A/n: Sorry about the wait time, I was working on some corrections to Act I, and fleshing out the plot for Act II. Expect some changes to previous chapters in the next few weeks.
This time, he was a carpenter. He lived in Scotland with his wife.
They had been fairly wealthy, and he had loved her well, but some days, he could see it in her eyes that she did not love him back. He did his best to ignore his doubts- she smiled, and laughed, and stared at him with loving eyes- but somewhere in his gut, he knew. Still, he was no less hurt when he walked in on her with another man- but he was devastated to see what the infernal couple had done to their child. The wicked dagger clanked to the ground, and he did nothing as they ran off into the night.
When the villagers found him, they assumed it was he who had done the deed- not the sweet young thing he'd brought home from the highlands. He had always been strange, prone to flights of fancy.
They called him 'witch'.
From the gallows, he stared up into the heavens, and the first thought that came to him since the sight of his daughter's corpse was also his last.
"Why have you abandoned me?"
If witches could be compared to any animal, it would definitely be cats. Some are okay, some are vicious, but all of them have a mile-wide mean streak, and all of them are totally batshit. Dame Killcutty was the same. The first weird ass thing I noticed her doing was talking to her plants, which would have been okay if they didn't hiss and writhe whenever she did. It wasn't an absent minded thing, it was a full on conversation!
The second weird thing she did was hunt. Usually she brought home small animals, like rabbits and squirrels, but occasionally she snagged a deer. The first time she brought back a bundle of rabbits, I drooled a little at the thought of some tasty stew, but she took all of them out back and buried them with her plants.
After two days, she realized I wasn't going to leave just because I was being ignored. I could see an internal argument twisting in her lips- but eventually my side won out. After some hesitation (witches hate to share their secrets) she beckoned me over and showed me how she slit their throats over the loamy soil, how she sprinkled the blood around the plants- and the little 'cantrips' she said over them to get them to grow.
This was how I learned to garden like a witch- but all I cared about was the total waste of meat. We had celery soup for dinner.
"You know" I said one night, chewing broccoli. "It's sort of strange that you're a vegetarian."
"Hm?" The crone grunted back, noisily slurping at her soup. She was not a pretty eater.
"Well, you'd think that with how much you love plants, you wouldn't want to kill and eat them…"
She set her bowl down and stared blankly at me. She gave me that stare when I said something she thought to be unbelievably stupid. I apparently said stupid things a lot. After a while, she spoke.
"I feed the plants. The plants feed me."
And that was that.
Knowing what I know now about magic, I'd have to say that I didn't learn much from Dame Killcutty. Some spells, some herbology, and some potion making, but not much. But I did learn one thing that was very important: not all witches were out there killing humans. If I hadn't intruded on Dame Killcutty, she wouldn't have tried to kill me- I don't blame her. Her little cottage didn't have any roads going to it- if I were her, I'd have assumed I was a hunter, too!
When I finally left about a week later, she gave me a huge sack.
"Herbs." She grunted, in her usual rude tone. Then she waddled back into the Cabin.
"Not much for goodbyes, I see." The sack looked curiously lumpy. I decided that I wasn't yet brave enough to put my hand inside.
The next tingle of magic I felt was in Saratoga Springs, New York. It ended up being a ghost- but luckily, my reading had me prepared- there was rock salt in my trunk, andit didn't take long for me to find accelerant at the hardware store. What my reading DIDN'T prepare me for was getting my salt circle blown apart by a ghostly breeze. It killed me twice before I could find its bones and burn them.
After that, I made…. arrangements.
The next witch I found was not as obliging as Dame Killcutty, and had been killing people for a while. I didn't bother asking for her help- she made me vomit spiders. I HATE spiders.
Still, when all was said and done (and the bitch was dead), I did find her grimoire.
"Ugh, is that human skin?" I retched, throwing it into the back beside my sack of herbs. Over the next few weeks of driving, I read through it. Most of it was stuff I wouldn't use, like gross spider-vomit curses… but I was starting to get an idea about how magic worked. It seemed to have rules of engagement, if you will.
