Fire in the Cave (3 page)

The witch-girl bit back her own moan, held herself still against the
little shiver that rocked through her as she watched. The nameless
girl who had been Sparrow was unconscious, lying on her side on the
fallen leaves. Black-dog was pulling out of her, drawing his shaft
out slowly. The unconscious girl whimpered as his cock-head pulled
out, her cruelly used little cunt finally able to relax. There was a
faint pattering sound as his seed leaked out of her, falling to the
leaves below, a trail of silver in the moonlight. Black-dog stalked
around her and kneeled by her head. He stroked her hair softly,
tenderly. Then he reached down to her chin and gently opened her
mouth. The witch-girl watched her lips part, saw the tip of her
tongue peek out. Black-dog held her head firmly in his hands,
shifted his hips closer, and rested his hard, wet shaft against her
lips. Slowly, he began to move, drawing his length back and forth
over her lips and tongue, carefully pushing his head into her mouth.
Her eyelids flickered, but she did not move, did not make a sound, as
he used her mouth to clean himself.

The witch-girl held her breath as she watched, trying to understand,
trying to read Black-dog’s intentions. At first she could see
nothing; he was looking down at the woman he’d turned into a
dog, his face hidden by shadows and he long, dark hair. But then he
raised his head, turned his face up toward the moon. She watched his
expression in the pale light. Satisfaction… no. Relief.
Relief from a great pain. Temporary, and incomplete. He looked like
a man with a thorn through his heart, and the thorn had pulled back,
just a little, for a little while.

The witch-girl sank to all fours, the earth cool against her hands as
she crept backward out of the bush. The dogs watched her go, eyes
shining in the dark, but they made no sound as she slipped away.

The night air was cool as she padded through the forest, but her pale
skin felt hot and flushed. Her toes gripped at the leaves and earth
beneath her bare feet.

She shook her head, trying to clear it. It was a wicked thing she
had seen. Black-dog had taken a girl, a woman, taken away her name,
made her into a mindless animal, used her, hurt her. Had it hurt?
She thought of Black-dog’s broad, hard shaft pressing into
Sparrow’s tight little cunt, and a shiver ran through her. It
must have hurt, surely.

It was nearly black magic, what he had done. Taking and giving
names, that was a witch thing. When a child became a woman or a man,
it was the witch’s duty to dream a true dream and give them a
true name. Taking the name away, shaping a human mind into an animal
one… those were dangerous secrets, not for men to know of.

The witch-girl leaned against a tree, remembering the hunger in his
dark eyes. Hungry, strong, clever. He was dangerous. He would do
such things again, take another girl, force her mind out of her, use
her to satisfy himself.

He was her responsibility. The hunters, the warriors, protected the
tribe from outside threats. But spirits, cruelty, bad blood and
madness, those were for the witch to deal with.

She stepped out of the forest onto the sandy shore of the lake,
thinking. The moon danced on the water.

Poison. She could send him to the ancestors, let them deal with him.
One kind of mushroom would make him waste away, sap his strength
over many days until he died of sickness. Another would take him
quickly, torture him with wracking pains and visions, as if a hundred
angry ghosts were tearing his body and mind apart. He would be dead
within hours.

She thought of him dead, his body still and cold upon the sand, his
dark eyes empty. She felt a cold knot in her stomach. No. She did
not want that. He was strong and clever, the tribe could use him.
His death would be a tragedy, a waste. She would find a better way.

She would bind him.

She sank her toes in the cool sand, feeling her control return. She
breathed cool night air and bared her teeth in the moonlight, smiling
at the darkness and deep water. She was a witch, and she knew the
ways. She would wrap his hunger around him like a leash. She would
lock his eyes onto the curves of her own body, so that he could not
look away. She would feed him sweet and bitter potions, and ride him
in his dreams at night. She would make him groan and howl with need
for her, and only her. She would punish him for making women into
beasts. She would make him beg.

Unless he was stronger. Unless he turned the dreams back against
her, unless he kissed and touched and broke her, unless she shivered
and went limp and blissfully surrendered to being his.

The moon above the lake was exactly half-full. Half light, half
night. Within a month, the witch-girl knew, one of them would be the
other’s slave.

