Across the snow laden grounds of farm country, nestled inconspicuously among an acre of cleverly planted fir trees, stands a house made of cedar. Smoke rising from its chimney in short sporadic puffs. Inside the fire lazily lapped up the last of its meal, anxiously awaiting further nourishment. He tossed in a small log on his way to the kitchen. He preferred this solitude to the noisy chatter of the sleepless cities. It allowed him the ability to have complete concentration in his art. Possession wasn't an easy task. It required a great deal of energy to stay bonded to willing hosts. Blaring horns, and sirens going off every few minutes wreaked havoc on his connections. It was hard enough to tune out the things surrounding the host, he didn't need the double distraction.
It had been a long, tiring week. True, Michael Hannigan was easy enough to control, like most men were, but the man lacked the sort of patience needed to execute such a beautiful plan. He's done the killing well enough, but he was getting too eager, too bloodthirsty. That kind of impatience fathered the kind of mistakes that would undo what he had in mind. Yes, it was high time to be done with him. Once the message is delivered, poor Michael will be of little use. The fact that he'd been arrested proved that part of the message had been delivered. The witch knew he was looking for her. Now she just had to come and get the rest of the message.
He muttered a few inaudible words of irritation into the phone before slapping it shut and tossing it onto the counter. Michael was supposed to have called if and when he knew he would be meeting with her. Not before hand. He would only get one phone call in jail; better not to waste it. That fool had just wasted his. No matter, he'd let the justice system deal with him anyway. No doubt the man would face the death penalty for his crimes. This was just a minor setback. A trifle, really, in the broad scheme of things. He'd just have to take control of things a little sooner than planned and hang onto the poor idiot awhile longer. So hard to find good help these days. He pulled a lemonade from the fridge and downed it in one swallow. He loved lemonade. To him, there was no other refreshment in the world worth ingesting. A spoonful of honey made his meal complete. He grabbed another lemonade and headed for the bathroom.
He would have to get started before too long as he knew she wouldn't spend much time with him when she did come. She didn't need much time to do her thing; which didn't give much time to do his. And since Michael has been in jail for nearly twelve hours, it probably wouldn't be too much longer before she arrived. That is, if she didn't run again.
He set the lemonade down on the sink and splashed his face with hot water. The reflection in the mirror pleased him. He rather liked how his golden eyes stood out from his dark skin and coal black hair. Down right handsome, he thought. He straighten his shirt, smoothed down his hair and grinned at himself. He had done himself proud. This particular plan had been working quite nicely thus far. Had he known all he needed was bait to lure her to him, he could have saved himself a lot of trouble going after her.
The next room was his study. Simply decorated with an over sized leather lounge chair and ottoman, a portrait of himself over the small fireplace and a small table with a desk lamp on it. The walls, of knotty cedar, were bare besides the great portrait over the fireplace; the floor of the same wood bore nothing more than a small Asian throw rug in its center. The rug he'd gotten at his last encounter with the girl. A souvenir, if you will. The only thing to have survived the fire. Or so he thought.
It was lying in the foyer of the small church she had gotten married in. Married. He shuddered at the thought. The audacity that girl had sometimes was beyond him. And what a pickle she picked. The guy didn't even have the courage to stick around and show himself. Sure, he would have died with them, but wouldn't that have been better than abandoning his true love? Humans really lacked any kind of luster in his opinion. He never could understand the attraction his kind had for them. Or why his own brother was willing to die for them. It was positively maddening. And these little mixed breeds, like the witch, should have never been born. He was merely righting a wrong. It was her who continually refused to die. Stupid little witch anyway.
She should have died in utero when he shot her mother point blank in the gut, but she survived unscathed. They both did. Unbelievable. It took him five years, much to his dismay, to find that out she was alive. The car wreck he'd then arranged should have done the job. Thirty- three cars piled up on the 105. Forty dead, but not his little nemesis. No, she would walk from that as well without so much as a scratch. Just as she would the fatal mugging in Central Park; and again in Chicago when he derailed the train she was on. So many people dead; not that it mattered much. People were of little consequence. But she lived, every time. And that did matter to him. She had to die. Soon. Before she could destroy him.
It should have ended in that church. He would have done the deed in person, but it was so much more fun watching it happen through eyes of whomever he controlled at the time. People were so predictable. Most of them scream in terror, while one brave idiot tries to save the day. Those idiots die the quickest. Not nearly as much fun as the screamers. They almost kill each other trying to save themselves. Rather amusing.
Of course many of her guests had fled at his arrival; well, the man sent in his stead, that is; but she remained. Standing defiantly between him and her mother who was pleading for their lives. Her red eyes bore the same deep fury that burned within his own. The anger pleased him. Nineteen years she'd escaped him. Nineteen years she defied him by living and running. An abomination that should have never been born. A mistake, like her mother that he has spent her lifetime trying to remedy.
But it didn't end there like he thought it had. The church burned down to the ground killing everyone left inside, including his little puppet. Through eyes of his assassin he could see the bodies of mother and daughter burning. They were dead. Or so he thought. But he had been fooled. Again.
He came across her mother first, quite by accident. She happened across his shelter, almost in a daze. She had been weakened by the fire, but still able to put up a decent fight. Not decent enough to survive, but decent enough. She had been calling out her daughter's name
which told him that the young one was still sucking air. A fact that made his blood boil. Seven years he's been searching. Seven years planning. Seven years waiting for this moment. This time, he'd take care of her himself. On his turf and on his terms.
He sat in the chair, propped his feet up on the ottoman and rubbed his temples. "Come to Daddy, witch."