The Vampire & Her Witch

Jocelynn’s hand trembled as she grasped the knife, her fingers barely touching the handle as though afraid that accepting it from Owain would seal some irrevocable fate. Behind her veil, Owain couldn’t see her expression, but he could read the hesitation in her body, the last vestiges of resistance warring with the desperate need for vengeance that he had so carefully cultivated.

”It’s alright,” he murmured, pressing the knife firmly into her hand. ”I know this is hard. I know you’ve never done anything like this before. But I’ll be right here with you, guiding you, teaching you. Just like when we cut away his robes. Remember how I helped you then? This is no different. Just follow my lead, and I’ll show you exactly what to do.”

He positioned her hand properly on the knife, his fingers wrapping around hers to demonstrate the correct grip.

”You’ll want to hold it in a reverse grip, like this,” Owain instructed, turning her hand so that the blade pointed downward from her fist. ”See? When you hold it this way, you can use the full strength of your arm, driving down with the weight of your entire body behind each strike. It’s not about finesse or precision, it’s about force and repetition.”

He guided her through the motion slowly, raising her arm and then bringing it down in a controlled strike at empty air, showing her the proper angle and technique. He wasn’t teaching her how to fight with a knife, or how to face an opponent; he was teaching her how to slaughter vermin, and doing so required even less skill than breaking nuts open with a mallet.

”The strength comes from here,” he said, placing his free hand on her shoulder and upper arm. ”You’re not trying to stab, you’re trying to hammer. Each blow should land with all the force you can manage. The blade is sharp enough that even a shallow cut will slice cleanly through skin and into the flesh beneath.”

”And because the blade is so short,” he continued, like a patient tutor teaching her how to do sums. ”You don’t have to worry about hitting anything vital. You can strike again and again, and each wound will add to his suffering without bringing it to a premature end.”

Owain could feel the way she was shaking, and he could sense the war raging inside her between the horror of what he was asking and the desperate hunger for revenge that Percivus’s torture had planted in her soul. She was so close. Just a little more encouragement, just a little more guidance, and she would cross that final threshold from victim to avenger.

He’d needed help from Kaefin his first time as well. After all, it was easy to train to kill monstrous demons, but much harder to take the life of someone who looked frail and helpless, especially when you knew the person you were killing. But Jocelynn needed to do this, or she’d forever be a haunted, frightened mouse, recoiling at the slightest touch, and that was something that Owain could never accept.

She belonged to him, but Percivus had nearly taken her away from him. Already, Owain had seen the way she recoiled at his touch, because in her mind, she wasn’t feeling Owain’s touch, she was remembering the way Percivus touched her, and until she put an end to the Inquisitor’s miserable, pathetic life, Owain would never be able to enjoy the comforts of her body without her thinking of another man while he did.

”Now,” Owain said gently, positioning her behind Percivus where the Inquisitor’s bare back was exposed, the pale skin marked only by the small cuts from when the knife had slipped during the removal of his robes. ”I’m going to have you start from behind him. That way, you don’t have to see his face while you work. You can focus on what you’re doing without having to meet his eyes, without seeing his reactions. It’ll be easier that way, I promise.”

He placed his hands over hers on the knife, positioning them both at the proper height and angle. They would do this together, and then, she would turn to him for comfort, just like she had after her sister died, and he would welcome her into his arms again. Percivus would die, Jocelynn’s nightmare would end, and everything would finally be right in the world again.

”Are you ready?” Owain whispered, his breath warm against her ear. ”You can do this, Jocelynn. You can make him pay for everything he did to you, everything he took from you. This is your moment. This is your vengeance. And I’m right here with you, every step of the way.”

For a long moment, nothing happened. Jocelynn stood frozen, the knife raised in her trembling hand, Owain’s fingers wrapped around hers in patient encouragement. Behind the gag, Percivus remained silent and still, his body tense with the knowledge of what was about to happen but offering no struggle, no resistance.

Whether it was because he wanted to cling to dignity in these final moments or because he’d truly given up, neither Owain nor Jocelynn could say, but it didn’t matter anyway because after several moments that seemed much longer than they really were, Jocelynn finally moved.

The first strike was hesitant, and the blade barely broke the Inquisitor’s skin, drawing only a thin line of red across the pale canvas of Percivus’s back. But Owain’s hands guided hers immediately back up, positioning for another strike.

