Sightlines - Chapter 14 (Updated 8/24)


Hello friends.

If this is your first story by me, it is not indicative of my usual content. This is a co-written story between me and my mommy-type, Kachan. Kachan also enjoys writing but she doesn’t usually write in this fetish arena so it’s got a very different flavor to it.

This is NOT a fetish story.

This is NOT my usual smut.

This is NOT a Diaper Dimension story.

There may be some romance in it because I am incapable of writing a story without a romantic subplot (yes it’s lesbians, yes I realize I ruined the ‘may be’ already) but there isn’t going to be a lot of diaper grinding and moaning in this one. It’s not my usual stuff.

There isn’t even THAT much diaper content in the story, I’ll be honest.

Still with me? Good.

I believe that this is a good story. I believe that it’s worth reading and I hope you’ll join me on another chapter-a-day journey.

Sightlines is an Urban Fantasy set in a pretty bleak world. It’s a tale of struggle and pain and I’ve enjoyed writing it with Kachan.

If you’re reading to get off, go read Chapter None of “Breaking the Girl” again :stuck_out_tongue:

But if you’re ready for a wild trip, here we go.

One more thing…

Warning: This story contains blood, gore, death, violence, and Witches. I am not going to put a trigger warning for every bit of violence in the story, but I’ll still give out trigger warnings for really heinous things. This whole story has a violence/blood/gore trigger warning. It’s not my usual sweet, kind, loving, romantic fare. It’s a dystopia.

Chapter One

The moon hung full and bloated above the city skyline. It was late August and the silvery light was washed out in the thick haze and noise and steady burn of the citylights, but Rachel didn’t need blackness or moonlight to finish her job. She was a consummate professional in that regard - get in, get it done, get out without a trace. She was a mystery, the boogeyman for monsters, and in her world the best way to banish monsters was to be a worse one.


Finally, movement in the window. Rachel shifted slightly, one eye pressed to her scope and chewed her lower lip in quiet contemplation. Sarah Trippoli had a schedule, a routine - stupid for a mob boss, but Sarah had grown decadent and lazy in her old age - one that Rachel had full intentions of taking advantage of. She’d drop her keys in the bowl by the door, kick off the Manolo Blahniks, shimmy out of her bra, and let her hair down. Literally. Her white hair would cascade over her shoulders, she’d breathe a visible sigh of relief, and the White Witch of Winchester would cross her penthouse to turn on her gas fireplace, flip on some jazz, and pour herself the first glass of sherry before ordering her nightly meal.

Rachel tensed all her muscles and then released them in order as Sarah moved through her routine. She slowed her heartbeat, relaxed as deeply as she could, and blinked slowly through her scope.

When her finger squeezed the trigger it was as it always was - Rachel wasn’t Rachel anymore, she was the infamous Witchhunter, and her job was nearly done.

When Sarah toppled, Rachel should have been up and out - breaking down her rifle and escaping. Strip off the mottled black clothing, stuff it into the garbage bag with her hat and shoes, ready to dump in the donation bin at the end of the alley. Beneath, she had a much more unassuming outfit, something a human who wasn’t part of the Resistance would wear - a slinky silver shirt and a red skirt that was currently rolled up around her waist above the skintight black pants like a belt. She’d drop it, slip on the sandals she had laying beside her on the tarpaper roof, and shake out her own red hair. She’d stash her gun at the drop point and vanish into the crowd. She’d walk casually, blending in with all the others who lived under the thumb of the Witches.

Like any other job. Like every other job.

Except she hesitated for a bare second longer than normal, her eye pressed to the scope. The Witch dropped. Fine. Dandy. Normal.

But then a flash, a light turning on. Two windows over. Sarah had the penthouse and she lived alone.

Oh shit, is there someone there?! A maid? Fuck!

Witches broke apart about two hours after death. All that was ever left was ash and grease. Rachel was always extremely careful about timing her jobs so that the Witch in question was alone and would be for the rest of the night. Otherwise everyone and their Familiar would be scrambling over the body, trying to figure out what was going on, who did it, etc.

Messy, in other words.

“Fuck,” Rachel breathed, holding a hand to her forehead as she watched. Oh god, I fucked up bad. Bad-bad-super-bad.

Faye was confused by the sound in the other room - it was a bang and a thump. Something in the back of her mind, what was left of her mind, told her that it was a bad sound, a scary sound, that she should run… but the thought was fuzzy and distant. The red glow that held her leash to the wall had disappeared, letting the thin chain drop to the ground the same way it did when she was released. She waddled over to the door, the crinkle of every step destroying the silence of the empty room as she pushed the switch up the same way the white-haired woman did.

The lights came on with the same magic they always did, filling the room with the brightness of daylight even though the sun had long set. Faye remembered the sun vaguely, that it made her skin feel warm just by being in its light, not the same as the magic light of this place. Her leash made a soft scratching sound as it dragged on the floor, the rings on her cuffs tinkling as she pushed the door open.

“Owner?” she called softly. “Mommy?” She wasn’t sure which word she was supposed to use here, the rules were all so confusing. There was a draft in the room, a chill, and the hairs on her arms stood up as her nipples grew pointy and hard. It was uncomfortable but she wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do about it. The woman whose face occupied nearly every memory she had lay lifeless on the ground, blood seeping from a hole in her forehead.

That wasn’t supposed to be there, she was sure of it. Faye felt her bladder release into the waiting padding taped around her. Her Owner liked that, praised her for it. Faye hoped that it would help her get up. The Whisper thrilled at her lack of control and she felt a wave of pleasure rush through her body as the diaper grew warm around her. She walked as best she could to her Mommy, falling to her knees beside her, nudging her gently.

This woman, her Owner, her Mommy, was her entire life. Every moment was either spent in the box, or the cage, or the dark room… except when she was with her Owner. Learning. Feeling.

“I exist only to serve you,” she said quietly, gently shaking her Owner. “How may I serve you?” Why was she asleep now?

She stuck to her allowed words, she had learned quickly that her Owner did not appreciate deviation. As she watched the blood creep across the floor, licking at her knees, she felt some of the woman’s magic let go… the muddled and murky memory of meeting her Owner for the first time came to her. She had been a servant of some kind, offering food… she had been wearing clothes then, so it was different than now, but she had apparently always been a servant. How she had come home with her Owner, though she couldn’t remember why, she just remembered that she had always been unable to refuse the woman.

She remembered the knife cutting away her clothes. Remembered her own blood being spilled as the magic took hold and hollowed out a place inside her soul, a place where the Whisper now lived, a part of her. Nothing existed before serving Mommy that night, and the memories that followed were a mix of intense, mind-bending pleasure and terrifying, agonizing pain. Pleasure when she pleased her Mommy, pain when she angered her Owner.