“
T
he spirits are simple-minded,” said the
witch-girl. She scattered another handful of herbs over the coals.
“Confuse them, and they become frightened and angry. Feed them
pleasure, and they learn to like things easily enough. You had no
problems last time?”

Highhawk smiled. She was short-haired, long-limbed; her teeth were a
bright flash of white in the smoky hut. “The hunt went well.
My spear did not break, my legs did not tire, my prey did not sense
me. If the spirits were angered by a woman hunting with the men,
they did not show it. Your magic works well.”

The witch-girl raised an eyebrow and glanced up at the painted skull
on the wall. “Of course.” She breathed in the sweet
smoke of the herbs, then reached into a wooden bowl to cover her
fingers with ochre. Eyes closed, she carefully spread the ruddy
pigment on her face. She smiled beneath her paint. “Did I not
learn my craft from Grandmother Rattlebones, who learned it from Old
Water Woman, who learned it from the Witch of Thorns, who stole it
from beneath a stone in the dark before time began?”

Highhawk laughed. “You did, you did! And even without their
stories, you are my wisest and cleverest friend.” She leaned
forward, smoke curling around her, and grinned. “And my
prettiest.”

The witch-girl stuck out her tongue. “Stop that. This ritual
is important, it’s not just play and pleasure. You can praise
my beauty afterwards.” She reached for another bowl and
continued painting herself, drawing lines of soot along her brows,
blackening her lips. “And what of the men?”

“What about them?” Highhawk leaned back, half-vanishing
in the gloom. The hut was hung with vines and branches, an indoor
forest.

“The spirits accept you as a hunter, and give you no trouble.
But do the men?” The witch-girl’s face was a painted
mask, now, a mix of woman, deer, and gazelle. She reached for white
chalk dust and added spots.

“Ha! The men are no trouble, not any more. White-stag and
Black-dog are no fools, and do not allow foolishness in their
hunters.” She threw her head back proudly, the red firelight
shining on the curve of her throat, the long muscles of her arms, the
swell of her breasts beneath her leather vest. The witch-girl ran
one eye down her, admiring. Nice to have pretty friends, indeed.
“My aim with a spear is as sharp as White-stag’s,”
said the huntress, “though he can throw farther. And I am as
silent a scout as Black-dog. Women, men, that only matters in the
cave. In the forest, we are hunters.”

“Good. Lean close.” Highhawk leaned forward, smiling,
and the witch-girl painted her with her fingers. Black soot
surrounded Highhawk’s eyes, so they shined out of darkness.
Her lips were smooth and soft under the witch-girl’s fingers as
she stained them red. The witch-girl stroked downward, drawing a
broad red bar down Highhawk’s throat, toward her chest. She
could feel the beating of Highhawk’s heart under her
fingertips, feel the rush of air in her throat as Highhawk sighed
happily. The witch-girl set her hands on her friend’s stomach,
then slid them up the tan, smooth skin and under under Highhawk’s
vest. She shrugged it off, baring her small breasts. Hidden behind
her lips, the witch-girl bit her tongue. Highhawk stretched like a
cat as the witch-girl stroked along her arms, many small strokes,
feathers of white and black. Yellow for her hands. Black for her
fingers. Wings, talons, a mouth marked with blood.

“Hold still,” the witch-girl muttered. Highhawk
chuckled, and stilled herself as the witch-girl moved behind her.
Smooth fingertips trailed lines of cool, wet pigment down either side
of Highhawk’s neck, over her shoulders, down her back,
swirling, stroking. She held her breath as she felt the witch-girl’s
fingers run in one long pull straight down her spine. She gasped,
shivering. The witch-girl growled, and Highhawk grinned and held
herself still again. The fingertips reached forward, around
Highhawk’s slender chest. Highhawk clenched her teeth, her
breath quick in her nose, as the witch-girl stroked cool lines around
and over her breasts, fingertips sinking into the velvet-soft skin,
lingering and circling around her nipples.

“Not fair,” she muttered, arms trembling slightly,
fighting to stay still.