"Spells are often about sacrifice: their ingredients are always costly to acquire, in varying ways." I read aloud, and wondered to myself as to why it sounded so familiar.
The third witch I found was a fortune teller. She didn't react well when I mentioned how I found her.
"You're a witchfinder!" She pushed away from the table and started backing away.
"Hey!" I joked "What about my fortune?"
"I ain't giving a fortune to no witchfinder!"
I leaned forward in my chair, curious.
"What's a witchfinder?"
But the room was empty, literally, empty. Every remotely personal item (including furniture) had vanished in the blink of an eye.
I guess she wasn't up for a palm reading.
And so the days passed- hunting became more of a hobby for me, slowly being shoved into the corner as I realized my true passion: collecting. I felt like a treasure hunter, catching the trails of magic and finding their centers. At first I was reckless, more interested to see what kinds of curses the 'black' witches would throw at me next. Then I noticed that each time I died, I stayed dead a little longer. I didn't really mind, in fact I barely noticed, until one day, after a particularly nasty child-eater caused my spine to twist itself to splinters, I woke up in the dark.
"Hello?" I wheezed, wondering why it was so cold. My voiced echoed, as though I were in the bathroom. I didn't bother reaching out to feel the sides around me- the way my breath reflected right back into my face told me enough about where I was.
It took me about ten deeply uncomfortable minutes to wiggle my way out of the morgue's 'meat drawer'. I found my things in the next room, labeled "Jane Doe; Personal Effects". When I got back to the motel, I noticed I'd been walking with a piece of paper tied around my big toe. I slipped it off. I squinted in the dim motel lighting. The date of death was three days ago.
It seemed that magic could kill me, given enough time.
The thought that the next place I'd wake up in was the crematorium occurred. I had no idea what would happen to me if my body was totally destroyed… or if I'd wake up next time at all.
After that, I decided to play it more safe. After that, I started to feel true fear.
Still, that didn't stop me from pursuing my curiosity across the country, and back.
I was in Vermont, chowing down on some specialty cheeses after what Sam and Dean would call a "salt and burn". Boring old ghost stuff. Not a spark of magic save the lingering whiff of death that spirits seemed to drag behind them, like a fart that follows you out of the room. Still, it had given me a chance to try out my wind-proof salt circle.
A pink hula hoop, filled with rock salt.
It had worked, but the stupid old ghost had laughed at me.
"Ha ha" I grumbled, mouth full of cheese. At least I'd got the last laugh.
It was then, sitting at the little cafe with a mouthful of cheese, that I caught the scent of something new. Something different. I turned my head, but it was already gone. A man stood on one side of the street, looking puzzled as a car honked while speeding past. It looked like someone had pushed him. Very strange.
Magic never disappeared like that. Supernatural beings couldn't stop it- it wafted out behind them, leaving a glittering trail for any who knew how to look. Magic was like energy- it could neither be created nor destroyed. It came from somewhere, and it went somewhere else- magic users were just borrowing it for a while.
This spark- it had been just a blip- like static electricity zapping your finger.
The puzzle of it itched at me for about two days before I got over it.
The second time, I actually saw the spark- I was in California, hunting a crazy Playgirl-turned-witch. She had been polishing off the competition, though I don't know why. Hugh Hefner is gross. Bobby had called it in- normally I wouldn't get caught dead in Los Angeles- though I guess that doesn't mean much, given who I am. Still, while I'd never met the guy, I owed Mr. Singer a lot.
A little girl had lost her balloon- she was crying already, reaching for the string. She was too short, and it was going too fast- the typical childhood tragedy. Then it happened. Zap! A little string of energy snapped between her groping hand and the balloon's tail, and suddenly it was in her hand. She squealed with joy, none the wiser.
"Huh." I muttered. This time I'd gotten a color from it.