She knew she was stupid, her Owner had told her that so many times. But she knew that she was sweet, her Mommy had told her that just as many. The Whisper loved both the pleasure and the pain. Even in the agony, she felt its joy… but nothing made it - and thus her - feel as good as serving, following her Owner’s wishes, being her Owner’s toy.

“Owner,” she whispered to the rapidly cooling corpse, not understanding why she didn’t respond the way she always did, “I want to please you. How may I please you?”

Rachel looked around the scope, just to make sure her eyes weren’t deceiving her before looking through it again, watching the small blonde girl. She moved tentatively, timidly, but she walked straight for the White Witch’s corpse.

It didn’t make sense. Sarah had never had a familiar. Not in seventy years of torturing and killing, of kidnapping and abusing. But there she was, sure enough. A tiny blonde thing, wearing a collar and leash, cuffs, a diaper and nothing else.

Brand new, or she wouldn’t need the leash.

How did I fuck up this job so bad, she moaned inwardly.

Of course, it wasn’t entirely her fault - the Winchester Witch-bitch had been vocally disdainful of Familiars for decades. Any Witch who needed a Familiar was a lesser Witch - Sarah’s opinion had been well known. This, of course, ignored the fact that many Witches kidnapped or purchased Familiars for reasons other than power, but so far as the vicious mob boss had been concerned, power was the end-all, be-all.

Problem was… Familiars were helpless. Most of the time they were enslaved humans magically turned Little - it made them easier to control and abuse and hollow out. Others were natural born Littles - nobody was sure when Littles had first started appearing in the human population - they were mostly human, just smaller, more naturally docile. They had big eyes and big hearts and they rarely grew above four feet. A Little being born to a family was a bittersweet event - they almost never remained free through adulthood… more often than not they were sold to the Witches by the family. It could be seen as a blessing. Though Rachel didn’t see it that way.

On very rare occasion, Rachel had seen a Familiar from the Other Place - the incubi, the succubi, the cherubs and ishim - but they were expensive and difficult to control, few Witches could deal with it. They were powerful, sure - Rachel had a scar on her left leg from a fight with a succubus - but challenging for any but the most experienced of Mages. If the Familiar Rachel spied through her scope had been one of those she could’ve happily packed up and left, not giving the Familiar a second thought. A powerful Familiar would eventually figure out a way out of its own bondage without a Witch constantly checking in and keeping them in line.

A Little, however…

Groaning, Rachel rose to her knees and began breaking down her rifle. She’d have to figure out a way to sneak into the highest security building in the fucking city, get up to the penthouse without a key, somehow break open undoubtedly warded door, and then… steal the Familiar? Rescue her? And then what? Deliver her to Oliver and his crew - or someone else who could take care of her, Rachel supposed. There was hope for a rescued Familiar, depending on how bad the damage was. They could live normal-ish lives… in hiding. If this girl had been fully human once, there was no hope of undoing the transformation, but as long as she was still new…

The Familiar was kneeling over the dead body, a heartbreakingly confused expression on her face. Yep. Definitely new. Still new enough that she had some sense of self left, at least. A better Familiar - one who’d been ground into unthinking obedience already - wouldn’t have left their room. Wouldn’t have turned on a light. Wouldn’t have moved without the Witch’s say-so. Would’ve died of dehydration before shifting an iota. What the Witches did to those poor souls was unforgivable.

“Damn it all to hell,” Rachel cursed and shimmied her skirt down, dropping her “street” clothes into the donation bag rather than her stealth outfit. This wasn’t how tonight was supposed to go. If she had any fucking sense she’d let the girl starve. Why in the fuck was she risking her neck to rescue…

No. She knew why.

“I’m an idiot,” Rachel sighed and finished changing. Oh well, if I get caught I had a good run, right? All I have to do is get past two dozen lesser Witches, goons, and assembled assholes and then figure out a way to kidnap a Familiar who may or may not be suicidal. Sure. No problem. Easy peasy.

Chapter Two

“You hear somefin’?” Frankie the Troll asked in that slow baritone that always made him sound just as stupid as he was.

“I told you I did!” Benny the Imp snarled back at his larger companion, snagging a handful of shirt and pulling himself up to the oaf’s shoulder and sitting there. His body had been human once, normal sized. When the Imp soul had been bound to his, however, he had shrunken and twisted, growing small and pointed. He regretted it some days, he could hear the bloodthirsty Imp like a gnat in the back of his mind, telling him to hurt things, to kill things. But it had given him power - real power, like the Witches. He could summon balefire and if he expended enough power, he could fly for a while.

Part of him missed being human, the part that was tired of his twisted flesh aching all the time, but there was no going back. Better to be on the winning side, anyway. Pureblood humans were weak, pathetic things. Food. Purebloods didn’t work in this town, they scrounged. And that had been him once, before he had signed the contract.

“You did?” Frankie asked, scratching his head.

Benny felt intensely glad that he had gotten an Imp and not a Troll. He hadn’t known Frankie before, for all Benny knew the lumbering giant had been a tiny poindexter before the Troll soul bound to his own - hell, he might have even been a Little, one of those smaller doe-eyed innocent-types that the Witches coveted so much for their magic. Benny doubted that, however. Littles were born human but there was some spark to their soul, some innocence that persisted in this shithole world the Witches had made, and they tended to be used for Familiars - personal slaves and playthings. Their energies were different to a Witch somehow, not that Benny understood that. Frankie had probably been a normal, run-of-the-mill human just like he had, different people changed in different ways… but he had never met a smart Troll. Ever. They were muscle - nine feet tall and built like a brick shithouse, curved horns and protruding tusks.

“Yes, you big idiot,” Benny groused.

“Hey,” Frankie’s voice rumbled in the massive chest below Benny’s perch on the other man’s shoulder. “That’s not nice. Maybe I should just squish you.”

Whoops, Benny winced. Trolls were generally slow to anger, but once one got going it would take a Witch to calm them down. And the last thing he wanted was to bother the Underboss just because he hadn’t been able to control his tongue.

As the giant hand reached for him, Benny scampered to his other shoulder.

“Sorry, sorry,” Benny squeaked, the Imp in him demanding that he bite Frankie’s ear off instead of trying to keep the peace. But this was why Witches needed human hosts for the demon souls. “You’re right, I’m sorry. But we’ve got a job to do, remember buddy? Then we can go back to cards. I heard a noise, Frankie-boy. It sounded like a gunshot.”

