Cyrill’s heart was still beating fast even though he had already arrived at Vesta’s doorstep.
When she called him on the phone, he sensed something was utterly wrong, something eerie; something that is going to happen unexpectedly. And Cyrill supposed it wasn’t a good one.
“Vesta?” Cyrill then knocks three times, the perfect number when knocking. Not two or one, but three knocks. According to superstitions, when someone knocks once, it is doubtful if he or she is really a someone—a living person. When one knocks twice, it is said to be inviting a malevolent, unpleasant spirit within the house or building.
Despite him being a Pasiphae werewolf, he still upholds and believes in superstitions. After all, there’s nothing wrong in following these superstitions, does it?
“Vesta!” Cyrill knocked thrice again. And when he was about to knock again, the door suddenly opened. Vesta was smiling in front of him, standing there on the threshold as jolly as ever.
“Hello, Cyrill.” Her smile and face…those are new for Cyrill. She never smiled at him like that, nor gave him that seductive, thirsty face.
“Care to join me, honey?” Well, Cyrill may have a terrible hunch that she’s not Vesta but the powers he duplicated was that from a Linguist werewolf of the same pack. A linguist werewolf’s power is somehow useless in combat, unless he hypnotizes her with his words.
Confused, he kissed her as he absolutely knew the taste of Vesta—his bed partner and friend with benefits.
They wrestled near the door with such sizzling and sensuality while their clothes were still on.
“You’re so hot, honey,” she remarked.
Honey. That was the second time she called him honey. Cyrill doesn’t know whether Rozelyn leaving him all alone to visit Vesta is a good thing or a bad thing. He somehow wished Roz was here to help him with ‘knocking girls down’.
He certainly knew that Vesta would never call him honey. For her, honey is a sweet treat and must not be used as a nickname for a person. So something is certainly off about Vesta—that is if it was really Vesta manifesting in front of him.
“I am, Vesta…” She laughed, seductively. Vesta is a hot, beautiful, and kind woman. But the person standing in front of him…no, this is not Vesta Smythe.
He grabbed her by the waist and kissed her deeper. For her, it was a wild thing to do. But for him, he was already incapacitating her. With the handcuffs he had brought.
He shoved her near the curtain windows while his lips were still exploring hers. She wrapped her arms around his neck, as if thinking this was just a simple making out when—
“What was that upstairs?” His voice was thick.
“Nothing honey, it’s probably just my cat.”
Cyrill froze. When his tongue found its words, he parted his lips and slowly backed away from her. “You’re allergic to cats, Vesta.”
But the ‘Vesta’ standing in front of him could only yield a few steps. Luckily, he was already a few inches far from her reach. She was handcuffed using the one he brought with him as he knew the real Vesta always wanted to be handcuffed by the window while he did her from behind.
As expected, the glamor on the face of the perpetrator gradually vanishes on thin air. Like a stardust being carried in the wind.
She has blonde hair and a stinky smell—the smell of a blood witch, a heathen.
“Who sent you here, witch?”
But the witch just smiled, smirked. And lick her lips in a creepy way. “You’re a good kisser, wolfie.”
He punched her in the stomach and asked again, “Did the Blood Mistress send you?”
“Come on, Mr. Let’s just refer to her by her real name rather than the title, eh?”
Cyrill was about to open his mouth when a scream of help coming from upstairs echoed in the house.
“Oooh, I suppose Maebh will be very elated that I managed to defeat an Elemental redhead werewolf and make out with her wolfie boyfriend as well,” the heathen stuck out her tongue in mockery.
“I suppose Maebh is a great ally, then,” he declared.
“Oh yes, she is. Why do you think I like her more being a half-breed Blood Mistress rather than her whore of a mother that is now inhabiting your adoptive mom…”
“You—” Cyrill managed to get hold of his anger. ‘No, this is not the perfect time to shut her, Cyrill. Just let her talk. After all, she managed to reveal several secrets in just one moment.”
“Tell Maebh,” Cyrill muttered, playing along with the blood witch. To be honest, he was more angry than happy upon knowing from the very lips of this bitch the real identity of people around him—the people close to him. “That I will cut her head off, and her mother’s as well..”
“But her mother is in the body of your adop—”
“So what?!” He shifted his body towards the staircase, facing his back to her. “She’s not my real mother anyway.”
The witch didn’t reply. Good. “Tell me more of your kind, bitch.”
When ten seconds have passed and no one responded, he turned back and—
“Such an idiot, you are.” She picked up the curtain rod that she used to hit him in the head, “Cyrill, isn’t it? Such a sweet, innocent name for a lustful werewolf…” His head was on the brink of cracking. The blood witch was one second away from spilling his brain on the carpeted floor when he saw her burst into flames. She burst into flames in a blink, in an instant.
Flesh turned to ashes in a matter of milliseconds.
“That’s how you kill a blood witch, Cyrill Clarke.”
He smiled, despite his face being covered in his own blood. “You truly are an escape artist, Vesta.”
She smiled. They both smirked. Her lips landed atop his before helping him up.
“I didn’t know you could set fire to anyone, hmm?”
“Only witches,” Vesta spoke. “They are more flammable than vampires and werewolves.”
“Now I know why the Essex witch hunt and Salem witch trials favor them in being burned at stake rather than just hanging them,” Cyrill breathed.
“Yes, fire is a cleansing element. That’s why I love it.” Flames danced in her fingertips and slowly turned into water that swirled into the air and soaked Cyrill’s entirety.
“You need a bath, Cy. Blood may be thicker than water but water is much more refreshing than blood, at least when we’re talking about bathing and cleaning.”
Their laughter reverberated throughout the whole of Vesta’s house.
“Can I use your shower?” Cyrill Emerson Clarke asked.
“Sure, Cy. While you’re bathing, I will put this witch’s ashes into the chimney. At least, I can make use of her,” Vesta said, smirking.
“And I heard what she said about Maebh and Romaine,” Vesta added. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright, Vesta. Anyone can betray anyone, especially when one is a creature of the night.”
“I think we should tell, Rozelyn and—”
“No,” he briefly answered.
“Why?”
The two’s gaze met and Vesta already knew what Cyrill meant.
“Knowing Rozelyn, I guess she already knew all along,” he stated.
“And she was just hiding it. Rozelyn should be the Queen of vampires and werewolves for her cunning mind and tactics,” said Vesta.
“She’s a Thaumaturge. She’s already the fucking Queen of all the creatures of the night, including the blood witches and healers,” Cyrill declared.