A Word with Clarissa

The crowd began to disperse.

Not all at once. Not cleanly. Witches drifted away from the center in small, **** clusters—some toward the fires, some toward each other, some toward the shadows between the fallen stones. The tension that had gripped the clearing did not dissolve. It merely redirected. Shifted from open panic to something quieter. More purposeful. The kind of quiet that precedes action, not relief.

Voices murmured in low tones. Strategies were being formed. Alliances tested. The old witch in the bone mask had been silenced, but her words had found soil. Every woman present could feel them taking root.

Clarissa stayed where she was.

She hadn't moved from the motorcycle. Her jacket still hung open. Her bare chest rose and fell with slow, steady breaths. The firelight painted her skin in shades of gold and amber. She looked completely at ease—as if she hadn't just nearly torn another witch apart with her bare hands.

The High Priestess watched her.

Not glanced. Not looked. Watched. Her dark eyes rested on Clarissa with an attention that the other witches rarely received. The seconds noticed. The crowd noticed. The bone-masked witch, retreating into the shadows, noticed most of all.

The High Priestess waited.

The clearing slowly emptied around them. Witches melted into the tree line. Fires burned down to glowing coals. The moon climbed higher, colder, whiter.

Then, when the last of the stragglers had faded into the dark, the High Priestess spoke.

"Clarissa."

One word. Quiet. But it carried.

"A word."

Clarissa pushed off from the bike. The leather of her pants creaked softly as she moved. She didn't bother closing her jacket. She didn't bother looking at the seconds who flanked the High Priestess, watching her approach with wary, calculating eyes.

She walked between the standing stones.

Her boots crunched on old leaves and broken rock. The sound was loud in the sudden silence—the only sound, aside from the whisper of the wind through the pines.

The High Priestess's seconds parted. Reluctantly. One of them—the tall, gray-haired woman—held Clarissa's gaze for a moment before stepping aside. A warning in her eyes. A reminder of where the lines were drawn.

Clarissa ignored her.

She stepped into the inner circle.

The High Priestess raised her hand. Palm outward. Fingers spread.

She spoke a single word.

The air changed.

It thickened. Pressed inward. The sounds of the clearing—the distant crackle of dying fires, the whisper of wind through the stones, the murmur of witches still lingering at the edges—all of it faded. Died. Vanished.

Silence.

Not the absence of sound. The presence of something else. Something that swallowed noise and held it captive.

The silence spell settled around them like a second skin.

The High Priestess circled Clarissa slowly.

Her bare feet made no sound. The grass did not rustle. The world outside the circle might as well have ceased to exist. There was only the two of them, the cold white moon overhead, and the soft, steady rhythm of the High Priestess's breathing.

She walked a full circle. Then stopped.

"You still make enemies with such ease," she said. "That hasn't changed."

Clarissa shrugged. One shoulder. Unbothered.

"I have a gift."

The High Priestess tilted her head. Her dark eyes traced the line of Clarissa's jaw. The curve of her neck. The way her short orange hair fell against her temples, still slightly mussed from the helmet. The faint sheen of milk at her nipples, catching the moonlight.

"You're incorrigible."

"I know."

Clarissa shrugged again. The gesture was small. Almost dismissive. But her eyes stayed on the High Priestess—warm, attentive, waiting in a way she never waited for anyone else.

The High Priestess shook her head slowly. Not in anger. In something closer to resignation. The kind of resignation that comes from loving something you cannot change and no longer want to.

"Decades," she said. "Decades of watching you walk into rooms and set them on fire. And still, you've never learned to walk softly."

"Walking softly is for women who have something to fear."

"And you don't?"

Clarissa's lips curved. Not a smirk this time. Something smaller. More honest.

"No, Mother. I don't."

The High Priestess held her gaze for a long moment. Then she sighed—a soft exhale, almost tender.

"We have much to discuss before the moon sets."

She walked around Clarissa again. Once. Twice. Her eyes traveled over the glossy black-orange leather pants. The open jacket. The bare chest. The slight, involuntary tremor in Clarissa's breathing as the High Priestess moved behind her.

She stopped in front of her.

Reached out.

Her fingers brushed Clarissa's left breast. The touch was light at first—almost teasing. Then she squeezed. Gently. Testing the tissue. The fullness. The weight.

Clarissa didn't flinch. Didn't pull away. Her breathing remained steady, though something flickered in her eyes.

The High Priestess pinched the nipple between her thumb and forefinger.

Sharp. Deliberate.

Clarissa's lips parted. But she made no sound.

The High Priestess nodded. A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

"It looks," she said, "as if the virus hasn't troubled you too much."

"I adapt quickly."

The High Priestess glanced toward the other side of the clearing—at the dying fires, at the shadows where the witches had vanished, at the motorcycle still standing at the edge of the stones.

"Just like with riding that 'infernal' machine?"

Clarissa's lips curved.

"I like it. You should try it sometime."

