The air was thick, heavy, and hot—so sweltering that you had no choice but to measure your breaths with each step. You could feel the glistening sheen of sweat blanketing your flesh against the humming heat of the summer.
The fact that the sun had fallen moments ago made no difference. In some way that made it worse. In the balmy daylight you expected to fight the heat, to endure it, but everyone knew that darkness was cold, and when it wasn’t, it made you trust the night even less. Reveca Beauregard was well aware of every twisted being that lurked behind the obscure canopy of a New Orleans summer night, both living and dead. She sensed each before her now as she stared forward into the dark swamp house that she’d visited often over the last years.
Reveca had known generation after generation of the Cartier family. The great grandmother, GranDee, was one of very few mortals that knew of Reveca’s immortal status.
Most in the realm of the living assumed that Reveca was a beautiful twenty-something eccentric girl. The long lean muscles in her five foot seven frame screamed youth, as well as her near ivory skin which was accented by long locks of strawberry blonde hair that reached to her waist in gentle waves.
It was her eyes, that is, if you looked close enough, that gave the only hint of an old soul. There was something about the depth of the gray, the shards of blue, and freckles of black that led you to believe that her steady gaze had witnessed far more than the average lifespan of both the living and the dead.
Reveca had long ago been dubbed the Queen of Darkness by the dead. The living? Well, to the living she was known as the Pentacle Daughter, the only acknowledged female member of the Pentacle Sons MC, the most lethal biker gang known to exist.
Rumored to be a witch.
That rumor, of course, was true. Though Reveca Beauregard would never let one simple title that had been twisted and convoluted by half-truth myths define her. In her mindset, she was more than every title that was given to her. She was a scorned woman, one that trusted no one, and respected few.
Presently, it was difficult for her to remember exactly why she carried the attitude that she had at this point in her existence. She’d read once that people will forget what was said to them, but they would never forget how the words made them feel. That’s true for both words and deeds.
She often told herself that she could recall every wrong, every two-faced, back stabbing, turncoat action that had come her way over time, but that was not entirely true. The details, the wicked deeds from long ago, at times she would forget, but she never forgot how she felt. Never forgot how cold humanity was. Never forgot that whom you trust today will, at some point, turn their back on you, drive a knife of betrayal in your back when you least expect it. Those thoughts of hers were merited by her own personal beliefs, her experiences, and some kind of church that lived within her. She had seen it too many times.
The air was still, but she could smell the blood, the invasion of its scent in the lingering aroma of the ghostly swamp. Reveca whispered a few words across her lips, and almost instantly she could hear the distant rumble of thunder.
Even though this moment did not deserve the reaction, a smirk dangled on her heart- shaped lips. It wasn’t a cocky reply to the power of the universe that she dominated. It was a bow of respect. Reveca knew if she ever let her ego surface, or felt entitled to that power, she would lose it—it would leave her like a stolen lover in the night.
To this day, before she spoke any spell, called any power into play, she had a moment of doubt, a brief denial that she was capable of doing what her soul was clearly created to manifest. Each and every time her words created an impact on the world at large, she would feel a tingle right in the center of her chest, one that was weighted profoundly with a humble shock that the power answered her call once more.