Our Demonic Hearts - The Craven Pact Book 1

Chapter 3 - Mnemonic

The crickets sang their evening tune as Ana turned the truck into her driveway, grimacing as the rickety machine bumped its way over the gravel road. It had been three days since Marchosias told her the Motloes were lurking around town, and she had been paranoid ever since. He said she was safe within her house, but he seemed to be picking up the habit of lying lately. He hadn't visited her since telling her, so she assumed he was still looking for them. It kept her awake at night, wondering when they would come and kill her.

She killed the engine and unbuckled her seat-belt. She was about to push the door open when something on her porch caught her eye. She squinted in the dim evening light, and her eyes caught a man resting against the door, his face covered by a hood and face mask. Her face paled and she pulled up the back of her shirt and touched the tattoo on her lower back, a heavy revolver forming in her hands. It was a spell she had learned without the help of Marchosias, believing if she ever was in danger the last thing her attacker would expect was her pulling a gun from a tattoo. The tattoo was of two old revolvers surrounded by purple crocus flowers. She called it an illusory tattoo, humans called it a 'tramp stamp.'

She hesitantly pushed open her door and kept her eye on the man as she stepped out. He was blocking the door, and so she would have to move him to get in. He didn't move at all, and she swore he was dead until she noticed his ragged breathing. She cocked her gun and held it before her as she drew closer, her hands becoming sweaty as she thought of the worst outcomes of this situation.

He was wearing a black jacket, the hood pulled over his head. The face mask, appearing like the ones worn during the pandemic, covered the bottom half of his face, but his forehead had a sheen of sweat on it and his eyes were closed. Her gaze moved to his body, and noticed his hand clutching the right side of his waist. Blood seeped from in between his gloved fingers.

A Motloe? No, it couldn't be. A Motloe wouldn't show up to my door, wounded. Maybe a hiker? But he wasn't wearing hiker gear. Just a jacket and jeans, but he was in obvious pain. Was he hurt by something or someone? Maybe a Motloe. She wouldn't put it past them to hurt a random person. She was a product of their malice, after all.

"...Hello?" She tentatively called out. He didn't respond. He was out cold. She lowered her gun and walked closer to him, up the porch steps. She could hear his ragged breathing now. He seemed to be in great pain, if his breath and bloody hands didn't show it enough. Some part of Ana told her to summon Marchosias, just in case this man was dangerous. But what use was he now? He couldn't even find the Motloes, and he was skilled at tracking spells. She was, too.

She kneeled beside him and lifted his wrist away from his side. His head twitched from the movement, but he did not wake. She couldn't see anything except blood on the dark jacket, and in his current sitting position she couldn't look at it correctly. Taking him into her house wasn't an option, since he was still a stranger, so he would have to be put in the barn. She also considered taking him to the hospital, but an ambulance would take too long to get there and her truck was only a small two-seater. His wound looked too serious to wait around.

The barn was empty, Ana having sold the animals just after her dad died, having no energy or will to take care of them. He kept a couple of goats and a horse as a sort of hobby, despite having many other hobbies. Ana wasn't much for animals besides dogs, and decided it was better they went to loving homes than staying here.

She rose from her spot and rolled up her sleeves. "I can't pick your heavy ass up, so let's hope magic doesn't freak you out."

—_—

Ana sighed and stretched out her arms, magic leaking out of her hands and fading into the air. She had set the man down in the far corner on top of an old horse blanket she knew Jazzy slept on. He lay on his back, his breathing still uneven and worrisome.