DARKER WISHES chapter one

Darker Wishes

The Witch never failed to remind him of his unpleasant appearance and made certain that he couldn't parade it around even if he had some weird desire to. He wasn't supposed to leave the house. He wasn't supposed to exist, as far as the village was concerned. But of course, they knew he existed—they looked down upon his pitiful life like cats on dust kitties. It was the natural flow of life in Verex, Witchton.

Orielle wrapped a cloak around her wet self and marched off, the boys in tail, giggling to themselves and ignoring her. Trade peered out of the farthest corner of the window, but they were soon out of view. He hadn't done anything to help her. But, he reminded himself, he hadn't disobeyed his mother in the process. Which was more ethical, he couldn't tell. Everything seemed too thick and hazy, like the antique air in the hut and the dissipating smoke outside of it. It was all just a cloud to Trade, and he allowed himself to be blinded by it. What other choice was there?

If he didn't get back to work soon, the Witch would find out. There was a considerable section of unfinished floor left, and he would have to go quickly. He sighed and reached for the dustpan.

However, it and hit the floor with a metallic crash, bringing his mother's magic staff down with it. Trade had jumped back so suddenly, spooked by the sound of the door slamming open, that it had slipped from his hands. The doorknob hit the wall with such force that even the thatched roof gave a little rattle.

In came Witch Wanessa, a nest of blankets tucked in her arms. Trade peeled himself from the wall to see what was in it. His mother cast him aside in an instant, and his back thudded against the cabinets. With shaking hands, she tried to put down the bundle on the oak table with a gentle touch. She proceeded to mutter some foreign, unintelligible sentences, her eccentric multi-colored hair flying with each rapid arm movement.

"What's that?" said Trade, brushing his own brown drapes out of his eyes.

"Silence," the Witch hissed. She flicked her purple eyes back on her project, now madly screeching enchantments that Trade couldn't pick out. A flap of the blanket folded, and something flesh-colored peeked out. Sparks flew, and streams of purple magic floated in a smoky fog.

A sound emitted from the blankets. A wail—as if from a baby—pierced Trade's ears, and he strained to try and see its producer. Had his mother...?

No. She hated him, why would she want another one of his kind? Unless it was for a deal... or it was from one. The first thing he thought was my mother just stole a child, but did he know for certain? Trade tried to piece together the fragments of each theory, but they fell apart with each distracting cry or loud shout.

At last, the Witch carefully backed away from her subject. The thing was still screaming its head off, but she didn't seem to care. She tucked her purple strand behind her ear and turned to Trade.

"Don't touch her," she sneered.

"But mother—is that a child?" asked Trade, advancing on the Witch.

"Yes, you fool! Now don't ask questions. I'm going to tend to those venomous cabbages, they're almost ripe."

With a pinwheel of her cloak, she turned her birdish head to the door and swept out.

Trade, ignoring his mother's commands, rushed to the baby. Its cries decreased when he touched its silky, light blue hair. By the looks of it, he was gazing at a baby girl.

"Hi," he whispered. "Are you going to live with us now? Do you even belong to us?"

The baby opened its mouth, preparing to make a sound. When it did, however, a stream of black smoke curled out of it. Trade gaped.