His evil presence moving as stealthily as a water moccasin through water.
“Donnez moi de la force,” she whispered, praying for strength.
Beneath the worn cushion lay a weapon. A sharp little machete she had never before used. One she had hoped she would never need.
Her falchion.
Shorter than most, hand-carved by her great-grandfather, the curved, deadly blade of her unique machete would serve its purpose.
She heard the slightest scrape of leather upon the uneven boards that provided a walkway over the soggy ground.
Somehowhehad discovered it.L’être maléfique.The evil being.
The air in the hut shifted.
Candles flickered.
And evil, like a black wraith, seeped through the open knotholes and spaces between the boards of her sanctuary.
He was here.
Calming her heartbeat, she slowly reached below the pillow, withdrew her weapon, and pushed herself upright. Though in her seventies, she was, and had always been, athletic.
“Quitte cet endroit, diable!” she hissed, before he stepped foot inside, “et je pourrais te laisser vivre.”
Machete in hand, she eyed the doorway. Did he understand that she called him the devil? That if he left now, she would let him live?
Did it matter?
If he didn’t know the translation, he surely understood her meaning.
For a heartbeat, everything quieted.
The frogs quit croaking.
The owl no longer hooted.
Bat wings stilled.
She gripped her weapon.
She would cleave him in half should he—
The demon himself flew into the room.
Dressed in black, his face in darkness, his eyes glittering, he growled, “Die, Sorceress.”
She swung.
Hard.
The devil in black danced away.
She attacked again.
He twirled back to the other side of the fire, where his face was illuminated in gold, the flames reflecting in his eyes. She knew this monster. Dear Jesus.
He leapt over the flames.