Witch Bewitched (COMPLETE)

Chapter 7

Royle's cheek still stung. The girl was more irritating to deal with than he'd hoped. Considering her sheltered life, he hadn't expected for her to be so difficult to manage. Though, he supposed, he should have known by the way she snuck out of her home to spite her own father.

Torren was still struggling to hold in his laughter. "She's a wild one, that. Who ever thought it was a good idea to lock her up?" He sobered with a cough. "But, really, I can't believe she's a witch. Did her parents know?"

Royle relayed the events that took place at the Carpenter residence. He supposed he pitied the girl to an extent, though she seemed to have grown well enough for someone sheltered her whole life. His cheek tingled. His pity dissipated.

"Poor girl," Torren said, shaking his head. "To think her own parents lied to her. Well, now it makes sense why she sneaks out all the time, doesn't it?"

"How exactly did you meet her?" Royle had no idea how the lieutenant could stand her or what it was about her that he liked enough to look past her magic.

"How did I meet her? Now that's a story, isn't it?" Torren laughed. "Funny thing too. I'm sure it was her enchanting that got her into trouble in the first place. An old farmer's wife thought she was stealing when he gave her fruits for no charge. Accused her of trying to steal her husband when he defended her, too."

"I see..." Royle frowned. Her bewitching might pose to be a problem. If Tika's information was anything to go by, her spell would only get more erratic and effective as time went by. Something about magic growing with the witch. It was the reason they commonly measured power with time. Bewitching could take from a few hours to a few years of magic to cast, depending on the situation. More time meant a stronger spell, though it would also be more obvious once it wore off. Tika had explained more, but that was the extent that Royle could understand.

Torren stacked their plates and began to do the washing. Royle took the time to brew a cup of coffee using an old stove that still somehow worked. He settled back onto his seat, absentmindedly rubbing his cheek. That slap had angered him more than it hurt him. He would need to get her straightened out in the carriage ride the next day.

"Coffee?" Torren took a seat, though he hadn't gotten a drink. "At this time of night?"

"There are still a few things I need to take care of." Old plans to go over, precautions to take, possible issues to fix. Though, tonight was a night he couldn't sleep, no matter how little business he had.

"That's a bad habit of yours." Torren clicked his tongue. "Anyway, I think I'll turn in for the night. You try to think of how not to provoke Misa, alright? She'll need all the help she can get, and that prickly personality of yours will only make her harder to deal with."

"Are you giving me orders, Lieutenant?"

Torren shot him a good-humoured grin. "I'm giving you advice, sir. Why do you think she doesn't think twice before going against her father? What I've found in my years of knowing her is that the more you try to control her, the more difficult she becomes to handle. Be aware of that. Goodnight!"

Royle was left in silence, pondering over what he had gotten himself into. For his plans to go seamlessly, he needed cooperation. Sighing, he took a sip of his coffee. The clock ticked loudly, though it was several hours off. He forced the thoughts of the Carpenter girl to the back of his mind. It wasn't difficult. Not when there were more important things to worry about.

Nisha. His grip tightened around the handle of the cup. One of the vilest, most dangerous witches in the country. He had gotten news that his informant had been caught siphoning information about the witches. It wasn't a surprise to find that he had gone missing. It was unfortunate, but Ramor had known what he was getting into.

"I'll catch her," Royle muttered. "And make her pay."

The dark liquid rippled as he moved. It reflected a hot orange glow from the lamp hanging overhead, blazing into a destructive fire. Screams were pouring into his ears, the scent of blood, the cold hands on his face.

Something shattered and the fire scalded his hand. Royle snapped out of it, jumping from his seat as hot liquid spilled over the table.

"Fück!"

He found an old rag by the sink and wiped the mess. A piece of the cup had broken off, unable to take the pressure Royle had on the handle. The staircase creaked, and Royle grabbed the broken pieces to hide in the sink along with the soaked rag that now smelled of coffee.

A mewl caught his attention, and he scowled though he was relieved. It was only the cat. He eyed the thing suspiciously. Sleek, black fur having no right being as glossy as it was, a lithe, flexible body, and blue marble eyes narrowing down at him as if it were a queen. This creature held an intelligence that disturbed him, and Royle, with effort, ignored it.

He grabbed another cup of coffee, making sure not to have his grip so tight this time. The fire didn't reappear, and he was able to think past the day of screams. Back to the peaceful green pastures, where everything had been right. He let out a deep sigh. The emptiness that plagued him had been filled momentarily when he found the witch he was looking for. But now, in the quiet of the night, under the scrutiny of a scrawny black cat, Royle wondered what the point of it all was.

He drank his coffee, mindful of the heat. It wasn't often these thoughts came around. It wasn't often Royle let himself think of anything other than his plans. His plans. So much to do, so little time. Now that the witch killer was gone and Misa Carpenter found, Royle could focus on the most important task at hand. He pondered if he should hire another informant then thought better of it. The girl would take that role.

His only concern now was if she was capable enough to handle it. He thought of her ill-tempered outbursts, her childish impulses, her stubborn demeanor, and heaved a sigh. It exhausted him just thinking about keeping her under control. Hopefully, the training at the purgehouse would help discipline her. What mattered was that he was getting close.

"I'll be home soon," he murmured to himself, a promise that he intended to keep. "When this is finally over."

Royle pushed himself up, having finished his drink, grabbed the lamp, and went up to his room. The cat, to his irritation, followed him like a guard, and hissed from in front of its mistress's room to warn him away.

Royle snorted. "You are intolerable." He caught himself and scowled. Was he really talking to a cat? He shook his head. Ridiculous! Glaring at the feline, he made a point to enter his room.

As if he would sneak into her room! What a ludicrous idea.

He set the lamp on the bare desk and rummaged through the case full of documents. He shuffled through the papers for a new identity, a recruit form, a recommendation letter, and among others, a contract. Good, there was nothing missing. All these he would have to go through with her. He wondered if now was a good time but decided against it when he thought of the hissing cat outside her door. In the morning then. He checked the case for a pen, uncertain if he'd packed one, and was satisfied when he spotted it snugly tucked away.

Royle shoved the forgeries back into the case and left a handful of classified documents on the desk. He had just begun to review them when a boulder of exhaustion crashed into him. It was sudden, crushing him under its weight.

"What the—" He rubbed his eyes as the words on the page blurred. There was a tingle of energy in the air, and Royle immediately realised what was going on. "No, not now. Not tonight."

A voice, no, it was more so a meaning, rang clear in his mind. Sleep.

Royle fought against the spell, but he was already losing. Days of losing sleep had maximised its effect. Coffee could do nothing to combat it. He panicked. "Tika, please. Not now."

A strange calm spread over his mind, and he understood without hearing a voice. You will be peaceful tonight. Let me help you. You need rest.

"I can take care of myself." Royle made an effort to stand. He swayed, his vision blurring. The bed never looked so inviting. There was no fighting it. Tika's sleeping spells were impossible to resist. Royle had to lie down before he collapsed where he stood.

The lamp burned out. "Shìt. Damn you, Tika."

He had no choice. In the dark, his exhaustion tripled; the weight he carried with him could have shattered his shoulders. The bed was a few steps away, just a little more, and he barely managed to make it as he collapsed. His vision tunneled and darkness claimed him long before he hit the mattress.

His dreams were filled with bright green pastures and laughter that had been lost so long ago.