Witch's Blade

WORD COUNT: 7,700

Please enjoy my story. I enjoy comments of both praise (if you liked it) and constructive criticism (if you didn't.) Let me know what worked and what I can do better. Please be entertained!

Eric Hensley sat at a table at Starbucks and observed the people around him. Steam curled up from his coffee. He hazarded a sip and scorched his mouth. He put the cup down and waited patiently for a more appropriate temperature.

"You shoulda gotten something iced," James Whitlock said from across the small table.

"If I want iced, I can open the windows while I'm driving," Hensley said. Whitlock barked a laugh. It wasn't that cold just yet but Hensley was from the South and used to warmer weather.

The air had turned with the leaves and while sunlight still poured down for the majority of the day, it was getting dark earlier. Autumn crisp sharpened the air. The turning of the season made Hensley think about the various climates he'd experienced. There was something pure about the green changing to brilliant reds, oranges, yellows and browns. It beat the non-color of the deserts and mountains he'd experienced overseas.

The two men, both in their 30s and tall and handsome in a quiet brooding way, sat in the corner of the Starbucks on 5th and Allison St. It was busy but both tables adjacent to them were empty. The other customers gave their corner a wide berth. The men sat comfortably with each other, sticking out from the college students with their brightly colored bags and clothes and MacBooks and the intellectual artsy types constantly amending their novels and screenplays.

Whitlock's eyes flicked over Hensley's shoulder toward the door. Hensley glanced backward and took the lead.

"On your feet," he said to Whitlock. Both men stood and turned, squaring their broad shoulders and smiling politely at the two women headed toward them. Neither man extended a hand out of courtesy. Physical contact was not always welcome and they erred on the side of distance and respect.

"I don't need to ask if you are whom I spoke with earlier," one of women said, taking off her mask as she sat, "Your auras are unique here."

Hensley grunted. Auras or not, both men stunk of military even to the untrained eye. They were tall, athletic, and moved with a physical grace that came with being supremely confident of what their bodies could do. And Whitlock had USMC tattoos all over his forearms and curling up his neck above the collar of his shirt. And also the buzzcuts didn't help.

"How we look is secondary to our abilities, ma'am," Whitlock said, half-bowing.

"You shall refer to me as Mistress Freya or Mistress," she said. Hensley was glad it was Whitlock with him. Other men may have bristled at such curtness but Whitlock was a pro and simply nodded at the directive. The title wasn't the worst one they had been requested to use.

"Of course, Mistress. Forgive me."

He, Whitlock, would frown at Hensley later for missing something so important and that would be enough. Hensley fucked up and knew it. 15 seconds into the conversation and he already showed his ass.

"I accept responsibility for the mistake," Hensley said to the two women, "It is my error of omission when we discussed the event."

"It is nice you both apologize so quickly and with sincerity. That helps me believe you'll take this as seriously as it must be taken," Mistress Freya replied.

The two men nodded and Hensley gestured at the table inviting everyone to sit. All four took their seats. Hensley a moment to size them up.

The older woman, Mistress Freya, was tall with dark hair and dark eyes. She wore all black; black denim pants over black suede boots, and a black long-sleeve shirt. Her hair was up in a severe bun and she had any number of decorations and jewelry on her. Her fingers bore the weight of several rings and she had some sort of complicated necklace setup focusing on a blood-red gemstone in the middle. She was attractive in that she brimmed with confidence.

The other one was a complete knockout. Her thick red hair was worked into a French braid that hung most of the way down her back and she had one of the most engaging smiles Hensley had ever seen. Straight white teeth shown at him, dimples curled at him, and her soft, smooth skin glowed with good health. Her green eyes glittered with merriment and she unabashedly ogled both men. She was obviously enjoying the view.

Hensley smiled at her, reserving himself and attempting not to flirt.

"And you must be Mistress Ignace? Did I say that right?"

She laughed and waved her hand, "Oh, I'm not a Mistress just yet. And Ignace, yes. That's plain little me."

Hensley saw Whitlock lean back and grin. Whitlock, the most disciplined contractor on the team, was responding like a horny college kid at a frat party. It didn't help that Ignace had a low-cut bright green top, scooping deep in the middle to reveal plenty of cleavage. Her jeans would take effort to peel off as tight as they were. The hint of midriff, that flash of skin between the shirt and belt, completed the picture. Ignace was stunning, no doubt about it. An image popped into Hensley's mind, a shot of him easing her jeans down her lean legs.