“What should we do?” Frankie asked, scratching his head.

“I’m gonna go scout, take a look outside - you go tell the first Witch you can find.”

“Right,” Frankie agreed, pushing the glass door open.

“Inside!” Benny hissed, “The first Witch you find inside. I’m going outside. Close the door before someone-”

And just like that, all their magical security was worthless. A black shape slipped in through the open door but before Benny could even shout, there was a silver blade sticking out of the back of Frankie’s head and his nine foot ride was tumbling forward, out the front door.

“Shit!” Benny squeaked as he hopped down, his tiny wings fluttering from their holes in the back of his expensive suit as he tried to slow his fall without burning too much power. Quick hands caught him before he could reach the door and he found himself staring into the face of a human. A Hunter. “Fuck I’m dead.”

“Yeah,” the Hunter sneered. “But thanks for getting me inside.”

Benny felt the Imp in him scream with glee as his neck snapped. The rotten little shit soul would just go home, to be bound to some other rube.

Two down.

Likely dozens to go.

Inwardly groaning, Rachel slipped through the foyer of the tower, avoiding as many of the security cameras as possible, crouching here, hugging the wall there. On her return trip she’d hopefully be hauling a Familiar, she’d have to do this part first - it wouldn’t be feasible to do more than a simple erase and fuzz since setting up a believable loop would take too much time. She didn’t know every nook and cranny of this building, but she had studied the blueprint just in case.

The security guy was a lazy S.O.B. - wasn’t even watching the feeds or he’d have seen the takedown and subsequent stashing of the goon in the bushes and deepest shadows. In fact, when she peered around the corner, he appeared to be intensely interested in his phone. Fabulous. Easing the door open, Rachel deeply breathed in and out half a dozen times before entering.

Security booths like this were usually wired to detect breath - two people breathing in a place where there was only supposed to be one, and all hell would break loose. Snapping the lazy guard’s neck took a few seconds longer than she’d anticipated - asshole was huge, fucking Winchesters and their Trolls - and her head pounded from the effort. Even with a snapped neck he’d still be expelling air for long enough as his body relaxed and gases began to escape, so she had to keep holding hers.

She began her work at his terminal - subtlety was off the table now. System-wide erase, use a few drops of the guard’s blood as a failsafe, take the current cameras offline and fuzz the ones she couldn’t. It was far from perfect and there were too many chances for something to fuck up, but it was the best she could do in such a short period of time.

Now, to gum up the works. Slow down the elevators to a crawl. Lock all the fire doors except the ones on the level that led to the penthouse and here on the main floor. The private penthouse elevator alone would work normally. Yeah, it’d have to do. She studied the schematics on the screen for a few moments longer, even as her vision began to blur from holding her breath. She memorized all of the quick, safe-ish exits, even the laundry chutes.

Got it.

This was not how she’d been expecting to spend her night, but Rachel was nothing if not adaptable. Quietly thanking her burned away fingertips for the hundredth time, Rachel glanced quickly around the control room. Her hair was still back and netted beneath her hat, she wasn’t bleeding or sweating or breathing - no DNA for the Witches to get their hands on. Excellent. Swiping the guard’s keycard and taking another few drops of his blood in the vial she stashed for emergencies, she rushed for the emergency stairs, sucking in gulps of oxygen the moment she was free of the security office.

Aurora had been trying to shake a bad feeling all night. There was no reason for it, no logical reason - she wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight, she was just filling in for Elena, the Underboss. Aurora was just a Lieutenant, after all. She paced the floor of the ritual room, trying to puzzle out what it might be.

“How may I serve you, Owner?” her Familiar whispered as she passed the girl for the sixth time in the past ten minutes. Her pacing was clearly upsetting her pet - Aurora had a bit of a dark secret in the Winchester coven… she actually loved her Familiar. It was stupid, the girl was little more than a shell, she had been hollowed out for over a year. Her pet, her little Mia - no one knew that she still called her Familiar by her original name from time to time, not that the girl remembered anything of who she was before.

She stopped and stroked the girl’s soft brown hair. Her pet brushed that hair a thousand gentle strokes each night before bed. Aurora loved her pet’s hair. The small creature - a natural born Little - was only 4’1", tiny in comparison to her own long and lithe 7’4". The girl barely came to her waist and looked positively adorable in her cream gown, festooned with lace and bows.

Things had felt a little easier since the rumors had started - that the White Witch had actually taken a Familiar of her own after decades of deriding those who chose to keep one… no one had seen the girl, no one knew anything about her. No one knew if she had gotten a natural born Little, or a transformed human, or even one of the exotic imports. Aurora’s money was on an import - an ishim if she had to guess, the White Witch loved her monochrome aesthetic and the snow white skin and platinum hair that an ishim sported would look great on her boss’ arm.

Aurora leaned down and extended one arm, her pet immediately obeying the unspoken command and clambering to her feet, climbing into that open arm so she could be lifted and cuddled. Mia purred softly, laying her head on Aurora’s arm.

Surely I’m not the only one who loves my Familiar, Aurora told herself as she supported the small creature with one arm under her diaper. The Familiar’s soft breath, her fluttering heart, the way her lips parted with the desire to please her Owner… How could anyone not love this?

She kissed Mia’s forehead gently.

“I have a bad feeling, my little Mia,” Aurora whispered.

“Did I do bad?” her Familiar asked, the purr ceasing and her breathing quickening, her heart pounded. The poor thing couldn’t bear the thought of displeasing her Owner.

“No darling,” Aurora smiled, soothing her pet. “You are such a good girl.”

The soft purr returned immediately, a rumble deep within the Little’s chest - she had no idea why Familiar Littles, especially the naturals, did that - but she wasn’t going to complain, either. Mia visibly relaxed, her breathing slowing and her diaper growing warm. She had scared the silly thing so much with a few simple words.

“I have a bad feeling,” the whispered words floated on the wind, Bianca’s voice, one of the three Witches under her tonight.

That was all it took. Aurora having an inexplicable bad feeling was one thing, but both she and Bianca having that same sensation? That was no coincidence.

Deciding to tap Mia’s well of mana rather than her own - that was technically what the girl was for, after all - she began her reply. She pressed a sharp nail to her pet’s jawline, right where the neck met the jaw, sliding her talon into the girl’s flesh, feeling a drop of warm blood trickle down her thumb. Mia closed her eyes and waited.

Such a good girl, Aurora smiled warmly as she touched the girl’s soul, weaving her words onto the wind to the other three.

