madamsofcaosâ:
Lilith felt her the moment she pulled into the parking lot, the way one feels electricity in the arm before a thunderstorm. She steels herself, pushing her back against the hard plastic of the booth seat and laces her fingers on the top of her small stomach.
Eye contact was made instantly. Her blues to hers, a silent acknowledgment spoken; dislike. The demonessâs blood red lips formed into an unpleasant smile.
The witch was one to revered. Red hair or fire, sapphire eyes that burned like the fire in Hellâs pit. Pretty, she thought, head tilting to the side.
âDo you claim this place?â She takes up the milkshake she had order and slowly formed her lips around the straw.
It was not so unusual to be told she wasnât welcomed in any place and this hadnât been her first stop in her escape. Did it hurt? Deep down inside, it stung worse than a snakeâs bite, but she would never allow that emotion raise to her surface.
Neither would she be run out of some backwoods wasteland witch. Lilith, mother of demons, the dawn of doom, had faced worse. This witch was a mere pestering fly buzzing about.
âThat is quite some Southern charm,â Lilith offers her a seat across from her. She doubts she will join her, but it was a statement. Kindness first, brutality later should it be needed.
âIâm a weary traveler, dear lady, allow me rest and recuperation before you chase me out,â she sighs dramatically while dropping her eyes with a head tilt; signaling temporary submission.
âOui,â she says, âThis area belongs to my family, sâfar as magic goes. We are as much a part of this parish as the live oaks that grow all around you. This place ainât for you if you are lookinâ to cause any trouble.â
The womanâs eyes are a pale blue that rubs Sable the wrong way. They are mirthless, hyperborean. Chill her to the bone. Is she a demon? Or another type of creature? She looks every bit the part of a witch, but she does not smell like a witch. Not the witches that Sable Montgomery knows, of course.
The seat is offered to her, but she does not take it. Will not let her guard down. She clenches her fist only as the woman requests sanctuary, more or less. Sable shows her teeth â white and straight and harmless as they are â to make a point as she speaks. Each syllable has a bite behind it, the strike of a rattler. Â
âI do not trust you,â she says, her own blue eyes narrowing. âFirst of all, I donât know what you are â second of all, I donât know who you are.â
She folds her arms over her chest.
âUnless you be up front with me, Iâll throw you out here and now. Hogtie you and toss you into the back of my pickup, if I have to.â
Sable smirks â the image in her mind laughable.
âSo fess up.â

