Hensley wasn't one for idle fantasies and briefly wondered what magic this was to put that image in his head. He was suddenly angry at himself for thinking that word: magic. He wouldn't allow some LARPing fantasy role-playing group to impact him like this.

"Let us begin," Freya started, "As discussed, though apparently one of you was left out of the conversation, we have our event this Saturday evening. We are on private property about 90 minutes from here via highway. It starts in the evening and we'll expect to be there until well after 2:00 am. At that point, we'll finish conducting services and you two will have completed the contract."

"Forgive my ignorance, Mistress," Whitlock said, "But our discussion," here he nodded to Hensley, "generated questions about our role for your event. May I ask what concerns you have and why you feel you need us?"

Freya fixed him with a glare.

"Have you not noticed the currently political and social climate these days? Anything seen as fringe will draw undue attention. Potentially harmful, even. We cannot let any violence or disturbance come to our coven."

Coven

"So, you're witches, then?" Hensley asked, "You can confirm this?"

"You two are grown men," Ignace said, all butter and honey, "And do grown men believe in witches?"

"We are serious in our business. And if a thing is true, we accept it as true," Hensley replied.

"Then," Freya responded, "Yes, we are witches capable of magic. And we will need you when ... IF ... others show up."

"But enough to need deadly force?" Whitlock asked, truly curious. The contract specifically requested deadly force in the form of assault rifles and pistols. Mistress Freya had gone so far to ask if they could employ a machine gun. Hensley had said no.

"Yes," she said.

"So, what are we talking regarding opposition? If you are expecting an armed attack, to the point that you would have the two of us to defend you with a .50 cal, why not do this at a different location or a different time?" Hensley asked. Whitlock was in complete agreement with him and sniffled once as a subtle compliment to show unity.

"The place is sacred," Ignace said, reaching out to touch Hensley's wrist, "And important to us. This time of year, the veil is drawn thin between our world and another. Now is when we can perform our ritual."

Hensley marshalled tremendous concentration and fortitude to pull his arm away from Ignace. Her touch was magnetic and his wrist felt warm. He scooted his chair back and assumed a forward-leaning position, planting his elbows on the table. This brought his body out of her reach.

"May we see the location now, Mistress?" Whitlock asked.

"Why?" she asked.

Hensley jumped in. "We don't know where this place is, we haven't seen it, and we do not know how to best defend it. We'll need to recon before we set up so we can be as efficient as possible once your event is underway. We'll need to evaluate the geography and 'do our thing,' as you put in the email," he said.

"There will be time when we get there. And we will not relocate so there is no sense in spending time now when you can do so before the ritual."

"Can you sketch a map at least?" Hensley asked, "And provide any water features, roads, fences, and natural or artificial borders?"

Ignace reached across the table and took a napkin from in front of Whitlock. A pen appeared in her hand and she spent two minutes creating a rough map. Humor flashing in her eyes, she spun it 180 degrees for the men to examine.

They studied it for several minutes without a word. No water features, one road in and she drew a gate at the head of the road by the highway.

"Is this," Whitlock said tapping the map, "a mountain?"

"Yes," Freya confirmed, not bothering to look at where he pointed.

Whitlock couldn't help but glance at Hensley. Mountains? Here? They both were familiar with the local geography and mountains didn't exist within a 90-minute drive in any direction. Maybe 'hills' was more correct. Hensley raised an eyebrow. They'd confirm on-site. Both Mistress Freya and Ignace watched the interaction.

The conversation continued with specifics and both Hensley and Whitlock skillfully probed with questions. They created a picture of what they'd expect. 13 participants, all female. They would be on an open field and use fire in their ritual. Both women were vague with what the ceremony would be like but Hensley shrugged it off. They can have their fun. He and Whitlock were being paid well for what seemed like easy work. He didn't think there'd be any issues. Piece of cake.

Business complete, Mistress Freya and Ignace rose from their chairs to leave. Whitlock and Hensley stood with them as they departed. The two men stayed on their feet until the ladies, witches, left the Starbucks.

Both men sat.