“Something is wrong. Bianca, head for the first floor, check the entrance. Nicole, I want you scrying the building - I want to know if anything is out of place. Serena, I want you posted outside the White Witch’s private elevator. Now.”

The wind gusted from the room, carrying her words to her underlings. She pulled Mia to her chest and lifted her, sliding her thumbnail out of the girl’s throat as her claw returned to its normal, immaculately manicured state. She licked the wound, her tongue lingering and a soft moan coming from her pet’s lips.

“Shh,” Aurora laughed softly. “It’s not time for that, you silly thing.”

“I live to please you,” her pet promised.

“I know, pet. I know. Relax, hopefully I won’t have need of you again tonight, but I’m going to keep you close, just in case. Something doesn’t feel right tonight.”

Chapter Three

Rachel climbed slowly up the emergency staircase.

Why do these bitches always have to live on the top floor of some highrise? she thought bitterly. Why can’t a boss Witch live in a fucking bungalow?

She was working against the clock tonight and she knew it - she had no business doing this rescue. She should have just put a bullet in the Familiar’s head too, ended the stupid thing’s suffering. But she couldn’t. Not when her own sister was a rescue. If the Hunter had shot instead of saving Claire… everything would be different. It was obvious the girl was still in there somewhat, there was still hope. That could have been Claire. That had been Claire at one point.

As Rachel trudged up that seemingly never-ending staircase, her mind lingered on her younger sibling. Her sister was never going to be the same, she knew it - she had lost a foot and a half of height, her eyes had been enlarged, her figure changed… but she had gained back her bladder control, she had gained back most of her mind. She was extremely sensitive to magic, but even that could be an advantage in a way.

Claire was the perfect honey pot now.

Rachel hated that her sister volunteered to be bait so often, but Witches were drawn to her, could still taste the magic the awful bitch had poured into her. Claire was alluring to them, her big, innocent eyes… and Rachel had killed a half-dozen targets thanks to that.

This girl could be the same - a great asset… but if even if she wasn’t, she didn’t deserve to be “adopted” by the next Witch that took the Winchester coven leader’s mantle… and if this poor girl was half as alluring to them as Claire was, she would be back to “serving” before the night was even through. On the other hand, if this blonde girl were already broken beyond saving and this entire near-suicide-run was for nothing… she’d be pissed.

Ugh, Rachel complained silently, I should have messaged Claire, should’ve let her know what was up. It was too late now, though. She had let her panic get the better of her, imagining Claire as the Familiar in that penthouse - she had leapt before she looked, and sending a message now would be like sending up a flare. The Witches would be on her in moments.

Rachel took comfort in the heft of the silver blade as the cool metal rested against her forearm, hidden in her left hand. She plodded up the stairs - there was no sense in running. She had to stay calm, the Witches would sense her anxiety otherwise. She figured there were a cool dozen lesser witches on duty tonight, though probably only a few of them were Soldiers - most were probably Associates, just enough Witch blood in them to make them betray humanity in the name of personal comfort.

Witch blood didn’t make a person evil all by itself - there were a few Witch-blooded in the Resistance. She wasn’t sure if Oliver - her contact, Witch-blooded himself - would hug her or bite her nose off for this rescue.

I guess I’ll have to survive to find out, her thoughts were dark.

A shiver ran through her body as the scrying spell swept over her, the ring on the middle finger of her left hand tingling like there was no tomorrow. She stilled her heart, stopping for a moment and pressing herself to the wall.

Someone had likely found the goon in the security office. Or one of the Soldiers found a door locked unexpectedly. It should keep them busy long enough to get her to the penthouse elevator - there were no stairs from the “top” floor to the penthouse, only the elevator. She hoped her stolen keycard would work it, she didn’t want to use the talisman.

When the scry was done, she began a much faster climb. Time hadn’t been on her side for a moment during this misguided rescue attempt, and it certainly wasn’t now. Ten more flights and she was at the top - then a short elevator trip… and then back down with a dazed Familiar in tow.

What could fucking go wrong? Ugh, I’m an idiot.

Serena was furious. She had been given an impossible order - to guard the White Witch’s elevator when the entire building was under lockdown. Elena wouldn’t have made that mistake. And Nicole’s scry revealed that three grunts were missing. Serena had to blow a hole in the wall next to the door of her office, leaving her Familiar exhausted, sobbing, and bleeding as the blast had taken every bit of the girl’s magic to burn through the lockdown shield.

Aurora shouldn’t be a Lieutenant, she groused silently. I should! It should be me. I’m more powerful than she is. I’ll prove it tonight and Elena will have no choice but to promote me.

Serena was determined - she’d catch this intruder, this idiot breaking into the home office of the second most powerful coven in the city. She stretched, flexing her muscles and retying the ponytail of her dirty blonde hair. Blood wasn’t everything. Blood wasn’t the end-all-be-all as far as power was concerned. Aurora might have a pedigree, but Serena knew she had stronger magic even though her blood was less pure.

She stood next to the elevator, whispering a chameleon spell, blending in to the wall behind her.

And waiting. She could be patient - she had something to prove.

It took everything she had not to grin with the emergency stair door slipped open the barest amount and a human woman - likely a Hunter - stepped out and began creeping down the hallway. She was dressed in all-black like a cartoonish burglar out of an old-timey TV show, skintight black pants and a tight black, long-sleeved shirt… Serena sniffed the air silently… she couldn’t smell any magic, but the woman’s clothes had to be enchanted - or she’d be sweating in that outfit.

The Witch admired the woman’s figure… and wondered what she’d look like transformed to a Little. She was attractive, a wisp of red hair peeking from under her stocking cap - redheads were valuable, after all and the woman was attractive. Maybe there would be some benefit in tonight after all. She grinned as she waited, not breathing, as the Hunter stepped closer.

Serena waited until the woman was about twenty feet away before she struck.

Rachel stepped carefully, knife gripped loosely but firmly as she made her way to the penthouse elevator. The end of the first leg was in sight, and she had been beyond lucky - she hadn’t even come across another goon yet. Maybe they were all just mashing the elevator buttons and whining softly like the lap dogs the traitors were. She hated them, so many had traded their humanity for power, becoming twisted and warped, angry and evil.

She shouldn’t have let her mind wander, shouldn’t have let her thoughts drift to the worthless goons… shouldn’t have let her hope climb the smallest bit as she neared those fancy elevator doors.

She never even felt the energy gather, didn’t even see the shimmery chameleon movement until it was too late and a blast of wind was lifting her off the ground and throwing her down the hall, smacking into the wall ten feet away from where she had just stood.

