The Sacrifice: A Paranormal MC Romance Read online

  "Remember the one, what, three generations ago? When she got pissed, she set shit on fire," Drex recalled, likely because his very own jacket was once set on fire. While he wore it.

  "So, what?" I asked. "This one is sad?" I asked, rolling my eyes.

  "You know how they are," Ace said, and I wasn't sure if he meant witches, women, or humans in general. In all cases, I figured he had a point.

  "Someone should go talk to her. Has anyone even let her out?" Seven asked.

  "Minos has been feeding her," Ace said, shrugging.

  "For how long?" Seven pressed.

  "I don't know. A week? Something like that," Drex said, waving it off.

  "Maybe someone should go talk to her," Seven suggested.

  "What?" I asked when Ace's gaze fell once again on me. "Me? You want me to go talk to her? Why the fuck me?"

  I couldn't be considered the softest touch of all of us. If anything, I was probably the worst with human interactions in general.

  "Send Minos. Even Seven would be a better choice." Drex always needed to be left out of interactions with humans if it required anything resembling diplomacy.

  "I need her to stop making it fucking rain," Ace snapped, "not assure her everything is going to be alright."

  "So you want me to scare her?" I clarified.

  "Whatever it takes. I don't give a shit. Just make it stop," Ace demanded, storming out of the room.

  Once upon a time, Ace had been in charge of all of us. Which was why, when we decided to create the MC a hundred or so years before, Ace had stepped into the role of president without any of us questioning it.

  So when he issued an order, he expected it followed through.

  "You're going to want a drink first," Drex insisted, holding out a glass toward me.

  He was right.

  I did.

  So I took it.

  Threw it back.

  Then moved to stand.

  We always kept the witches in the basement. At least at first. We'd learned early on that giving them too much freedom at the beginning only created minor disasters. Things being broken. Spells being cast. Jackets lit on fire.

  We took them from the van and into the basement, leaving them there for a few months or a few years until their spirits broke enough to allow for them to do what was needed.

  There wasn't much to be said about the space. It was a massive, cold part of the house where the damo seeped in through the cinderblock walls, chilling you through to the bone if you stayed for more than a few moments.

  We'd thrown shit down there to keep the witches from losing their minds. A bed with a passably comfortable mattress, a couple lights, extra blankets.

  Ace, a lover of books, a collector of new editions, tossed all the old ones into boxes and put them in the basement for the witches to read. There was a sink and a toilet. Though I was pretty sure we forgot to add in a shower. Someone suggested it—likely Seven or Minos—but then no one had ever called someone in to work on it between the new arrivals.

  It had been at least three witches since I stepped foot in the basement.

  I guess I hadn't been prepared to find it any different.

  What I found, instead, was that the witches had slowly but surely over time started to make the space more like a home.

  Dried flowers were strung and hung from the ceiling. If I remembered correctly, the witches always did some ridiculous ceremony for their 'Sacrifice' in which they filled their hair with flowers. From the looks of things, these flowers had donned the heads of at least six witches. I wondered which one found them all and set to making the place more their own.

  The walls, which I remember being painted white after there was some mold issue or another that fucked with the lungs of one of the witches, were suddenly stained in intricate murals. Flowers and trees and woodland creatures. Then, in a break in the woods, a massive pentacle and a couple of rune symbols that I recognized, but didn't know the meanings of.

  In front of that pentacle image, someone had set up what appeared to be a makeshift altar.

  There was an old broken stoneware bowl that I remembered from one of the many remodels over the years set with various rocks, some worn soft from the river bed that skirted the inside of the woods around the property, and a bushel of dried herbs from the yard, bound with twine. There were feathers gathered in a drinking glass—bright red Cardinal, massive brown and white hawk, a shining black raven. There was even a collection of animal bones stacked in a neat pile, likely remnants of dinner from one of the owls around the property.

  We had taken them away from their coven, but clearly not their practice.

  Which was why I was here in the first place, I reminded myself, forcing my gaze away from the altar, stepping over the tray of food left at the bottom of the steps to be taken back up. Everything was gone save for the slivers of chicken.

  Fucking witches and their refusal to eat meat.

  "Hey, where are you?" I called, moving through the mostly-dark space, the only light inside from the minuscule barred windows. "Witch?" I called, squinting into the darkness.

  She wasn't on the bed or in the bathroom area.

  "Witch!" I roared, blood starting to pump, wondering if she was like that red-headed one who'd tried to escape, slowly tunneling through the wall. Or like that one with the cat-like eyes who'd hanged herself by her sheets.

  I didn't care so much about the witches as a whole, but they'd made an agreement; they'd signed a treaty.

  One witch each generation.

  To come to us.

  They didn't get to run away.

  They didn't get to kill themselves.

  And it pissed me off when one of them thought they could find a way around the rules.

  Anger always started the Change.

  As my pulse pounded harder, I could feel my fingers elongating, talons poking out through the tips. My teeth got more pointed, my tongue forked. There was a telltale burning in my shoulder blades, flesh separating, making room for the black wings to start protruding out. The crushing ache in the top of my hairline was the small, blunted horns making their way out of my skull.

