Sometimes Hecate absolutely despised being immortal. And no, not that Hecate; unlike the goddess, she was immortal because of an oath made long ago, her vow to the covens. Unfortunately, she remembered it as though it were yesterday. Actually, it was the week after her fifteenth birthday, and . . .
. . . she was lined up with the rest of the girls in her group — April 1685 — watching from her place in the back as the line shrank slowly. Until . . . her turn. She was kneeling in front of the statue of her namesake. The goddess’s eyes glowed and she heard words, strange words, then: “Do you accept life immortal?” and . . .
She sat up sharply; the book she had abandoned earlier fell to the floor. Her boots thunked on the wood as she stood and slouched over to where her broom was leaning against the wall. She opened the roof door to a rush of wind, stepped out, mounted her broom, and kicked off. Fog hit her face in droplets, and she closed her eyes as she soared above the clouds . . .
. . . she was looking up into the face of Head Witch on assignment day.
She remembered bitterly her stupid grin as Head Witch read out: “Hecate Wildes: Ambassador of Witching,” and the feeling of relief that she wouldn’t have to use her significantly less-than-powerful magic. It would be easy, she had thought; she knew all about their history.
Hecate laughed harshly.
Since that day, she had become the poster-witch for the covens, painted on murals and written into children's books, unable to do anything useful. She had stayed behind and posed for “Room on the Broom” while her sisters flew off to fight in the war. Unsurprisingly, she was the last of her kind. Her sisters had also been blessed (or cursed, depending on how you looked at it) with immortal life, but that power didn’t extend to anything other than natural death. As far as wars against giants go, they hadn’t stood a chance. Typical.
She flew above New York, grumbling about bad weather and the cruelty of her fate and generally feeling sorry for herself, when she noticed a Petco billboard peeking out from between two buildings. Plastered next to the shop’s name was a smiling cartoon cat, and her night became much, much worse. She had once had a familiar: a beautiful black cat that followed her everywhere — graceful, reserved, so much the opposite of her own personality, yet they balanced each other perfectly. But during the war, the other witches' familiars had died, and hers had also, being connected to the life force of its kind.
She found herself swooping low, hitting the pavement in front of the store windows. The shop’s door had a sign flipped to the “Sorry, we’re closed” side. Despite the sign, lights shone inside, illuminating the shelves of pet food and supplies. In the window were two shelves lined with shreds of newspaper and filled with about a dozen sleeping kittens.
In the middle of the lower shelf was a small black cat. It looked so much like her dear familiar, she almost started crying. Contrary to popular belief, not all witches’ familiars have black fur, nor are they truly cats; sure, they look similar, but familiars are a race of their own. But looking at this little kitten, she was overcome with how much it reminded her of her companion. As if awoken by her presence, the kitten lifted its head and opened its big green eyes. It looked at her thoughtfully, and was so cute that she smiled in spite of the nostalgia clawing at her heart. She watched it pad up to the window and put its small paws on the glass, looking into her eyes; it tilted its head inquisitively and its little face broke out into a wide, cheeky grin.
It was too much, and there was no use fighting it. She decided that in the morning, when the store opened, she would be the first inside and she would get that kitten. It would crawl into her arms and ride on her broom, and she’d be complete again. She flew up to the roof and sat down, propped up against the billboard. Smiling, she closed her eyes and went to sleep.
. . . she was lined up with the rest of the girls in her group — April 1685 — watching from her place in the back as the line shrank slowly. Until . . . her turn. She was kneeling in front of the statue of her namesake. The goddess’s eyes glowed and she heard words, strange words, then: “Do you accept life immortal?” and . . .
She sat up sharply; the book she had abandoned earlier fell to the floor. Her boots thunked on the wood as she stood and slouched over to where her broom was leaning against the wall. She opened the roof door to a rush of wind, stepped out, mounted her broom, and kicked off. Fog hit her face in droplets, and she closed her eyes as she soared above the clouds . . .
. . . she was looking up into the face of Head Witch on assignment day.
She remembered bitterly her stupid grin as Head Witch read out: “Hecate Wildes: Ambassador of Witching,” and the feeling of relief that she wouldn’t have to use her significantly less-than-powerful magic. It would be easy, she had thought; she knew all about their history.
Hecate laughed harshly.
Since that day, she had become the poster-witch for the covens, painted on murals and written into children's books, unable to do anything useful. She had stayed behind and posed for “Room on the Broom” while her sisters flew off to fight in the war. Unsurprisingly, she was the last of her kind. Her sisters had also been blessed (or cursed, depending on how you looked at it) with immortal life, but that power didn’t extend to anything other than natural death. As far as wars against giants go, they hadn’t stood a chance. Typical.
She flew above New York, grumbling about bad weather and the cruelty of her fate and generally feeling sorry for herself, when she noticed a Petco billboard peeking out from between two buildings. Plastered next to the shop’s name was a smiling cartoon cat, and her night became much, much worse. She had once had a familiar: a beautiful black cat that followed her everywhere — graceful, reserved, so much the opposite of her own personality, yet they balanced each other perfectly. But during the war, the other witches' familiars had died, and hers had also, being connected to the life force of its kind.
She found herself swooping low, hitting the pavement in front of the store windows. The shop’s door had a sign flipped to the “Sorry, we’re closed” side. Despite the sign, lights shone inside, illuminating the shelves of pet food and supplies. In the window were two shelves lined with shreds of newspaper and filled with about a dozen sleeping kittens.
In the middle of the lower shelf was a small black cat. It looked so much like her dear familiar, she almost started crying. Contrary to popular belief, not all witches’ familiars have black fur, nor are they truly cats; sure, they look similar, but familiars are a race of their own. But looking at this little kitten, she was overcome with how much it reminded her of her companion. As if awoken by her presence, the kitten lifted its head and opened its big green eyes. It looked at her thoughtfully, and was so cute that she smiled in spite of the nostalgia clawing at her heart. She watched it pad up to the window and put its small paws on the glass, looking into her eyes; it tilted its head inquisitively and its little face broke out into a wide, cheeky grin.
It was too much, and there was no use fighting it. She decided that in the morning, when the store opened, she would be the first inside and she would get that kitten. It would crawl into her arms and ride on her broom, and she’d be complete again. She flew up to the roof and sat down, propped up against the billboard. Smiling, she closed her eyes and went to sleep.