“You stupid human,” the Witch’s voice crowed as she walked forward, arms spread with her palms up, green balefire burning there. Rachel winced as she struggled to her feet, lifting the vial of Troll’s blood to her lips, the action covered by the fall of her hair, hanging down over her face and concealing her from the Witch’s gaze. “What the fuck do you think you’re even doing here? Are you doing this on a dare, you pathetic little Hunter?”

I’m going to regret this later, Rachel groaned inwardly as the foul taste of the Troll blood passed her lips. Oliver was going to be pissed for sure now, this wasn’t just reckless - this was stupid. She felt the banished Troll soul touch her own, felt its strength enter her muscles. She could almost hear its laugh - it had a grip on her now, it would be easy for the Troll to worm its way into her heart and turn her slowly.

But Oliver would fix that. He’d done it before. And it had only been a few drops, just enough to give her an edge here.

“I think maybe I’ll beat the shit out of you,” the Witch continued, “and then keep you as a Familiar. Mine might not survive the night thanks to your bullshit, after all. It’s only fair.”

"I thought Winchesters… " Rachel rasped, faking. She staggered a bit and leaned on the wall to her left, “said Familiars were for the weak?” Her arms burned with power, she was dying to launch herself at her attacker and drive the blade deep into the woman’s heart. There were other urges there too, to bite the Witch, to drink her blood, to eat her flesh the way the Troll would. But Rachel knew what a beyond foolish idea that was.

“Oh so you do know where you are,” the Witch laughed, her feet barely touching the ground as she walked, the wind whipping around her as the balefire hovered in her grasp. This one was strong - possibly too strong to be a mere Soldier… but she didn’t seem smart enough to be a Lieutenant. “I had thought that perhaps you confused us with another coven. Maybe this is suicide by Witch? You can’t possibly think you’ll survive.”

One step closer, Rachel smirked behind her hair, “panting” for breath as she leaned on the wall. There.

Once the Witch had taken that final step, Rachel lunged, slamming the top of her head directly into the Witch’s chin after a sharp jump. The creature’s head whipped back from the force and, as expected, the balefire vanished. Rachel’s weight shoved the taller woman to the ground, propelled by the Troll strength. They hit hard, and Rachel felt a rib crack inside the Witch beneath her. But it wouldn’t matter.

She whipped her hair to the side and sneered at the surprised look on the bitch’s face, the Troll screaming triumph as she drove the silver blade into the Witch’s heart. Dark, dark red blood spewed forth, coating her hands. Rachel ached - she knew that the Witch could have killed her if she hadn’t wanted so badly to taunt her. It has been too close. She reached to her hip and took a swig of the holy water she kept there, temporarily silencing the Troll’s influence on her mind.

For good measure, she spit some in the Witch’s eyes, just as the light faded from them.

“I know where I am,” Rachel groaned as she stood - the wind-blast had hurt. But she had survived. “You just didn’t know who I am, you dumb bitch.”

Rachel slapped at the button to the elevator.

That stupid Familiar had better not have hurt herself - it was 50/50 on whether the girl would still be kneeling in the pool of blood, trying to shake the White Witch awake… or looking for some way to kill herself.

New Familiars did that from time to time - especially in a moment of lucidity.

She hoped Claire would be able to help the girl… if they made it out.

Yay!!! I love magic stories!!! This story is off to a wonderful start too. I can’t wait to see this one grow.

Thankies for posting!!! :slight_smile:

Thanks Peaches! This is very different from my usual stuff, I didn’t think anyone was reading it - I figured maybe my foreword was too strong and scared everyone off. It’s an interesting story in my opinion, I’ve enjoyed writing it with my mommy-type, but it’s not erotica, so it hasn’t gotten much attention.

I appreciate you commenting <3

Chapter Four

Across town, in a sub-basement of an ancient, crumbling brownstone, a small handful of humans sat together and quietly spoke. This cell wasn’t huge - hardly a hub at all, more of a motley collection of rebels who worked loosely together. Once upon a time they’d been larger, more organized, but three years prior there’d been a clean-sweep through the city when the newly elected mayor - beloved by Witches everywhere and in the pocket of the Apex Coven - had taken office. A large chunk of the best organized and most talented rebel cells had been wiped out. A dozen in one night. It’d been a nightmare. The Resistance was barely hanging on by a thread.

But the alternative was worse - letting with Witches win. Mayor Vidal was a blood traitor and Resistance Enemy Number One - the woman had been a rebel once, and traded it all for a cushy seat at the right hand of the Apex. She had sold them all out.

She’d pay some day.

Claire sat at the table, idly chewing on her thumbnail and trying not to look at the clock. Rachel should’ve pinged in by now. She wasn’t feckless or flighty; Rachel had a plan, she stuck to it, and in the end things generally worked out.


“Stop fidgeting, you’re making me nervous just looking at you,” Sal muttered, passing by and clutching a cup of hot chocolate in both hands. Claire knew that Sal was on hour seventy-three of no sleep and it was beginning to show. The large black circles beneath her eyes extended like a raccoon mask, her lips were white, ragged, and nearly bloodless, and her fingernails were broken and jagged where she cupped the mug.

The steaming liquid would be too hot for anyone else to hold but Sal was different in a lot of little ways, things not easily noticed outside the basic physicality of her too-thin body, her too-grey skin, her too-sharp teeth. The way she laughed, a beat too long. The way she’d go for days without sleep, or eating, or even drink sometimes. The way she’d watch people move across a room - pupils blown wide and lips slightly parted - with complete and unerring concentration. Sal would’ve made a great Hunter if she weren’t so nervous by her general nature. She was quick enough, for sure, and strong enough, but she didn’t have that fearlessness that nearly every decent Hunter had.

Namely, she lacked that crucial ability to walk through a world of Witches and slide within inches of them without losing calm confidence. Rachel was one of the best in that regard - she could hold perfectly pleasant conversations with Witches while undercover, smiling and cozying up, appearing just like any other ambitious blood-traitor, thirsty for power or prestige associating with Witches could grant. A lot of Hunters were capable of killing from a distance but you got them up close and they froze - either out of fear, or their anger would take over and they’d screw up… threaten or glare. And that was all it took. Rachel could divorce her emotions from her actions and that made her the best of the best. She could be flirting with a Witch one moment, batting her huge brown eyes, and then slicing their neck ten minutes later, letting the Witch bleed out in a bathroom stall.

It was a talent, for sure. Her sister was amazing.