”Again,” he encouraged softly. ”Harder this time. Remember, you’re hammering, not cutting. Put your weight into it.”

The second strike landed with more force, the wide blade slicing a shallow furrow that welled immediately with blood.

”That’s it,” Owain praised, his voice warm with approval. ”Just like that. Again.”

The third strike. The fourth. Each one landing with increasing confidence as muscle memory began to override conscious thought, as the rhythm of the violence became almost meditative in its repetition.

”Remember what he did to you and make sure he suffers for it. He stripped you,” Owain reminded her quietly, his voice a soft accompaniment to the wet sounds of blade meeting flesh. ”He humiliated you. He starved you. He worked you like a common servant. He let Eleanor die in agony just a few cells away from here.”

The fifth strike. The sixth. Jocelynn’s breathing had changed, becoming ragged and harsh behind her veil.

”Tell him,” Owain urged, hoping to draw out all of her lingering feelings in this one moment of devastating violence. ”Tell him what he took from you. Tell him what you’re making him pay for. Make sure he knows exactly why he’s about to die.”

Owain’s words were sweet and calm, whispering into her ear and sinking deep into her heart as he guided her hand. And when he spoke, something broke open inside Jocelynn, some dam that had been holding back the flood of rage and grief and violation.

The strikes continued, the rhythm established now, her arm rising and falling like the hand of a carpenter driving nails as she painted Percivus’s back with shallow cuts, and the words came pouring out of her in a torrent of anguish.

”You took her from me,” Jocelynn gasped, her voice raw and breaking. ”You took Eleanor. She was... she was the only real friend left in my life, the only person who...” she sobbed, struggling to get the words out as she hammered at the Inquisitor’s back with the knife.

Eleanor knew that Jocelynn wasn’t a good person. She knew that Jocelynn had betrayed her sister out of petty jealousy for a man who didn’t deserve her love or affection. She knew, but she loved Jocelynn anyway. She believed that Jocelynn could redeem herself from what she’d done, and in the end, she sacrificed herself just to give Jocelynn that chance.

”You left her there,” Jocelynn wailed as she struck again, blood splattering her hand as it flowed from yet another shallow cut. ”You left her there to die...”

Strike. Strike. Strike.

”She was kind,” Jocelynn choked out, tears streaming down her face behind the veil as the knife rose and fell in her hand. ”She was gentle and good, and she never hurt anyone, and you just... You just let her waste away! You could have helped her. You could have... You could have... But you didn’t care about her at all. You just wanted to destroy her! You just wanted to... to...

Strike. Strike. Strike.

Somewhere in the midst of the blood and the hot tears that spilled from her eyes, Percivus faded away in Jocelynn’s vision as his body overlapped with Owain’s. Owain had taken someone precious away from her, too. Owain didn’t care about Ashlynn any more than Percivus cared about Eleanor.

Strike. Strike. Strike.

The blood was flowing freely now, running down Percivus’s back in dozens of small rivulets, each one originating from one of the shallow cuts that Jocelynn’s blade had carved into his flesh. The Inquisitor’s body had gone rigid, muscles tensed against the pain, but still he made no sound behind the gag, still he offered no struggle against the chains that held him suspended and helpless.

”I wasn’t a monster,” Jocelynn sobbed, the knife never ceasing its terrible rhythm. ”I was just... I was just a silly girl who wanted... wanted a hero of her own... All I ever wanted,” she wailed. ”Was just a happy life,” she sobbed, her eyes too filled with tears and her heart too flooded with pain to realise that Owain had stepped back, no longer guiding her hand as she poured out her grievances.

Strike. Strike. Strike.

”I loved her,” she said, and even Jocelynn couldn’t say whether she meant Ashlynn or Eleanor. She loved them both, and she’d lost them both, and both times, it had been her fault. Her fault, and at the hands of these men... ”I loved her, and you took her away from me!”

Owain stood behind her, smiling as he watched her give vent to the fury and pain in her heart. She didn’t need his help anymore, had found her own rhythm, her own strength, her own terrible momentum. But he remained close, watching with satisfaction as she crossed that final threshold, as the last of her innocence bled away with each strike of the blade.

The grapes had been harvested.

And they were every bit as sweet as he’d hoped they would be.