"I prefer traditional methods of travel." The High Priestess turned back to face her. Her expression shifted—became more serious. "And speaking of tradition… how is your Book of Shadows?"

"I write in it from time to time."

"You haven't kept it in electronic form, have you? In that… cloud…?"

Clarissa almost laughed.

"No, Mother. On this matter, I am also a traditionalist. It's safe. Hidden."

The High Priestess held her gaze. Something shifted in her expression—a softening that she would never have shown in front of the others. A crack in the mask of authority.

"Good."

A pause.

"I have a task for you."

Clarissa waited. Her posture didn't change, but something behind her eyes sharpened.

"You will go to the coven of the Thorned Path."

The pause told her everything.

"Those sadistic, murderous bitches?"

The High Priestess's eyes narrowed.

"Clarissa."

"What? It's an accurate description."

"You just threatened to rip another witch's mask off and shove it down her throat." The High Priestess's voice was calm, almost conversational. "Five minutes ago. In front of the entire coven. You were three seconds from drawing blood."

Clarissa opened her mouth.

Closed it.

"I promised to shove it somewhere else entirely," Clarissa remarked.

The High Priestess tilted her head. "And they are the sadistic ones?"

A pause.

Then Clarissa's lips curved. A small, **** smile.

"Fair point."

"Fair point," the High Priestess echoed. "Now. The Thorned Path. Do not speak of our sisters in the Horned Lord that way. Yes, they are orthodox. They are harsh. They are unforgiving. They are not sadistic—they are practical. There is a difference, though I know subtlety has never been your strong suit."

Clarissa shrugged. "I get results."

"You get results because I clean up after you." The High Priestess stepped closer. "Go to them. Be respectful. Be quiet. They may have answers. Answers regarding the nature of the misfortune that has befallen us. Let them talk. And for once in your existence—do not start a fight."

Clarissa held her gaze. Said nothing.

The High Priestess sighed.

"I have certain suspicions. An old enemy. Very old."

"The Inquisition?" Clarissa's eyebrows rose. "You think they infected four billion women just to catch a handful of witches?"

The High Priestess raised her eyebrows in return.

Clarissa looked at the ground. Ran her tongue over her teeth. Thought about it.

"Well, you're right. All things considered, a virus that's harmless to ordinary women, with minor—but non-lethal—side effects, isn't the worst crime in their catalogue."

"I'm glad you understand me."

The High Priestess stepped closer.

Her voice dropped. Not softer—more intimate. The voice she used when ceremony was finished and she was ready to speak woman to woman. Mother to daughter. Lover to… whatever Clarissa was to her.

"So enough loafing about, Clarissa. I need my fiercest bloodhound again. But first—do exactly what I told the others. Establish a servant. A guardian. An apprentice. Whoever you want, as long as he is well bound by a curse and keeps you at full strength. You must not waste time. You must not risk chance encounters."

She paused. Let the words settle.

"Do you understand?"

Clarissa's expression shifted.

The amusement drained away. What remained was older. Harder. A face that had seen things the younger witches could not imagine. A face that had lost things.

"Do you know what you're asking of me?"

"Yes. I remember your… loss very well. Nevertheless, this is my will. Please respect it."

Clarissa stared at her for a long moment.

The silence stretched between them—thick with things unsaid. With history. With the ghost of someone who was no longer there.

Then Clarissa's mouth twisted into a bitter smile.

She bowed her head.

"Of course, Mother."

The gesture was formal. The acknowledgment of authority. The acceptance of a command. But there was something else in the way she held the position—a question she was afraid to ask. A wound she was afraid to open.

"Mother," she whispered. "Is there any chance you could give me your blessing?"

The High Priestess did not hesitate.

"Yes."

She stepped forward.

Her hands came up—cupped Clarissa's face. Palms against her jaw. Fingers threading into the short orange hair. She lifted Clarissa's head until their eyes met.

Then she kissed her.

It was not a gentle kiss.

It was not sisterly. It was not ceremonial. It was deep and slow and deliberate—a claiming and a blessing and a reminder all at once. The High Priestess's lips parted against Clarissa's. Her tongue moved with the confidence of someone who had done this many times before and expected to do it many times again.

Clarissa's hands came up. Gripped the High Priestess's hips.

She kissed her back.

The firelight caught them both—the ageless High Priestess and the orange-haired rebel. Their bodies bare from the waist up. Their chests pressing together. Milk from both of them slick between their skin. The silence spell muffled everything—the world outside did not exist.

When they finally broke apart, the High Priestess was smiling.

Not the cold, commanding smile she wore in front of the coven. Something warmer. Something almost tender.

Clarissa's expression was harder to read.

Grateful. Resentful. Something else entirely. Something that looked like grief, carefully hidden.

"Go," the High Priestess said. "Find your guardian. Choose wisely. Then ride east."

Clarissa nodded.

She turned and walked back through the circles of stone, past the few remaining witches who pretended not to have watched, past the fires that had burned down to embers, toward her motorcycle.

She didn't look back.

The engine roared to life.

She was gone before anyone could say another word.