“Shut up,” Claire replied with no heat. Rachel was late, but that wasn’t worrisome… yet. She’d been late before. Never for frivolous reasons, true, if the reason for her sister walking in the door even a few minutes off schedule was something small Rachel always made a point of messaging ahead. So something had gone sideways on this hunt. Fine. It happened. But how sideways? Would she come back hurt? Ill? Hexed? That had happened a time or two - where a Witch got a hex off before Rachel could dodge or block. Getting a hex removed was always expensive and harder than hell - there were a few sympathetic Witches in the city, ones who didn’t approve of the Familiar slave trade, or kidnapping, or the brutality of the higher order Covens. But when push came to shove a Witch would nearly always side with her sisters rather than the Hunters.

Claire could understand. She would rather side with her sister than the Witches. Funny how that worked.

“She’ll be here,” Sal sighed, setting the mug of near-boiling liquid down on the table with a distinct click. “Have faith.”

“I have faith!” Claire protested hotly, eying the drink.

She had to very carefully monitor how much liquid she took in during a day - almost always drank out of the same few cups, kept a chart and records. It helped. She was on day seventy-five since her last accident, when she’d been sick with the flu and in bed and hadn’t had the energy to track her intake. Dr Gielez, the woman who ran the ex-Familiar support group every Tuesday night in the basement of the Priory of the Prediction, swore that Claire didn’t need to be so particular about watching her water, that thinking about it so much was actually making the situation worse, but Claire was terrified of backsliding.

She’d hated being hollowed out and helpless, hated the fact that she still had a doe-like tendency to freeze under pressure, to fall to her knees and whimper and beg for forgiveness for her perceived sins. Hated being under the “loving boot” of her Mistress. Her Witch hadn’t even been that bad in comparison of some of the others. The Witch Rachel was hunting tonight, for example - Sarah Trippoli - was one of the more brutal examples. She looked exquisite and put-together, elegant and regal and alluring - but if the normies had even half a clue of the viciousness the mob boss displayed on a low-key day-to-day basis, Claire wondered if they’d still flock to her the way they did.

When she was feeling cynical, she thought they might.

It was disheartening.

And Sarah? The White Witch of Winchester wasn’t even the worst of the worst. She was up there, sure, no innocent princess in an ivory tower like she pretended to the public - but there were worse Witches out there. Worse Witches by far.

“Of course you do,” Sal murmured placatingly, gently patting the back of Claire’s hand. “Look, my sleep cycle isn’t ready to kick in yet. I’ve got time. Why don’t you just rest your eyes - don’t even have to go to bed, just snuggle up right here, put your head on your arms - and I’ll keep watch 'till Rach comes in, yeah? You haven’t been sleepin’, it’s past yer bedtime.”

Instinctively, Claire wanted to obey. The urge was intense and immediate. Sal didn’t mean anything by it - she was right, actually, it was way past the time Claire normally slipped between her sheets and snuggled down for sleep - but those particular words were triggering and Claire didn’t appreciate it. She could feel the ghosts of thin hands tucking her in, long fingers folding blankets over her body, the whisper-hum of a soothing voice ordering her to close her eyes, to rest, to sleep. The sound of crib bars locking into place. She’d hated it. Hated it. Hated the loss of autonomy, the uncontrollable desire to bend and bend and bend until she was either a pretzel or she broke.

But in times like this, when shit got hard… she wanted to follow. To obey. To bend.

“I’m fine,” she replied shortly, fighting the urges as she glanced at the clock again. Less than five minutes had passed since the last time she’d looked. Claire bit back a groan.

She just had to be patient. Her sister was a pro - the monster that the other monsters were afraid of. Rachel would be okay. She was a professional. The Witchhunter.

Rachel would be okay.

Rachel was so not okay.

Emergency lights blinked deep red and orange above her, highlighting nearly invisible spellwork woven into the wallpaper, painted on the ceiling, and etched into elegant, thread-thin spirals on the floor - sigils and glyphs, traps and hexes. Dancing through this minefield of magic had been exhausting enough - Rachel had likely never been more glad of her years in gymnastics, in dance, and various martial arts - but now, panting by the front door to the White Witch’s home, all she wanted to do was scream.

It was locked. That was to be expected. It had been trapped. No big; Rachel had handled the acid, the tripwire, and the spellwork in less than two minutes all told.

No. It was the deadbolt. A fucking human invention. Rachel wasn’t a Troll - for all she still had the vile taste lingering on her tongue - and the door was steel-clad around the edges. There was no way she was going to be able to kick it in as she’d planned and there was precisely jack-all in the foyer of the penthouse leading up to Sarah’s door that was sturdy enough to batter down the damn thing. There were a few fussy tables and chairs, sure - but they were delicate things and would crunch like kindling with a single good hit.

“Fuck,” Rachel muttered. She might’ve just gotten herself caught. There was no way that she’d gotten this far to be busted by a fucking high-end deadbolt! Unacceptable!

“Think,” she muttered. “Think, think, think.” Rachel rested her hands on her hips, her fingertips barely grazing her pocket when she realized that she still had her burner.

When in doubt…

She snatched out her phone and dialed. After a moment the proxy line picked up and Claire’s voice came sharply over the line.

“Where the hell are you?!”

“I’m looking a deadbolt,” Rachel said instead of answering her frantic sister. “I’ve got at least three Witches, possibly more, coming my way in the next five or ten minutes. There’s nothing to beat the door down with and it’s too solid for me to kick it open.” She paused. “Oh, and there’s a new Familiar and a dead Witch on the other side.”

There was such a long pause that Rachel thought the connection had cut out. She was about to curse her shittastic luck and dial Claire again when her sister said, very softly:


Rachel blinked.

“You’re joking,” she said.

“I’m serious,” Claire insisted, her voice gaining strength. “Knock. Be sweet.” And then, almost as an afterthought. “Don’t yell.”

“I don’t yell,” Rachel replied. “Love and hugs.”

“Hugs and love,” Claire responded. “Walk it off.”

“On my way,” she promised. “Warm up a bath and a bed.”

And with that, she hung up, broke the burner and jammed it back in her pocket just in case, and softly knocked on the door.

“Hello?” she called quietly. “Hello? Excuse me? Is anyone home?”

This story is absolutely my kind of story. I loving it. Its easy to follow and has a really fun premise. Plus its sort of a hero story. So far I’m enjoying this story more than your other stories. Don’t get me wrong. Your other stories are awesome.

Thankies for posting!!! :slight_smile:

Thanks! I really appreciate it. This is a collaborative effort between my mommy-type and me, she’s way more of a writer than I am and when we put our heads together, we do some really crazy worldbuilding.

So this story is larger in scale than most of mine, and it’s more of a “novel” than my usual erotica with a cast of a half-dozen to a dozen characters. Sightlines has a cast of 17 non-trivial characters and still growing, I think. It’s much more ambitious than my usual stories.

