Page 2 of Wedded Witch

It’s one of my ancestors, I believe, the great warlock, Elias Galdur. I’ve heard enough family stories over the years to recognise him – have seen the faded family portraits – and even if I didn’t, there’s something in me that justknows.Like blood calls to blood.

We share a likeness too. The same stubborn brow mostly.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to argue with him that the Blood Moon isn’t really red, but the look he fixes me with makes me pause. His eyes bore into mine with a fierce intensity that makes my heart race.

“You must flee, Swyn. Do not walk down that aisle tomorrow. Lucky charm, your destiny lies elsewhere. Marriage is not the solution. It never has been. You’ll find the answers you seek in Spells Hollow. Go there,” he urges solemnly before fading away into nothingness and leaving me standing alone, on the deserted streets of the mysterious location, that’s going to solve all of my problems.

Allegedly.

“Umm, hello? Great-great-great…ah fuck it…Gramps? How do I get home?” I call.

No answer.

Great.

So it’s the early hours of the morning on the day that I’m getting married to a total stranger – a wedding I most definitelydon’t want – and I’m being haunted by the ghost of my ancestors, who’s telling me in his infinite wisdom what I already know – that this wedding is a terrible idea.

But he’s got nothing else to add? Nothing helpful? And then he just disappears into the ether and expects me to find my own way back?

Fuck this. I hate being a witch.

Especially a Galdur witch.

SWYN

Okay,switch that last thought: I don’t hate being a witch, I hate my family.

I’m not even a person to them. Just a walking womb – their final beacon of hope. I’m the last one, the final Galdur, the end of our entire lineage.

And I don’t give a fuck. Because deep down, I know there’s more to me than just being a vessel for their expectations.

As the weight of my family’s legacy bears down on me, there’s a stirring within my soul. Like a whisper of ancient power calling out to me, urging me to break free from the chains of tradition that bind me to my fate.

With each passing second, the magic within me grows stronger, waiting to be unleashed.

Or maybe that’s just my reluctance. My rebellion.

I’m being forced to marry a stranger, today, in a few mere minutes in fact, in order to save my family from total extinction.

Or so they’ll have me believe.

My cousin, Abi, married a guy to try to break our centuries-long family curse, only to discover that she’s barren too.

I’ve been poked and prodded by witches and warlocks, doctors and shamans, healers and prophets, since before I even hit puberty, and once my womb was declared hospitable and welcoming, my family threw a party.

A literal party to celebrate my womb and the potential it could one day hold.

Fucking cringe.

But that was nothing compared to what followed after. Most teenagers’ idea of hell is their parents finding out that they’re having sex. Especially unprotected sex. My parents – grandparents and great grandparents too in fact – actively encouraged it.

When it became clear that I had zero intention of getting knocked up just so that the Galdurs could spawn another generation of dying, failing, infertile witches, I declined their schemes to get me pregnant with bells and whistles on.

I even had to buy a black market contraceptive spell, because everyone in our small coven knew not to arm me with resistance. Apparently when you live in a cursed coven, your body is not your own.

Eventually though, the inevitable happened – I came of age with my virginity still very much intact, much to their disappointment – and my family decided it was time for me to settle down and start popping out babies.

With some guy I’ve never even met.

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