  The fire burned through me, chasing off the cold that had set in from the endless rain. If you touched my skin, it could nearly burn you.

  On a roar, I made my way back to the bed, hand grabbing the bottom, flipping it and flinging it across the room, barely even noticing the sound of the wood cracking and splintering all around.

  Then there she was.

  Curled in the fetal position on the cold, hard floor, her white dress and cloak wrapping up a tall, but slender body.

  The flowers were gone from her hair, and the intricate braids the witches were known for were worked free, leaving her raven hair slightly curled, spilling over her shoulders and back, half concealing her face.

  At the roar, or at the sudden disappearance of her hiding place, the witch gasped, jumping up, scrambling away until her back hit the wall, bringing her knees in at her chest, and wrapping her arms protectively around them.

  Fuck.

  She was a looker.

  I didn't remember ever thinking that of any of the others. Maybe because by the time they were let out of the basement, they were older, wilder, their spirits so broken that any beauty they might have possessed seemed dusty and faded.

  This woman was fresh.

  Dripping with the fruity aroma of youth and the acidic scent of fear.

  With the Change on me, I could make out each individual scent. The herb-like smell still clinging to her hair. The salt of sweat. The must of her clothing from being in a cold, enclosed space. And, finally, the fucking intoxicatingly sweet scent of her pussy. Even through the layers of clothes. Even though she wasn't turned on.

  Fuck, I couldn't imagine what she would smell like if she was.

  Not that I was thinking of fucking a witch.

  It went against everything we believed in.

  We were on different sides, after all.

&
nbsp; Contrary to popular belief, witches weren't the evil ones. These tree-hugging, moon-dancing, earth-loving worshippers of the God and Goddess.

  They were the good ones.

  Us?

  We were the bad guys.

  Still.

  There was no denying her beauty. It was in the creaminess of her flawless, milk-like skin, in the softly pointed chin, the delicate cupid's-bow mouth with fat, pouty lips, in the delicate nose with the slightly upturned tip, the high cheekbones, the proud forehead, the golden, honey-brown eyes framed by thick black lashes that almost looked fake.

  But the witches didn't do fake.

  No makeup, no manmade fabrics.

  The only thing this witch had that she wasn't born with was that crescent moon tattoo high on her forehead, the tips sneaking up into her hair, small and delicate and a symbol of the life we had taken her away from.

  "D-don't r-rape me," the witch stammered, her voice as sweet as the smell of her.

  A hiss worked its way out of me, making a shiver course through her.

  "Don't be disgusting." To that, those nicely arched brows of hers furrowed. "We don't fuck witches," I informed her, feeling my rage start to dissipate, my body Changing back into the human form that, after all this time, was somehow becoming more comfortable than my true form. Maybe because this environment was not conducive to supporting my true form. That was the only logical explanation.

  "A-are you going to e-eat me?"

  Well, there was an idea. Though, I was pretty sure the eating I had in mind was very different than what she meant. My fucking mouth salivated at my idea, though. My cock was hardening just thinking about it. That sweet taste on my tongue.

  "If we wouldn't fuck you, why the hell would we eat you?" I shot back, watching the confusion and relief mix together on her face.

  "Then what am I doing here?"

  "If we don't want to fuck or eat you?" I clarified, snorting. "Because of the treaty."

  "Well, yes. But what purpose do I have here?"

  "Right now, your purpose is to stop being fucking sad so the goddamn rain will stop."

  To that, I was surprised to see a spark of a flame dancing around in those unique eyes of hers.

  "I'm supposed to stop being sad," she repeated, voice no longer quivering. If anything, it seemed to be getting stronger.

  "Yes."

  "When you tore me away from my mother? My family? My friends? My coven? My entire way of life? And then you stuck me in a cold and dingy basement with no way to bathe myself, feeding me animal flesh, and denying me any basic dignity? I'm not supposed to be sad over all of that?"

  "Let me rephrase," I said, making my voice firm even if I appreciated the fact that she was all fire and spirit instead of crying and shaking. "I don't give a fuck if you're sad, but make the rain stop."

  "I can't control it," she shot back.

  "You're a witch. That's what you do."

  "Yes, well, I am a very poor witch. That's why I'm here, isn't it? They wouldn't exactly send one of the ones destined for greatness now, would they?"

  I'd never given that any thought. Of course they would send us their least talented, their most troublesome. Maybe that was why we'd had issues with so many of them.

  "If you can't control it, how will it stop then?" I asked.

  "A bath might be a good start."

  "A bath."

  "I've been down here for a week and haven't been able to get clean. I am starting to smell. It's making me miserable."

  She was right about that.

  Just wrong about the context.

  Maybe humans wouldn't like her smell.

  But I was finding it difficult to keep my cock from straining against the fly of my jeans at the heady sweetness emanating from her.

  "If I let you go upstairs and bathe, you will stop the rain?"

  "It is worth a shot," she suggested, chin lifting up.

  "Fine. Fuck it. Let's go."

  "Now?"

  "Yes, now. Do you have something better to do today? Start a tornado, maybe?" I asked, reaching down to grab her wrist, yanking her up onto her feet, getting a glare for my efforts.