But it’s also not erotica, so it’s not really getting a warm reception. I really appreciate you encouraging me <3

Do you have a patreon? I’d totally pay into it so I can read your stuff. I really enjoy your work and you like to spoil us with a ton of chapters each month.

Just thought I’d tell you this. I received a message from an online author in the community this morning of which is in my top 4 authors online. I read alot of stories by the way. Anyway, his message to me was a suggestion that I check out your work. He said that your very talented. I believe he is correct in saying this. I just wanted you to know just how good you are at this craft.

Aww thanks! I don’t have a Patreon because I don’t want to promise anyone that I’ll continue. Things got really hard for me around this time last year and I disappeared for about six months. If people were paying me, I’d have a harder time taking that kind of “mental health” break. I have a good day job as a computer programmer, so I’m content to just give my writing work out for free.

Oh now I’m dreadfully curious as to who it is! Now you’re taunting me. I deeply appreciate you passing along the compliment. I love it when other authors comment on my work, even obliquely :smiley:

It was Personalias. I thoroughly enjoy his work. I think he is quite talented and writes very original stuff. I chat with him from time to time about stories and other abdl related stuff. He’s recommended a few authors to me over the time we chatted. His recommendation to check out your work was given with a thorough review in which he holds your stuff in high esteem.

I can totally understand not wanting that pressure to produce new material. You want to be able to work on it when you feel inspired and up for the challenge.

I love Personalias - his story Fetish is among my absolute favorites. He is very talented! I’ve chatted with him some as well, I think he’s pretty great :smiley:

I’ve got the writing bug pretty hard right now, I have a new idea in addition to Sightlines… but it’s too early to say much about it. Just that it’s different.

Chapter Five

Faye was cold, but she wouldn’t complain. Faye was tired, but she wouldn’t complain. Faye ached, but she wouldn’t complain. She waited, kneeling, as the blood had spread, coating her knees, her shins, and her toes. It was congealing and icky, but she wouldn’t complain.

Complaints were punished. The Whisper liked it when she complained because the Whisper liked it when she was punished. But Faye didn’t like it. Her last punishment had been scary. She had dropped an old plate and her Owner had taken her by the ankle and held her out the window, stressing how very important it was not to drop things. Faye didn’t want to drop things now. Her Mommy had given her lots of cuddles after that, but she still had to clean up the broken pieces with her fingers. Her Owner, her Mommy, had made her lick the blood off of her own hands when she was done, before she worked her magic to heal the cuts.

Punishments always went that way - she wasn’t sure how many days she had been alive, how many days she had belonged to her Owner - life before didn’t seem to count, she remembered that she had existed before Mommy owned her, but she couldn’t remember what she did or what she was like. She remembered being taller, she remembered that she had her own home once… but it was all so fuzzy.

“Please Mommy,” she whispered after another long moment. “Please tell me how to serve you.”

The wind was cold coming from a hole in the window. After long, long minutes of kneeling next to her Owner, her stomach growled loudly and she winced. Her Owner didn’t feed her every day - she didn’t always earn her food the way she was supposed to, channelling magic as Mommy instructed. It wasn’t easy - controlling magic was like controlling the air with your hands, you couldn’t see it but it was everywhere, you could touch it if you moved right but you couldn’t make it do what you wanted.

On days that she did a very good job channelling, she got chicken nuggets. Yesterday she went hungry - the magic just wouldn’t cooperate. She felt a little shaky as she rose, wondering what she was supposed to do next. Her mommy didn’t tell her what to do, wouldn’t tell her what to do, but she knew it was time to channel magic - she was hungry. She focused, feeling the energies around her, feeling the magic in the air…

But her concentration was shattered by an unexpected sound. A knock at the door.

A fuzzy memory told her that meant someone wanted something, someone outside.

She hadn’t been outside the door that she could remember - but she knew she must have, when she was a food-servant. She hadn’t done that here, that was in another place. She trundled to the door and began unlocking it - she wasn’t sure if they were supposed to go in a certain order or not, so she started from the bottom. She didn’t know what was supposed to happen next, but this seemed like the right thing to do.

After the sound of a ridiculous number of locks unlocking, the door opened just enough for Rachel to see the chain - easily at a Witch’s shoulder level, much too high for a Familiar - and a single brown eye peering at her through the crack. The chain glowed faintly. It was enchanted not to break and she had precisely zero imp-spit on hand to melt the shitty thing. Figured. Absolutely shit luck!

“Hello,” Rachel said soothingly instead of screaming in frustration and rage, which was what she wanted to do.

“Hello,” replied the Familiar quietly, shifting so more of her was visible in the opening. Her breath gusted white when she spoke and what flesh Rachel could see was pebbled with gooseflesh.

Gotta grab her clothes too, Rachel thought absently, adding just one more thing to the fucked up to do list for this fucked up night. What kind of bitch doesn’t even put her pet in a onesie or something? The AC is cranked, it’s frigid in here. Come on, Sarah, couldn’t you have been a decent person for even a second?

“May I come in?” Rachel asked. Inwardly she was counting down the seconds until the elevator burst open and a half-dozen Witches descended on her, but for the moment she was in control. Cool and calm and smooth. Slowly, Rachel reached through the open door and prodded the chain. “You have to get a chair and stand on it to undo the chain.”

“Can you help me?” the Familiar asked. “Mommy fell and won’t move.”

“I will absolutely help you, sweet girl,” Rachel promised fervently. She hated using those pet names, the Witch-names, but times like these she had to use every tool in her toolbox. “Just get a chair and stand on it, undo the lock and I will come in there and help you right now.” She felt awful using trigger words, she knew the Familiar would have a hard time doing anything other than obeying - she had watched Claire struggle with those urges enough.

The Familiar drew away and walked a couple of steps from the door but then stopped. Rachel bit back her groan and waited patiently. A moment later, the the eye appeared in the crack again.

“I can’t,” the Familiar stated, guileless.

“Why not, precious?” Rachel chirped kindly. She tried to make herself look as small and unassuming as possible.

“I’m not supposed to talk to other Witches,” the Familiar whispered. “Mommy said if I talked to other Witches they might want to steal me away from her. I belong to Mommy. I can’t let you in. I’m sorry.”

