would think it was a big joke. Immortals and mundanes alike didn’t understand witches or necromancers very well. Not even the fey understood how the worship of deities gave them a fraction of the gods’ powers.

Oh Hell, Allison didn’t even understand it sometimes.

She just knew when she invoked one of the god’s whose mark was tattooed on her skin she felt a rush of corresponding power, amplifying what was already buried inside of her.

In the old days, many thought it meant they were a direct descendant of gods but Allison had known better. What would a god want with a mortal child? They didn’t need a legacy to leave behind, they weren’t going anywhere. Children were unruly at best, so a power play made no sense. And gods just weren’t capable of human emotion—something they believed made them stronger—so love was out of the question.

In short, she knew she wasn’t a descendent of Hecate, Selene, or the Fates that were all her goddesses to call. She was just some magical creature they took a liking to—something to help the hours of eternity pass. Something to amuse them.