Witchcraft Essentials Novels & Stories

Aria The room was filled with incense and candles. It’s warmth felt shallow even as I held Kol’s while standing before the witch. She laid the components for the ritual before her. The bloodroot that had been freshly plucked from the soil. She dropped it into the bowl first. Then came a strand of Kol’s hair, which she burned slowly. And last, was my offering. The witch looked at me. “The item must be something you hold dear… something sacred.” And so, with my trembling fingers, I reached up to the golden locket around my neck. It caught in my hair for a second, but I yanked it free. My locket.

The room smelt of sweet scents with various ornaments and objects hanging around the room. This was exactly what she had expected of a witch, unlike the first time she had come. In a weird way, it made her feel more assured that witches were exactly what she thought they were, but it didn't make her any less scared. Without giving her enough time to process all of what was in front of Hazel, Sara walked past the drawings and altar. She stood in a position in between both the altar and circle before she began speaking. "Draven, take off your shirt and face up; lay your back on the centre of the altar." Sara commanded; she held a black book in her hand that seemed to be made out of animal skin

After he teaches me how to build a fire, I tell him about what happened, leaving out some of the details like the amulet, but the kid was smart and figured out that's what it was, he’d heard many tales about it from the elders in his village. He told me if he ever had an amulet with that kind of power, he would take it to a Wizard, because trinkets like that are very dangerous in the wrong hands. Pixies are meant to start living on their own at the age of ten, because they are so used to living in forests and living off nature that provides for them. He told me about the Pixies, how as they grew older they could grow their wings, but only some of them, and no one really knew why but bravery

The Spirit Weaver started to chant the magical words of the wolf spirits. Several older members of the pack started to hum in harmony, lending their voices to the steady chant spilling from the Weaver's mouth. The eerie wolfish music mixed with the magic smoke that carried the smell of bay leaves, angelica, and calendula. The Weaver picked up an apparatus that looked very similar to a priest’s aspergillum, but instead of sprinkling holy water, he whirled it around his head, spilling blessed and secretly curated oil out in arced circles around him.

, Sarah voiced out in awe, she felt like a feather and so did Fredrick, “This, my dear is the sanctuary of the witch head. No one other than my guests are allowed to come here; you will feel light weighted since you are not a witch”, she explained to them, “In this sanctuary, almost all problems can be solved, you just need to remain extra silent while I meditate”. She formed a circle on the floor with salt and sat in the middle with her feet tucked under her thighs, “What is the salt for?”, Sarah asked again, why were witches so weird?

She wanted to give him pups. "Name it." "Three things." The witch began laying out objects on the altar. "First, blood of the betrayed." She pointed to Tank's MC cut, which Roxy had stolen. Her brother's blood still stained the leather from when she'd knocked him unconscious to escape. He wasn't her brother anymore. "Second, essence of the claim." She placed a silver bowl on the altar. "You'll need something from their claiming night. Hair, skin, blood – anything that holds the power of their bond."

Raff makes quick work of relieving her of the blouse and she pulls back as he does. I take in the beauty that stands before me with her sheer black, strappy bra that shows her erect nipples and full breast through the thin material. I long to take her nipples into my mouth, sucking and nibbling on them. Hopefully, the plan is to remove the bra, as sexy as it is, the cloth is too much of a barrier between our skin. She steps back and reaches into her boot, slipping a wand out of a hidden channel. “Witch markings don’t require sex, they require this and a length of cording to bind our wrists, three candles and a spell of the witch’s own design. I could mark you first,” she says.

I will give him the war he cannot imagine because war with me is always quiet at first and then a hurricane that laughs. There is always a price. My men know this; we have counted coin and souls enough to know the ledger is never neat. But I am not a man who bargains with loose promises. I leave signals, contingencies, and witches’ threads strung like wires across the plan. I pay the witches in things they value: a lock of hair, a promise of sanctuary, a box of silver. The witch I use is old and dutiful. She makes a sigil that keeps a person from waking too soon—an edged lullaby stitched inside the sedative—so the taken will not cough awake into panic. I respect mercy when it's useful.

"You're just like them. A fucking Bryne werewolf. You believe witches are beneath you." "Sara is not a witch," I snapped. "She's a Bryne werewolf too. Do you intend to hate her too?" "My daughter is a beautiful practitioner," she said, her voice coated in reverence as she pulled something from the bottom drawer. A crystalline object—cool blue, veined with gold, and humming with magic. It pulsed with energy I recognized only because I’d trained my whole life to sense danger. One of the ward anchors. The source of the estate’s shielding spells.

[Rosalynd] Gideon picks up the first item and holds it up to the moonlight. “This,” he explains as he twirls a small blade, no bigger than my palm blade around his fingers, the bone gleaming dully, “Is called an athame. It is used for preparing spell components and other ritual uses. Every member of our coven has one. It must be gifted or crafted, it cannot be bought.”