The witch-girl threw a handful of herbs onto the fire, and
strong-scented smoke billowed around them, curling around the
branches and vines. The shadows grew deeper, and the walls seemed to
pull away, vanishing into the gloom, leaving them in forest. The
witch-girl stood, stepping away from the kneeling hunter, breathing
the smoke deeply. She could feel the spirits beginning to arrive,
rustling in the leaves, twisting in the smoke, waking in the back of
her mind. She breathed them deep into her chest, welcoming them,
opening herself to them as she lost herself in the maze of vines.
Rabbit and boar, stag and doe... she felt the beast-spirit coming,
the primal thing that cast those creatures as its shadows into the
world. It began to fill her, opening her eyes wide, filling her nose
with scents of fruit and grass and earth and blood. She spoke, while
she still could.

“Do you want me, Highhawk?”

“Yes.” The hunter was rocking where she kneeled, smoke
twisting around her as another spirit rose into her. Her voice was a
rough growl, echoing through the forest. “Yes.”

“Then hunt me.”

Highhawk stood, shoulders rising and falling as she breathed. She
slipped into the vines and vanished.

The witch-girl stepped carefully, silently, through the smoky forest.
The beast-spirit was riding her, and she gave it control, let it
turn her head from side to side, staring through the gloom,
listening. She felt drunk with the spirit’s animal simplicity,
eager and afraid, hot coals warming her chest, lightning shivering
down her spine. She grinned, leaning forward, baring her teeth and
panting.

She slipped through the woods. She felt quick, alert; she could see
the little ghosts in the shadows, and feel the brush of small, simple
spirits on her skin as she pushed through the vines and smoke. She
could feel, too, an echo of what was coming, a heat in her core, a
warmth between her legs when her thighs brushed past each other. She
wanted to run from it. She wanted to run toward it.

There was a sound behind her. The witch-girl froze, perfect
stillness settling over her.

The hunter stepped closer. The witch-girl felt hot breath on her
skin, on her back, felt the touch of a hand on her neck… panic
and desire flashed through her like a lightning strike, and she ran.

They crashed through the forest, tearing through the vines, the smoky
air hot in their throats. The witch-girl was ecstatic, desperate to
escape, desperate to be caught, the leaves whipping over her skin
promising the touch of hands later.

A vine caught her foot and she went down, falling forward onto a heap
of leaves and furs beside the fire. At once, the hunter was on her,
body pressing down on her back, firm hands curling around her thigh,
her throat, the touch burning with sweet warmth. She was caught,
caught, caught, and she threw back her head and let out a long,
whimpering cry. The hunter’s mouth closed on the side of her
neck, and she knew it was over, she would be bitten, her blood
spilled, her life taken. But the bite was gentle. She whined. The
teeth released, and the bite turned to a kiss, tongue tracking up the
side of her throat to her jaw, licking and nibbling her ear. And the
hand on her thigh was moving, the fearful-hot touch of it sliding up
her side and then around to her stomach. And then down, down, to her
hidden thatch of curled hair. Highhawk was whispering to her, words
she couldn’t understand, and then a finger slipped into hot
wetness and her entire body jerked.

Highhawk held her down, caught and captured, her heart beating
against the witch-girl’s back, her small, soft breasts pressing
against her as their bodies gently rocked. The hunter had one hand
on her neck, holding her still so the hunter could lick and nibble
her throat. The other hand was cupping her mound, two fingers
sliding over her bud, pressing and rocking, never slowing, never
releasing, never letting the core of heat inside her stop building.
Highhawk’s skin was hot, smooth, a little slippery with sweat
and pigment as she moved atop her prey.

The witch-girl turned her head, lips parted, eyes open wide in her
painted deer-mask. A quiver of fear went through her as she saw the
hunter’s face, the dark-circled eyes, the bloody red down her
throat… Highhawk’s left hand slid up the back of the
witch-girl’s head, fingers tangled in her hair. She held her
prey still and leaned in for a hungry kiss. Lips brushed against
each other, then pressed, the hunter’s tongue slipping between
them to seek and find and tangle with its mate.

She gasped for breath as Highhawk released her, then whined as the
hunter’s mouth moved downward, along her throat, kissing the
hollow of her shoulder, tongue licking eagerly. The witch-girl’s
head rolled as she rode the sensations, baring her throat in
surrender as the steady, sliding rhythm of the hand between her legs
stroked away her resistance.