"Easy, right?" Whitlock said, more asking himself than Hensley. Hensley shrugged and looked at the rough sketch of the map.

"Fucking mountains," he said to no one. The comment hung in the air.

ON SITE

Whitlock was anxious to show off his new truck so he offered to drive. They met Mistress Freya and Ignace in the parking lot of the very same Starbucks from the week before. Freya refused to give any directions over email or phone and said they would convoy to the site.

Hensley and Whitlock now sat in the high cab of the new truck and watched downtown foot traffic as they progressed from red light to red light. There was a buzz of excitement in the air with Halloween on a Saturday. What fun! And the day dawned beautifully, warm and sunny so people were out in droves. Luckily, people used costumes as a way to wear masks. Everyone's face was covered.

They followed the blue Tesla out of town and onto the highway. Mistress Freya was doing exactly the speed limit the whole time. City turned to suburbs turned to rolling farm lands. Farmland then turned to wilderness.

The men had their windows down and David Allen Coe crooned from the stereo. Hensley preferred guitar rock but it was Whitlock's vehicle. Hensley had no say. Two years prior, when they first traveled together in Whitlock's old beat-up truck, Whitlock passed his hand in circles over the climate control.

"Yours," he had said.

Then his hand circled in the air above the stereo.

"Mine," he had said. Hensley knew immediately they'd get along just fine.

"Storm clouds to the north," Whitlock said now, glancing out the passenger window. A gray scud of color appeared over the trees lining the highway. Red and yellow leaves popped up amongst the green of the trees. Hensley glanced out the window then frowned.

"No," he said to Whitlock, "Look again. Those aren't clouds."

Whitlock looked.

"The fuck?" he said under his breath. Mountains. There were mountains there in the distance. Hensley had driven this road any number of times and knew the area. Those weren't there before.

"Witches, huh?" Whitlock asked. Hensley had no answer. The Tesla in front of them popped a turn signal and pulled off the highway onto a cut-out of dirt. A strip of road led directly into the woods protected by a red gate.

"That gate looks durable," Whitlock observed. The posts were concrete, the gate looked heavy, and there were signs warning of armed response to trespassing. The men watched Ignace get out of the driver's side of the Tesla and walk to the gate. She unlocked it and pushed. The gate barely budged. They watched her lower her shoulder and push harder with no success.

"Willowy thing like that, trying to move a 100 lb. gate? She doesn't stand a chance," Whitlock said, "But I'll watch her try!"

Hensley shot a look at Whitlock. Whitlock frowned at himself. That wasn't something he'd normally say. He shook his head at Hensley, accepting the rebuke.

Hensley unclipped his seat belt and pushed the door open. He jumped from the truck, landing lightly on the dirt, and walked to Ignace. She had watched him the whole time.

"You looked like a big cat," she said, "All grace and agility."

"Let's get this gate open," he said, refusing to acknowledge her compliment. She smiled at him.

"Thanks," she said, "I don't think it'll be any issue for you, Mr. Muscles."

Hensley's mind flashed with an image, the two of them kissing, his hands entwined in her hair pulling her face up to his. He forced the thought away as his tongue plunged into her soft warm mouth. No.

She cocked an eyebrow at him. A smile played on her full red lips. He pushed the gate open, wordlessly. She was grinning at him when as both vehicles puttered past and she gestured to close the gate. He pushed it shut, knowing her gaze was on him. Her eyes were feral as she watched.

Two miles north, the road opened to a grassy field. Heavy foliage ringed the open space and the mountain (mountain?) crouched low in a half-circle. Hensley immediately noted how tough it would be pass through the woods and the road in seemed to be the only avenue of approach from anyone attacking them.

"We're in the middle of nowhere, though," Whitlock said, coming to the same conclusion Hensley had, "Who's coming out here for this?"

Hensley shrugged.

The truck followed the Tesla as it pulled off onto a gravel makeshift parking area. Several cars were already there and a half-dozen women were milling around in the center of the field. It looked like they had started construction of a pyre in the middle of the beaten-down grass and dirt. Two more women emerged from the woods, dragging thick branches behind them.