White-gold
Nothing, and I mean nothing, on this earth had magic that even bordered on white. Dark colors weren't necessarily indicative of 'evil' or even 'darkness'- Dame Killcutty herself had broadcasted a bright spring green, and she was a mean old bag. Which is why it was unnerving to see white. Usually brightness meant power- like any light- but it didn't mean 'good'. How could a spark so small and fleeting have a color that bright? Shouldn't it have been weaker colored?
After a week of looking for more of these sparks, I shelved it for another day.
"Honey, you're going to need to take a break." Said a kind voice from above me. I was panting too hard to respond immediately. My torso was splayed across the dirt, with my face lying nose down in the soil. My lower half was still in the hole I'd made while climbing out of my coffin. I spat out dirt, and moaned. Whoever had spoken gave a great sigh. Two hands slotted their way under my armpits and started to drag me out.
"RRrnghh…" I growled in protest of the grating sensation. They'd thrown rocks into my hole. I felt vaguely insulted.
"Oh, hush." My tormentor chided "You and I both know it won't kill you."
I didn't have an intelligent reply for that one, so I went limp and allowed myself to be dragged the rest of the way. There was a pause as whoever had me caught their breath, and then I was heaved onto my back. The sunlight searing into my eyes after who knows how long in the dark finally ignited me into speech.
"Fuck." I grunted, struggling to cover my eyes.
"Tell me about it." Came the wry reply. I didn't bother trying to turn my head, knowing from experience that any post-mortem sudden movements might cause me to puke. The speaker made it easy by coming into my line of sight. What popped into my vision was a square, honest face. I couldn't tell much more, given that it was upside down.
"Hello." It greeted. "My name is Cassandra."
Cassandra had been hunting me for weeks, watching me. She was a witch-hunter. A hunter-witch. A witch who hunted. A hunter who witched.
She had caught my 'scent' somewhere out near Dallas, at around the same time a coven began to wreak havoc on the surrounding countryside. Cattle mutilations, blood sacrifices… it had clearly been ramping up to some seriously witchy stuff.
The way she told it, the coven's activity dropped off immediately, and then she caught my scent. She assumed I had turned on my coven and stolen their grimoires, or that a hunter had interfered with the coven and that I was the only survivor.
Whatever the case, she knew I had been involved and needed to be followed.
She watched me, unfailingly, for two weeks. I shudder to think about it. Not because it was creepy (and it was), but because I do really boring touristy stuff whenever I'm not on a hunt. Whoever this Cassandra was, she had the patience of a Komodo Dragon.
She had already made up her mind to kill me when she watched me go up the steps to what research had uncovered as another witch's house. I was clearly contacting other witches for nefarious purposes.
She crept to the house's front window to spy, see when we'd next meet and all that.
A few minutes later, and my corpse came crashing out, right over her head, but by then, she'd heard enough.
"Listen lady, you can kill me, or you can stop what you're doing, but I have to warn you, if you kill me, I'll just come back, and I won't be happy about it."
I remembered saying that, remembered staring down at the angry little psycho (Her name had been Amy- why are all Amys mousy little psychos?) staring up at me. She had been shorter than myself, which was quite a feat, and was way more sarcastic, which I'd thought nearly impossible. I realized my mistake right around the words "you can kill me" left my mouth. A few seconds later, and I was flying through the air, body writhing as a particularly nasty magical seizure squeezed the life out of me.
Amy hadn't believed me about coming back, but Cassandra had seen just enough in her life to go ahead and double check (after ganking the evil little bitch). She'd also heard enough of the conversation to realize I might not be a big bad witch, after all. It seemed a lot more like I was a reckless idiot, or just dead. So she'd come to my grave, and she had waited.
Needless to say, literally climbing out of my own grave was enough to make me start craving a vacation, and seeing someone come back from the dead was enough to make Cassandra itch to do some research.
I needed a vacation home, and Cassandra needed a lab rat. I was a chaotic, rude, and infuriating joker; she was a serious, bookish, and kind hunter-researcher. It was a match made in hell.
And that, folks, is the story of how I met my very first roommate.