  "Maybe I will. Direct it right through this house. Take you and your evil friends out."

  "You could try, witch. But not even you can kill us."

  "Lenore," she said, grudgingly following behind me as I made my way to the stairs.

  "What?"

  "My name. It's Lenore. I don't want to be called 'witch' in that way."

  That was rich.

  "It's cute that you think I give a fuck what you want," I shot back, pushing open the door to the main floor of the house even as I rolled her name around in my head. Lenore. It was pretty. Classic. I liked it more than I had any right to, especially since she was a fucking witch.

  "What the hell is this?" Drex asked as we walked past the study where he was reaching once again for the bottle.

  We couldn't get drunk.

  Not the way humans could.

  We could feel a certain sizzle.

  But more than that, Drex was attracted to the burn. He said it reminded him of home.

  "She thinks a shower might make her less sad," I said, rolling my eyes.

  "You said bath," Lenore shot back, stopping in her tracks, folding her arms over her chest.

  "Hey, Ly, you have a bath in your bedroom, don't you?" Drex asked, smirking, enjoying the hell out of this, apparently.

  "Fine, you'll get your bath," I agreed, waving an arm up the stairs, watching as she moved up first. "Tell Minos to stop feeding her 'flesh,'" I told Drex. "Apparently, that makes her sad as well."

  "Fucking witches," he said, shaking his head.

  "I know," I agreed before following Lenore up the stairs.

  "How big is this home?" the witch asked as we walked down the hall on the second floor.

  "Don't know. Twelve-thousand square feet. Something like that."

  "What could you ever need so much space for?"

  "If you don't like the extra space, I'd be happy to toss your ass back in the basement."

  She didn't respond to that, save for murmuring under her breath. But I couldn't make out the words.

  "This room," I said, waving her into my bedroom. "Through there," I told her, nodding toward the open bathroom door. "No," I called when she went to close the door behind her. "You have to leave the door open." Her eyes blazed at that, her jaw getting tight. "Can't risk you trying to jump out the window, can we? Then we'd have to go back and take one of the other witches. Your mother, maybe," I suggested, enjoying the rage spreading across her face.

  Her chin jerked up higher as she stood right there in the doorway, reaching up to undo the tie on her cloak, pushing it back off her shoulders.

  I was frozen in the spot as her hands reached down, gathering the skirt of her dress, pulling it upward, baring her slender legs.

  My cock stiffened as she kept drawing up the hem, exposing her naked pussy. I guess witches didn't wear underthings. My cock throbbed at that realization even as her hands kept pulling up the dress, showing the soft curve of hip, the slope of her smooth stomach. Then, finally, the swell of her breasts with their pink nipples just begging to be sucked and nipped.

  Fuck.

  My cock was throbbing for release as she jerked her chin even higher, then turned away, her round ass bouncing as she made her way to the bath, lowering herself down to hide herself before she figured out the faucets.

  Witches didn't have running water in the woods.

  "Oh!" she said a moment later when, I figured, she found the hot tap.

  Then she let out a low, groaning sound as the water started to fill.

  I shifted my position so that I could see the mirror over the sink, showing me the reflection of the witch as she leaned backward in the tub, reaching for a bar of soap in a dish that the old housekeeper must have put there.

  The witch soaped it up in her hands then ran them down her body, circling over her breasts.

>   "Fuck," I hissed, reaching down to work my button and zipper free, then inside to free my hard cock, watching the witch bathe herself as I stroked, fantasizing about getting a taste of that sweet-smelling pussy, and feeling her wetness and tight walls around my cock.

  I came harder than I think I had in decades.

  Maybe ever.

  It wasn't until I was done that I realized the witch must have been able to see me in the mirror like I had seen her. She had been watching me jerk-off while she bathed.

  She should have been horrified.

  But that almost looked like desire in her eyes...

  Chapter Three

  Lenore

  I'd never seen a demon in the flesh.

  Sure, there had been the man who brought me my food each day. If I remembered correctly, he'd called himself Minos.

  But when he'd come down the stairs, he was in his human flesh.

  Minos was striking in appearance. That was the only way I could describe him. He had unusual features that shouldn't have worked together, but somehow did.

  He had a square face with deep indents under his cheekbones, a wide mouth, a thin, but proportionate nose, rounded eyes. He had long, dark hair. But the most striking feature of his face was the fact that he had one brown eye and one green. Yet both eyes seemed to have a hint of red in them, which was something I had never seen in humans or witches.

  I wondered if it had something to do with being a demon.

  But when this new demon came down the stairs, he had shed his human skin, and was partially changed into his demon form.

  It should have been terrifying.

  And it had been.

  The talons, the horns, the strange reddish hint to his skin, the deep, grumbly quality to his voice, the forked tongue.

  Terrifying, yes.

  That was the point, after all.

  To be scary.

  But there was something else inside of me when I first laid eyes on him.

  It was just as primal as fear.

  But unexpected.

  Warm instead of cold.

  It was a heated sensation across my chest and down my stomach, dipping lower, culminating in a tingling sensation between my thighs.