Her footsteps fall with delayed reverberations. Thunder through the soft earth of the forest. Trees boughs creak, bend, snap, and break to avoid against her flesh. Phosphorescent algae brightens beneath her naked feet as they kiss the ground. Then darkness returns and leaves clench in rigour mortis behind her.
The witch savours the moonlight against her bare chest.
Fireflies swarm about her, echoing her movements.
As she rises from the ground, tiny flames appear and flutter about the open grove. Her ascent jostles a branch, causing a raven to caw harshly, though it doesn’t take flight. Instead, other creatures of the night gather.
Their black eyes glisten between thickets. Their claws scrape with a plodding curiosity towards the unclothed human hovering before them. The sound of thousands of small, rushing leather wings briefly shroud her silhouette entirely. Then the colony of bats perches spreads itself across nearby branches.
A death’s head moth finds her toe. It encircles her leg and beats a soft flight along her thighs, around her chest, before resting on her nose.
The witch invites the insect onto her hand, where its abdomen throbs with ease.
The moment of affection doesn’t last long. Jaws of flame sprout from her palm and clamp down around its frail body. It twitches, fights it briefly, but is utterly consumed.
Lester inhales the ashes.
An orange glow threads itself into her irises before darkness swallows the whites of her eyes.
This is no dream.
And she is not merely mortal …
for she is a witch.
