stl: atomic fireballs, 'man with the hex'
He had to laugh.
They thought he would be loyal.
He was loyal to no one, save himself. It was what had kept him alive for so many years; he knew when to stick it out and fight for his coven and when to turn tail and disappear from sight. He had learned how to protect himself under the belly of the Blood Moon with chicken feet and frog's heart. He had practiced on his own covens hexes and Voudou rituals to rip them to shreds.
It hadn't always been this way.
His love affair over a century ago had changed his allegiance.
Miss Marie, with her ample curves and heavy-as-cream accent had convinced him of his destiny: he was not a follower, but a powerful, almighty leader. By her side, studying the movements of her delicate hands, he chanted the sacred words that would conjure taties and haints and the souls of the lost and forgotten. He spent many a day in the sweltering heat of the Louisiana bayou with her, enjoying the sweet scent of cinnamon that laced her skin. He missed the ease of her laugh, the safety of her cramped cottage.
That was long ago.
She had taught him all he needed to know in order to stand alone against any clumsy oaf stupid enough to challenge him. After all, she had so much as reminded him for the better of thirty years that this was her purpose in his life-- to mold him into a soldier and king. Now, though, it was more luck and skill than magical powders and amulets that bought him free of the shackles of his latest coven. He smirked as he exited the premises.
He would be the champion of this fight soon enough.
He just had to bide his time until the pieces fell into place, until his comrades walked into their deaths like blind sheep.
It would come soon, Marie's memory assured him as he darted through the dense forest.
It would come soon.