"I'm leaving the fob in the cup holder," Whitlock announced. He always did but he still felt the need to communicate. Hensley nodded and jumped out of the cab. He went around to the tailgate. Whitlock moved on the other side and both men went through their gear. As they put slings on their rifles, Hensley cocked his head to the side. Whitlock froze so as not to distract Hensley from whatever it was he noticed.

"Do you hear that?" Hensley asked.

"Hear what?" Whitlock said after a full minute of listening.

"Exactly," Hensley said, "There's nothing."

"It's late in the season," Whitlock said, "What do you want, cicadas?"

"No, it's literally ... nothing. No birds, no wind, no nothing. Hell, I want a single cricket," Hensley said. Both men stood and listened. The air was still despite a few fluffy clouds passing by overhead. There was a hush and even the group of ladies seemed to move noiselessly.

"You'd think you get a group of women like that together, they'd be hens clucking nonstop, right?" Whitlock said.

Hensley was struck again by how out-of-character Whitlock was.

"In two years, you haven't made distinctions between genders, ages, any of it, man. What's going on?"

Whitlock shrugged expansively, unsure why he said what he said.

"I don't know," he confessed, "It just went popped in my head and came right out my mouth. I'm sorry."

"It's fine. Let's walk the grounds and see what we can see. We'll come back and gear up and get into position. It's early yet but we can get settled and comfortable by the time this thing gets underway. A nice big fire," Hensley gestured at the growing stack of wood, "Will be welcome for illuminating the area."

"I brought flares just in case, and both pair of NVGs," Whitlock said, "We'll be fine."

Ignace and another woman, a short chubby dark-haired girl wearing a short sundress, walked over to the two men. The dark-haired one was grinning at them wolfishly. Her skin was pebbled against the brisk air. It was warm but they were in the shade and the dress seemed more comfortable for hot weather. She didn't look cold, though. She, like Ignace, looked comfortable and warm, glowing like an ember. She smiled and strolled up to Whitlock, completely in control. She linked her arm through his and pulled him against her, grinding her breast into his hand.

"My name is Ilska and I'll show you that side of our spot," she said, husky and low. Whitlock perked up at how throaty she sounded. Without another word, she led him away. He did not look back at Hensley. Ilska had not acknowledged Hensley's presence at all.

Hensley moved after him only to be stopped by Ignace. She held his arm with a strength she didn't show with the gate earlier.

"They'll be fine," she said.

"What's out there?" he asked, redirecting his attention from her to the treeline.

"Nothing," she said, dismissing the two departing figures.

Nothing was absolutely right. There was silence. The sun slid from the sky to behind the mountain range and the open field was shadowed. There were no sounds, no chipmunks chittering, no birds, no rustle of leaf-heavy trees swaying in the wind. The hair on the back of Hensley's neck pricked up. He'd been in enough hot spots around the world to know this kind of silence usually meant ambush or attack. The animals always knew and fled the area before rounds starting flying.

He reached into the truck bed for his rifle.

"Eric," Ignace said. The intimacy of her saying his first name stopped him. His mother was the last person to call him that and she'd been dead for two years. He hadn't heard it spoken with such love until now. He certainly never used it in communication with clients. How did she know his name? Compelled, he turned.

Ignace's fingers undid the buttons on her dress. More and more skin came into view as she worked her way down. She was efficient, quick to disrobe and within moments she stood nude before him. Shocked, his crotch swelled in his pants at the sight of her. Her body was a sight. She looked soft with feminine curves but muscle rippled under her skin. Her breasts, pert and defying gravity, were tipped with small pink nipples, hardened against the cool air. Her stomach was lean and toned, begging for his hands and his mouth. Her feet were apart and she was bare between her thighs. A slight glisten in the falling light invited him closer.

She closed the distance, stepping with grace, and took his hand. He saw himself led to just outside the field. A clean rattan mat was lying in the open space under a tree and she knelt on it, facing him. Her hands ran along her body, down her sides, over her hips, to her breasts where they kneaded her flesh and pinched her nipples. She made sure he was watching and she laid back, a finger circling around her clit. She breathed heavily, sighing, inviting him closer to enjoy the view.

Hensley took pride in his discipline. He was, if anything, self-controlled. Will alone turned his gaze from Ignace spread on the mat, masturbating for his enjoyment. He'd seen any number of women naked in person but Ignace was by far the most beautiful, most perfect woman.