Clarissa - MC [Picture]

There should be Clarissa's picture above. If it's not there, please let me know.

Clarissa stopped the bike in the middle of the outer ring.

She swung her leg over and dismounted.

The firelight found her.

She was stunning in a way that made other witches uncomfortable. Fair skin, smooth and unmarked. A body that managed to be both athletic and lush—narrow waist, wide hips, curves that her glossy black-and-orange leather pants did nothing to hide. Her jacket was the same combination: orange panels, black panels, a prominent zipper that she was already pulling down with both gloved hands.

She wasn't shy about it.

The jacket came open.

Beneath it, she wore nothing.

Her breasts were large, round, perfectly shaped—the natural teardrop form that settled heavy and full. Her skin was smooth, pale, almost luminous in the firelight. Her nipples were pink, perky, already beaded with a faint sheen of milk that caught the flames.

She pulled her helmet off.

Short orange hair. A bob with soft bangs that framed her face. Blue-green eyes, large and expressive, with lashes that belonged on a Renaissance painting. Full lips. And an expression that was somewhere between amused and challenging.

She looked directly at the High Priestess.

The two women held each other's gaze across the broken stones.

Clarissa let her jacket hang open. She made no move to cover herself. She was not here to be modest. She was here because she was always here, at every gathering, even when no one had invited her, especially when no one had invited her.

Everyone knew who she was.

The witch who wouldn't bow. Who showed up late or left early or ignored the rules entirely—but never crossed the line into real felony. The one who had the High Priestess's inexplicable patience, her frustrating tolerance, her bizarre affection.

Some of the other witches hated her for it.

Some of them just hated her.

Clarissa didn't seem to care either way.

But then her expression shifted.

The challenge in her eyes softened. The smirk that usually lived on her lips became something else—still sly, still playful, but warmer. Genuine.

She stepped forward.

The crowd of witches parted around her without being asked. She walked through them like water through stones, her boots steady on the uneven ground, her jacket still hanging open, her bare breasts catching the firelight.

She stopped at the edge of the inner circle.

The High Priestess's seconds tensed. One of them—the tall woman with cropped gray hair—moved to block her path.

The High Priestess raised one finger.

The second froze.

Then stepped aside.

Clarissa entered the circle.

She stopped three paces from the High Priestess. Bowed her head—not the shallow nod she gave everyone else, but a real bow. Respectful. Almost formal.

"Mother," she said. Her voice was quieter now. Intimate. "Good evening."

The High Priestess inclined her head in return. The gesture was small but deliberate—the acknowledgment of one elder to another, hierarchy aside.

"Clarissa." A pause. A faint smile crossed the High Priestess's lips. "Always on your own time. Always in your own way."

Clarissa's mouth curved. The sly warmth was back in her eyes.

"If I arrived on time, Mother, you would lose all the pleasure of waiting."

The High Priestess almost laughed. Almost.

"You and your sense of humor." She looked Clarissa up and down—not as a judge examining a subject, but as someone appreciating a familiar sight. "You look well. Others say the virus exhausts them. But you…"

"I'm thriving," Clarissa finished. She spread her hands slightly, gesturing at herself. "Hard to wither when you never stop moving."

"So it's true. Your machine saves you."

"One of many things." Clarissa tilted her head. "Did you miss me, Mother?"

The High Priestess held her gaze for a long moment. Around them, the other witches were watching—some openly, some pretending not to, some in utter jealous silence. The seconds exchanged glances. But neither woman in the center seemed to notice or care.

"Every day," the High Priestess said quietly. "In my own way."

Clarissa's smile widened. Genuine. Almost **** for just a second.

"Good to hear."

The High Priestess nodded toward the motorcycle.

"New vehicle?"

"New color. Same spirit."

"Red suited you better."

"I knew you'd say that." Clarissa tucked a strand of orange hair behind her ear. "That's why I changed it to orange."

The High Priestess shook her head. But she was still smiling.

The moment stretched between them—two women who had known each other across decades, across disagreements, across everything. And who, despite all of it, still stood face to face with something that looked remarkably like affection.

Then the High Priestess's expression sobered.

She glanced at the watching witches. At her seconds. At the fires burning low at the edges of the clearing.

"We have matters to discuss," she said. "Privat..."