A Clandestine Conference

The sun was just beginning to set on Tuesday evening when a plump, round-faced woman of about sixty, her bob dyed a rusty red, took her place behind the lectern. Soon she would retire as High Priestess and pass the baton on to her successor, but not yet. No. She had waited half a decade for this moment. The time had finally come.

The High Priestess surveyed the eclectic assembly of chattering women before her. There were about thirty of them, sitting in groups of twos and threes scattered across the tiered seats like magistrates in the Roman Senate. The only thing they had in common was between their legs. All members seemed present to her, though attendance was never recorded. For all intents and purposes this meeting wasn't taking place. If questioned, they would all insist that it had never occurred. Nothing in writing, that was the cardinal rule. The group had survived for so long because there was no credible evidence it even existed.

Consequently, the lectern was superfluous but for the fact that the High Priestess felt exposed and **** without it, and it undeniably lent an air of formality to the proceedings. She rested her bony, wrinkled hands on its surface and prepared to deliver more or less the same speech she had given at the end of every January for more than thirty years.

“Ladies!” the High Priestess announced in a confident voice loud enough for all present to hear. “It is time we began.” The members quietened quickly and turned in their seats to face the speaker. “Welcome to the forty-fourth ordinary meeting of the Cobham Coven.” Her long-toothed smile was met with grins and a gentle, acknowledging applause. “We have only one item on the agendum: the selection of this year's victim.”

At this point the High Priestess paused to collect her thoughts, recalling the speech she had prepared in her mind as the members sat in expectant silence. This moment had been five years in the making and she almost couldn't believed it had arrived at last.

“In the past,” she continued, “I have declined my right to make the first nomination. However, this year is an exception. Rarely does the Coven have a candidate who is so obviously the popular choice that I think we should get straight to the point. For that reason, I nominate Sebastian Oliver Barlow.”

A nonchalant murmur rippled across the assembly. Nobody was surprised and most nodded their silent approval with varying amounts of enthusiasm. The High Priestess felt vindicated, though a few of the women had folded their arms and were shaking their heads in dissent.

“Many of us have closely and eagerly followed Sebastian's development, even those of us who have not indulged previously. We have watched him grow to become an intelligent, well-mannered, young man. He is now eligible, and is already of age. His only family is his aunt, who I know to be open-minded, and who I have personally vetted. In short, he is the ideal victim.” The High Priestess was finished. “Is the nomination seconded?”

In a back corner, a slim, thin-lipped woman of about fifty, whose short dark hair looked like it belonged to a plastic figurine, shot her hand into the air. Her eyes were fixed apprehensively on a slightly younger and certainly more attractive woman with shaggy blonde hair, who sat near the front and had also raised her hand. “Thank you, Roberta,” the High Priestess acknowledged the older of the two. “And thank you, Catherine.” The younger woman turned in her seat, smiling, and gave Roberta a shrug. “Does anyone wish to speak against the nomination?” the High Priestess asked, addressing the whole assembly.

Four hands were raised, and the High Priestess invited a slender, twenty-something to speak. With her blonde hair tied back in a tight ponytail and a mouth too wide for her tanned face, she looked somewhat like a shark on legs. “He's hardly the best specimen,” she said. “Not athletic. Not well-built. He's a man in a boy's body.”

The woman beside her nodded in agreement. She too was young, blonde and tanned, but thicker set, and wore her sleek hair loose. A large white shell hung from her beaded necklace and dangled in the open neck of her shirt. “Wouldn't someone with a little more muscle make for a better victim? Why not someone like Jarred Hobbes?”

“Hobbes is a thug!” Roberta objected. “He's nothing but muscle!”

“The victim should have brains as well as brawn,” agreed an attractive, middle-aged brunette with the fringe and ponytail of a much younger woman. “Sebastian has the most brains of any of them. If it comes down to it, the mind is more important than the body.”

Immediately a plump red-faced woman with a shaggy, greying auburn bob objected. “Be that as it may, Sebastian is lazy, undisciplined, and unpopular. How do we know he'll keep his mouth shut?”

“Above brains and brawn is our need for discretion,” chimed in a thin blonde whose faint green eyeshadow was a vain attempt to divert attention from the crows feet at the corners of her eyes. “Without discretion, the Coven won't survive to the next meeting.”

The High Priestess raised her hands to quieten the assembly before anyone could respond in Sebastian's defence. “You are both correct, of course. Discretion is vital, and Sebastian is not known to gossip. I am confident in him, and the few people in whom he is likely to confide. The same cannot be said for Jarred Hobbes, Ryan McKinley, or anyone else who might be nominated simply for their physical attributes. Unless there are any other objections, I will put it to the vote.” The objectors still looked doubtful, but neither they nor anyone else had anything more to say. “Very well,” the High Priestess said. “I move that Sebastian Oliver Barlow be this year's victim. All in favour?”

With the four expected exceptions, all hands were raised.

“Motion passes.”

“Who draws first blood?” Roberta interjected.

“Whoever gets to him first,” the High Priestess replied, looking from Roberta to Catherine. “I know that both of you are eager, and I don't think anyone of us have a problem with that.” No one protested this claim. “Yet we need to approach with caution. I will lay the groundwork. If that goes well, you'll find out when it's time in the usual way. You're not afraid of a little competition are you, ladies?”

Neither woman said anything, but they were staring daggers at each other.

“Now fuck off,” the High Priestess concluded. “It reeks of cunt in here.”