Banished

The sorceress and the cambion

This story is part of the link between The Novice’s Story, which began centuries ago and the series The Invitation set in the 1920s. It follows on from The Coupling which is also free to read.

The Coupling

All the stories in this set are listed here

The Invitation

Each story, or group of stories are standalone tales. There is a full list of the related stories at the bottom of the page.

Banished. Part 2 following on from The Coupling

Zunaria stood at the entrance to the cave, her head back as if gazing at the dark clouds crossing the night sky but she did not see them. Her eyes were closed and her lips moved in silent prayer. She would need all the power of her ancestors tonight.

After leaving the house, she had checked the stones that were set at regular intervals circling the cave and the chapel. They were all still in place, their inscriptions hidden by layers of moss and lichen but their power still held his dark form within their orbit.

Now she was in his lair. She lowered her shoulder bag onto the grass and unlaced her dress before letting it slip to the ground, followed by her undergarments. She would need all her agility, all of her cunning tonight and could not afford to be encumbered by the ornate fashions of this era. She bent down and took a small bottle from her bag.

Tipping some of the contents onto her palm, she coated her body with the sweet scents of the herbal oil until her skin glistened in the moonlight. Stooping again she took two crystals the size of walnuts and a long coiled whip from her bag.

Wearing only the crystal pendant that had been hidden beneath her dress and carrying the crystals, the oil bottle and the coiled whip she pushed aside the creepers and stepped inside. The rush torch the girls had lit was still burning and the outer chamber glowed with warm light. She paused and listened, her head turned like a blackbird hunting worms. The cave was silent.

She poured a line of oil onto the floor across the middle of the cave and placed a crystal at each end. Then she stood, head bowed, her lips moving to an incantation as if in silent prayer. Lifting her head, she spoke the words to summon him, the sounds echoing from the cave walls as they disappeared into the darkness.

The girl was the first to appear, still in her dark form, her eyes blazing and her limbs moving as if performing a slow, mystical dance. Her naked breasts swayed with the rhythm but the rest of her body was slim, lithe, human beneath the dark, green tainted skin, but it rippled with power.

He was behind her, still in the shadows in his human form. His naked muscles accented by the torchlight but his face in darkness.

“Leave this place,” Zunaria looked at the girl and let the whip uncoil. Its length rested on the floor like a sleeping snake.

“Now we can feed. Now I can free him,” the girl hissed.

Zunaria swung the whip and it arced through the air. The woman moved quickly and caught the tail. Her contemptuous snarl turned to a yelp of pain as her body convulsed. She flung the end of the whip out of her hand.

She crouched, her eyes blazing at Zunaria.

“You thought I would come here armed with nothing but a simple whip,” Zunaria hissed. This has so much more power than that.” She held up the bullwhip and its thong sparked in the air.

The young man stepped into the light from the back of the cave. “Mistress, she is my sister, my mate, she is the same as me.”

“The land needs you, in the form you are in now. She now only has a dark side.” She raised the whip.

He began to change, his face darkened, his muscles flexed and expanded. “Leave her,” his voice boomed around the cave.

“You forget, we are the guardians of both your forms.” She flicked the whip back and sent it forward. There was a crack as it wrapped around the woman’s neck.

The woman sprang at Zunaria. In mid leap she grabbed at the black plait around her neck and emitted a wail of pain. Zunaria raised her hand and spoke a dozen words in an ancient language. The figure was slammed back against the cave wall. Dark smoke swirled around her. She writhed as if held by invisible hands, snarled at Zunaria, and then slowly faded as if she was merging into the rock.

There was a roar of pain from the figure at the end of the cave. Zunaria stepped back behind the line of oil and crystals as he completed his transformation into his dark self. His body swelled, his skin darkened, his face lengthened, sharp teeth filled his mouth and his eyes blazed red.

Consumed with rage he charged at her. It took all Zunaria’s faith in her magic, in the power of her ancestors, not to flinch as he cannoned into the barrier between them. His body flattened, stopped as if he had run into a glass wall. He brought his fist up and smashed it against whatever was holding him back.

“Long enough have you benefited from my benevolence,” he snarled, his red eyes fixed on Zunaria. “Now I will stay in this form until she is returned to me. Your lands will wilt and die.” He turned and disappeared into the depths of the cave.

It took time but, over the years, the estate became less profitable. The crop yields decreased. The land and the house lay untended and fell into disrepair. It passed down the male line as was the law, but there was always a powerful woman, watching, waiting, for his return.

Eventually the women’s power waned. Their incantations and rituals were recorded in journals kept by the last in the line who remembered, lest they be completely forgotten. The writings and the last symbols of their power were hidden in the house in the hope that they would call to any of their descendants that were in need of them.

Isabella’s great uncle purchased the house and the remaining land, including the chapel and, when he died, unmarried and childless, it passed to Isabella’s father. When he in turn died the laws had changed. Isabella was the heir.

At twenty two she married and at twenty five she was a widow. The men of the estate no longer fell victim to supernatural powers - humans had become their own demons. Rich and powerful men had squabbled and schemed and sent hoards of young men off to die in the great war.

Isabella was desolate. Her husband, the love of her life had been blown apart at thirty-five in some mud soaked trench in France in the service of jingoistic buffoons. It was no consolation that, before he left for war, he had invested his family fortune wisely and that she, as his sole heir, was now a woman of considerable wealth.

Isabella pulled several books from the shelf and turned back towards the table but stopped. There was something in the wall the vacant space had revealed. A thin gap as if there was a loose panel behind the bookshelves.

She pulled more books from the shelves, piling them on the table. One book seemed stuck. She pulled at it, there was a click as a latch released and the bookshelves swung open like a door.

What it revealed was an alcove filled with another bookshelf. The top three shelves were laden with what looked like notebooks of different ages and sizes. Isabella pulled one out and leafed through its faded, handwritten pages. Were they diaries? Some of the pages contained what looked like recipes, but why hide your cookbooks away? She pulled out another book. There were more scratchily written pages, but this time in a different hand.

She placed the book back and looked down. The middle shelf was empty apart from a wooden box about the size of a biscuit tin. She opened the hinged lid. Nestling in soft velvet was a glistening pendant. For a moment Isabella thought the stone in its centre was a huge diamond. When she lifted it out and held it up to the light she could see that its interior looked slightly cloudy. It was as if mists were swirling in its centre. A crystal maybe? It was set in a gold surround with an inscription on it in the symbols of a language Isabella had not seen before.

Isabella was unaware that she had been chosen, she was now the latest in a line of guardians, whose powers, incantations and secrets were almost forgotten. She knew nothing of this. All she had was written in the dusty tombs in her library.

Medieval

Be warned: many of my supernatural stories are intensely erotic, but in the Medieval period of these stories it is blood more than other bodily fluids, that flows.