Page 23 of Eternal Obsession

Her blood flowed with the quiet reverence of one who unknowingly honored our kind—a warmth steeped in respect, rich and inviting. It carried a subtle sensuality, delicate yet undeniable, the kind only a nightwalker could truly savor.

Her story unfolded with each pulse of her blood . . .

Her name was Grace.

This was her home.

The coven had embarked with just three women, all midwives. They had developed medicines and magical spells to assist the other villagers with every conceivable ailment as well as ease the suffering of labor pains for those with child. These were the women with whom everyone sought counsel when in need of medicinal sustenance.

But the tide turned now with frightening rumors that other sister cults had disbanded, their members burned at the stake or even drowned as Christianity swept the nation. Before long the coven had grown in number as witches sought solace within this small house deep in the countryside in the county of Redruth, Cornwall.

If an affirmation was needed for these sisters of witchery, then Athena was it. Though unknown to them, her real name was Grace. She had arrived during a ceremony when they performed an incantation summoning up the goddess of wisdom, Athena, their magic so powerful that it succeeded with unexpected triumph. She descended from the air, as one would expect of a goddess, and invited the worship of the sisterhood. They soon discovered her powers, and if any doubt entered their minds she would soon dispel such thoughts with proof of her birthright, using feats of magic and mind reading.

For those who pleased her most, which all of them strove to do, she would reward their loyal devotion by allowing them to drink her sacred blood from the ceremonial chalice, permitting them to experience her sensuous elixir. Soon the witches of the sect were in awe of this powerful being, and with her promise of great rewards were soon lovingly enslaved.

The coven had been in existence for over thirty years, the very affirmation of their faith in the arrival of their deity, whom they worshipped with fervent sacrifice and idolization.

Easing my fangs out of her flesh, I blinked as the images faded.

“Did you see?” she said wistfully.

“No one will hear of this place from me.”

That seemed to calm her. “You can’t stay.”

My smirk reassured I had surmised that. “Would you like to hunt with me?”

It was good to spend time with my own, to have another who understood what this never-ending long night of the soul felt like.

“Meet me at The Hollow Stag tomorrow,” she said. “We’ll talk more.”

“I’ll see if they have a room for me now,” I said, thoughtfully.

She took a moment to compose herself. “If you watch through that window.”

I turned to see the one she pointed to.

“You’ll see us.”

She was gone. Startlingly reappearing at the center of the courtyard.

In the pale wash of moonlight, her red hair burned like embers. Her features were otherworldly, impossible to look away from. Her velvet cape fell from her shoulders.

Eleven mortal women left the comfort of the manor and joined her in the open-air space.

With the witching hour, the ceremony was in full swing. The witches stood at the feet of their mistress, their goddess, and offered her their exotic ritual.

Her story had unfolded in my mind like the first page of a novel, vivid and unguarded. I felt I knew her as deeply as one soul can know another—with that offering of her blood, she had held nothing back, giving herself in that moment with a quiet honesty. It was not a confession, but a gift. Her life passed to me in innocence, without shame or secrecy, as if she believed it was something worth giving.

For Grace—now Athena—the arrangement worked out wonderfully. She would sleep during the day, completely safe from the sunlight and protected by the women who watched over her, bestowing the adoration she believed she so richly deserved. As far as she was concerned, as an immortal, she was a goddess. After all, she would never die. Was this not a gift of the gods? She had been born two hundred years earlier into the life of a servant girl, her parents both dead before she was nine years old. She had lived an uncompromising life.

Made a vampire at the age of twenty-one, she discovered her gift of reading minds—as easy, she had thought, as reading the lines in a book for those of noble birth. She would go out into the night to feed after she had been luxuriously bathed and dressed by her loving consorts.

And here she was now, in her element, revered as a sacred being among these extraordinary women—witches of rare power and remarkable grace.

Within the center of the courtyard curled a cathedral of wildflowers to enhance the setting. Steeped in moonlight and layered in fallen leaves. Mist slipped inside as though, like me, unable to stay away. They flowed into the courtyard, the witches—the royalty of midnight.

Her affection flowed for her delicate sparrows, who flocked toward her willingly. Entranced, yes, but a familiarity with the promise of what she offered them as the darkest gift—that of blood. A taste that would carry them to sensual oblivion.