Page 8 of The Forty-Year-Old Virgin Witch

Four

Karl

Fucking wolves.

I’d only been in that pub as a courtesy to my Elder—even at four hundred, he still had a taste for the local ale, claiming that while nothing would taste as good as the monks used to make, that this place was at least close.

As I glanced around the pub, I noticed with apathy that some sort of game was on. Even in my youth, I hadn’t been into sports. That had been what…fifty years ago? Varos was right; the years got all muddled together the older you got. Sometimes I wondered why I even bothered to keep track. I had asked to be changed at first, but once my purpose had been completed, what was left? I certainly didn’t want to spend all of eternity in the drafty castle of my Elder, fetching beers and whatever other rubbish he could come up with.

When the girl had entered—every human woman seemed like a girl to me now—my eyes had perked up in immediate interest. I didn’t run into too many witches these days, though their numbers had started to increase again in the past half-century. I supposed feminism and the decline of such a rigid patriarchal society had much to do with it. I was all for the resurgence; witches were wildly entertaining at parties.

Nevertheless, she immediately caught my attention when she was shoved through the doorway by the man behind her, scowling at everyone in her path.

Just like the other witches I’d met, there was something more to her that set her apart from humans. There was a connection with the earth and a tangible buzz that constantly flitted about witches in general.

When I was newly turned it had been horribly distracting.

The witch wasn’t attractive in the way that was popular these days, with artificially bloated features and dyed hair. Rather, her beauty was a tangible force that knocked me over like the incoming tide. If I didn’t look away, I'd likely be sucked out to sea.

Her hair shone against the dim lights in the bar, her eyes dazzling as they flared in anger and indignation. A heart-shaped face was complemented by large eyes, and her neck was long and graceful. Though I’m sure my condition was likely the only reason I’d noticed that.

Her hair was a tumble of brown curls and frizz, each strand just as stubborn and determined to carve its own path as the witch they belonged to. It reflected red and gold in the dim pub lights, and I wondered what it would feel like between my fingers.

She was short, but I barely registered it under the tendrils of magick I eagerly soaked up like a starving man. When some bumbling idiot bumped her, the rage in her eyes spoke to the monster inside of me. The slight haze of bloodlust crept slowly into my veins, and with a vicious tug I yanked myself back to reality. I could not lose control in the crowd of humans.

The magick dissipated, and I was left grasping at it ineffectually. I turned but she was gone. There, the back door. I moved quicker than the human eye could follow, not worried about any drunk football fan seeing me seemingly disappear. Humans had no confidence when it came to believing what they saw. I let the witch exit first, then walked out behind her.

“That was quite a scene.”

I expected that she would be startled, but I didn’t intend to trigger her fight-or-flight response. And quite clearly, this witchling would fight. I could have ducked, and I really should have since it would have been more polite, but that would have required my gaze leaving her gloriously enraged face.

Her fist hit my jaw with the subtlety of a wrecking ball, but all the damage went to her. A short scream burst from her throat, and then she fell to cradle her (likely broken) hand. Irritation welled within me. I hated feeling guilty when it wasn’t actually my fault. Nevertheless, I should at least offer an apology.

“Do you normally punch first and ask questions later?” I asked lightly. I resisted the urge to cringe; that had hardly been a remorseful statement. The witchling staggered to her feet and tried to push past me. I huffedat her distinterest. I wasn’t used to being ignored by women, or anyone for that matter. I tried again.

“May I escort you home? It’s the least I can do. I feel somewhat responsible.”

She froze, whipping back around to poke a finger in my chest. She winced, and I wondered how many times she’d strike me before realizing it was futile.

“Only somewhat responsible?” Her voice rose another octave, and part of me wanted to bait her, to get her angry so I would get another taste of her magick … of her rage.

She shouldered past me, and I shook my head. Nice … I had to be nice to her.

“Karl.”

I offered my hand, and she turned back. I tried to make my face as kind as possible, but it was easy to see how fake her smile was.

“Karl?” Her voice was sugary sweet—deceptively so.

“Yes?” I shifted my weight to my other foot, nervous for some reason.

“Move.”

She dashed around me and down the alley, flying through the small gate that led to the main road. I put one hand on the top of the gate, intending to easily jump over and show this witchling exactly who she was dealing with. My nose and knee crunched as it hit an invisible barrier, and I fell back to the ground. My eyes watered with pain, but by the time I straightened the damage was already healed. Cheeky little witchling.

It took moments to catch up to her with my supernatural speed. I kept to the shadows, but she was clearly too caught up in her own thoughts to take much note of her surroundings. That would be something I would correct if she would let me.

I blinked, shocked by the thought. When was the last time I had wanted to share anything with someone else?

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