I – Snake in the grass
'It was once said that the darkness called a gathering of virgins to give themselves to the father of sin. Each came wanting and willing to their beloved master. They harbored in the woods of France, near two days walk south of Paris. Danced with fire and drank blood from the sacrificial lamb. In the last remnants of twilight on All Soul's day the Black Coven was seeded.
From the coven three daughters were born. Three crows birthed to be a plague on mankind's pathetic reign. In their ruin many lives were lost. Children missing, men and women left in the woods tortured and disemboweled. The livestock slaughtered, missing hearts, tongues and eyes.
It took years of searching but two of the witches, Madam Maria Daniella Bennett and Regine-Yvette Doux were ultimately collected and tried for their crimes against the people and country. 37 documented counts of kidnapping. 43 documented counts of murder.
Both were burned at the stake.
The third crow, the shameless tyrant, was never captured. She was devious and impossibly cunning, fading into the shadows out of man's reach. The taste of her venom and the weight of her cruelty scorched through the land like wildfire. Yet she was never satisfied. Her hunger never fed, her thirst never quenched. She wanted more. She needed it.
In the peak of her fury, when villages were left to crumble to ash and bodies were strung on rotting trees, she vanished. There was no trace of her. Many prayed God had smite her to the ground. Others came to believe she was defeated by an angle. And some rumored the devil grew jealous of her work and stole her back to hell to be his harlot.
She disappeared, as did her legend.
As did her name.'
"Who could believe such a foolish tale," a young boy, no older than fourteen grumbled while closing the book in his hands.
"I thought boys and girls believed in fairytales." A woman remarked, drawing near to the boy. She was dressed in a dark plum dress, almost the shade of black and a grey cape that laid on top of her shoulders. Her hair was a mad fit of black curls pulled into a messy bun that sat on top of her head, accenting her bronzed face. It was a rarity to see a French woman with such dark skin. She looked like one of the slaves that spent their days outside in the fields. Tanned relatively darker than a Grecian.
She took the book from his hands and examined its cover thoughtfully. The boy scowled getting up from his seat on a fallen tree. "That is no fairytale Adalinda. That is a nightmare some old fool made to frighten little children. I am not a child, and I am not so easily frightened."
"Of course young master," Adalinda smiled, handing the book back to him.
"Do you think it to be true?" He questioned while taking the book back. He walked over to the horse tied up to a near tree and placed it in his satchel knotted to the side of the saddle, "tell me witch, had you ever met any of the crows in your travels?"
"They were executed," she stated in dark amusement.
"All but one," he corrected.
"Yes," her eyes met the boys hazel ones. "All but one."
"A shame they aren't around anymore. I'd wager two franks you could beat them," he boasted childishly. "High and mighty witches killed off like common rats. They could not withstand you. It is hard to think you all came from the same coven."
"Indeed, we are all sisters in some way," Adalinda stepped closer to the dying fire she had made hours before and kicked the loose dirt into it with her leather boot. "But every family has a prodigal child. Rats not even the father can love."
It was quiet then, except for the light rain starting to hit the branches and leaves of the forest they traveled in. Adalinda looked over at the boy considering him for a moment. Dacey was his name; a young French lad deemed an outcast to most that encountered him. When he was eight years of age he watched his mother and father murdered. Hung from an old oak for stealing the tithe from the church. The people banished the boy, naming him filth of sinners. He was forced to drag their bodies out of the village,the only thing he left with save the clothes on his back. She reminisced the time when she had found him, the pitiful state he was in.
"Boy," the twigs beneath her boot cracked as she approached. "Why are you here?"
The young child kneeling in front of the two unmarked graves turned and looked over his shoulder. He wiped his tear-stained cheek with his little dirty hand. He was a mess. His brown locks were clumped and matted to his scalp and his clothes were weathered and torn.
"What an ugly sight you are," she laughed. Her gaze lifted from him to the grounds around them, searching for any other dwellers. But the wood was quiet, not even a crying bird. "Did your parents leave you boy? Disgusted by the looks of you. I would if you were my child."
"Shut up!" He snapped, barring his teeth in anger.
The woman continued to laugh and walked closer till she was only a few steps away. Quicker than he could react she kicked him in the face, sending him into the wet mud. He cried out and laid on the ground holding his bruising cheek.
"I'd watch your tongue, unless you prefer me to cut it out," she warned and stepped over him, bringing her attention to the graves. "I rather enjoy the taste of tongue."
"You wouldn't," he shrieked in terror.
"I would and will if you do not shut your mouth," she bent down and examined the two poorly constructed stick crosses, rammed unceremoniously into the ground. "Tell me boy, who are these souls your pray for?"
"My…my," he couldn't finish as fresh tears ran down his cheeks. The obvious turmoil he displayed made it clear who was buried.
"I see."
A silence lingered between them.
Grey clouds slowly rolled in, covering the sky in darkness.
"What a shame," the woman whispered and pulled the crosses from the ground. She wrapped her hands around the sticks and snapped them in half.
"No!" The boy shouted in horror, running to her. He started hitting her side as hard as he could. "What are you doing? Have you no respect? You beast!"
Unfazed by his attack, she tossed the broken sticks on the ground and turned to look down at him.
"What is your name boy," she demanded. When he did not answer she gripped his hands mid strike and proceeded to crush them. He cried out in great pain and dropped to his knees in hopes to loosen her grip.
"Dacey! My name is Dacey."
Pleased with his response she released her hold.
"See that was not so hard, was it Dacey?"
"Why?" Dacey sobbed. "Why would you disgrace them?"
"They were already disgraced. No proper burial, not proper grave heads."
"I hate you!" Dacey spat and turned back to the graves. "You evil witch!"
"I am guilty, but it is my nature," she mused, kneeling down next to him in the wet dirt. "You should not mourn the dead. They are a lifeless feast for the worms and nothing more."
"So you admit it then. Only fitting I be plagued by the wicked. You are just like them, just as cruel," he cried. "Damn them! Damn you!"
"Yes, damn us all for our transgressions," she huffed with an indifferent tone. "All of us are sinners Dacey. The true feat is whether one can create a vice or virtue from it."
Dacey sniffed and wiped his eyes, "what?"
"I could help you, if revenge it what you seek," her voice lowered to a dark whisper, eyes darkening to coal. "What would you be willing to pay to see their ruin?"
Dacey remained silent. unsure of what she was plotting.
"What is your desire boy?"
"…I want them to hurt. I want them to suffer," he finally whispered.
"Suffer? How lovely," she grinned, taking hold of the boy. She dragged him through the dirt, and brought him into her bosom, caressing his filthy hair. "And what would you give for this to transpire? How much is their pain worth to you?"
"Everything," he closed his eyes at the warmth of her. Slowly his small arms wrapped around her waist, hugging her like he would his own mother. "What is your name witch?"
She smiled.
"Adalinda."
"Tell me, Adalinda, if they are rats what are you?" Dacey inquired while mounting his horse.
The woman grinned, pulling her hood up over her head to block the rain.
"I am the snake that eats the rats."