“You’re in luck then,” Rachel smiled with relief. ”I’m not a Witch. See?” She backed away slowly so that the girl could see all of her and turned a full circle, making sure she was well away from the edge of the trapped spellcircle behind her. She was positive she’d broken the core component of the axis, but one of the reasons Rachel was alive when so many otherwise talented and hungry Hunters weren’t was her absolute refusal to take anything at all for granted. “See? I’m not even six feet tall, sweetheart. I’m barely five-seven. Not even close to being a Witch. You can let me in without your Mommy getting mad, I swear. I will pinky-swear if you need me to.”

“Oh.” The eye blinked a few times. “Okay.”

Rachel gusted a silent sigh of relief as the girl vanished again and, after a few agonizingly slow moments, the door slipped closed, there was the sound of the chain dropping, and then a scrape as the chair the Familiar stood on was dragged away from the door. Then, miracle of miracles, the door opened again.

“Please come in,” the girl whispered and Rachel, beaming as if it were a pleasant spring teatime she was walking into instead of a fucking murder scene, pushed the door open wider and strolled into the room.

“My mommy is over- where are you going?” the Familiar turned and followed Rachel as Rachel rushed through Sarah’s apartment toward the room at the back, the one where she’d been keeping the girl. “My Mommy isn’t in my room,” the Familiar said. “She’s in the-”

“Wear this,” Rachel ordered, yanking open the closet and grabbing the first dress she saw. It was a frivolous thing - blue and green and white, scalloped and layered and beribboned and ugly as sin - but it could be yanked on over the girl’s head in one swoop. Then, as the Familiar held the dress in loose hands, Rachel snatched up a pair of mary-jane shoes on the rack beside the door.

“Foot,” she demanded and the girl obliged immediately. Rachel grimaced at the girl’s blood-encrusted toes but pushed on, remembering how she’d had to do this for Claire in both Claire’s first childhood and in the months following her captivity. She blinked back tears as she jammed the shoe on and buckled it with an expert tug and twist. “Other foot.”

The dress was on, the shoes were on, anything else? Rachel took a bare three seconds to examine the room/torture chamber. Nope, nothing at all anyone would want from this freak show, she decided and took the Familiar by the wrist. The girl was beginning to look distressed, so Rachel gathered her energy for another burst of cheerfulness.

“Come on,” she exclaimed brightly, “your mommy had too much to drink. We’re going to take a walk and buy ice cream when she wakes up she’ll be so happy that we were so big and already ate dinner. Right? Right!”

“I can have ice cream for dinner?” the Familiar asked, confused. “Mommy does drink sometimes but she never lets me have ice cream for dinner.”

“You can,” Rachel told her firmly. “What’s your favorite flavor? It’s blue, isn’t it? Blue ice cream is your favorite?”

At first she thought the Familiar would balk at the bizarre turn of conversation - the truly fucked up ones couldn’t follow quick changes - but the girl blinked a bit and then grinned.

“Cotton candy is blue,” she agreed, seriously. “I like cotton candy ice cream too.”

Thank the twists and turns of fucking fate, Rachel thought breathlessly. She’s still in there somewhere.

“Okay, kiddo,” she said. “Let’s get out of here and buy you some blue ice cream!”

Rachel was surprised that the elevator had not begun spewing forth Witches while she was dressing the Familiar. She expected the attack to come at any moment - the Winchester coven was not a bunch of pushovers, and this was their primary base of operations. The place was crawling with Witches, but so far she had only run into the one. The magical and mechanical defenses of this building were good - but they weren’t that good. Not so good that the denizens of the highrise itself wouldn’t be able to escape their rooms.

Which meant that the trap was undoubtedly waiting for her on the ground floor, at the exit.

If she were alone, Rachel would simply go to the second floor and jump - a twelve foot drop was survivable and she knew how to tuck and roll to minimize damage… but she wasn’t alone. The Familiar held her hand as they weaved through the spellwork traps, reversing the path that Rachel had used to get to the damned door in the first place. The girl was docile, as expected… but something wasn’t right. The way the girl looked around, the way she seemed to be actually taking things in, processing information.

Nothing about this job was right. But Sarah Trippoli was dead - and that meant a power vacuum while the Winchester coven regrouped. There was a slight risk that Apex would fill the gap before another coven could, but Oliver had run the numbers. It was worth the risk. Any other coven rising, Jade Mask, Talon, Golden Dawn - any of them taking some of Winchester’s power would tip the scales just enough to give Apex some trouble.

And everyone wanted to see Apex fall. Apex was the coven responsible for the slave trade - they had developed the transformation magic that allowed the Witches to take anyhuman they wanted, not just a Little. No one was safe after that particular spell had been discovered.

But their security was also tighter. Other cells were gathering data, trying to find a weak point so she could do some damage to Apex, but right now the best bet was to get another coven to chink that alpha coven’s armor.

The Familiar never once tried to pull away, never once tried to walk at any pace other than the one Rachel set. She was very obedient, but that light was still in her eyes. She was still in there somewhere, behind the fuzz, behind the torture. Claire would be able to reach her, to help her, to shake off the damage that the White Witch had inflicted and help the girl become human again, at least mentally.

“So many Witches are sleeping,” the Familiar whispered as they passed the corpse of the witch who had tried to ambush Rachel not so long ago.

“She had too much to drink, too,” Rachel smiled comfortingly. She doubted the Familiar could comprehend death right now, or she would have realized that Trippoli wasn’t just asleep.

“We should help her,” the Familiar said, pulling ever so slightly on Rachel’s hand as she tried to step closer to the Witch’s corpse.

“We have to go,” Rachel reminded her, pulling gently at her wrist. “You’re still hungry, aren’t you?”

"Yes… " the Familiar stopped in the middle of the hallway. Rachel was tempted to pick the girl up and carry her, but she didn’t want an armful of Familiar if they were attacked. “I don’t know what to call you.” She finished in a dazed, far-off voice.

Shit. She was going to choose now to start questioning things?

“You can just call me Rachel, pretty pet,” her stomach turned as she pushed those common conditioning buttons again. “Now be a good girl and walk with me, okay? There we go. Oh, you are a good girl.” She hated herself for it, but it worked. They reached the stairwell quickly… hopefully the Witches hadn’t figured out which way she had gone - there were three emergency stairwells in this place - with any luck they’d have a smaller guard posted on this one.

The trek down was no more fun than the climb up and she had to give the Familiar a ride on her back around the halfway point. The feeling of the squishy diaper pressing against her back made her blanch, but the Familiar - expectedly - didn’t seem to mind. When it grew warm again in the small of her back, Rachel minded very much - but now wasn’t the time to say anything about it. It’s not like the Familiar had a choice.

They were almost home free.

Another great chapter. The suspense is thrilling. I need to know if she saves Faye or if she is resigned to the littles fate.

Thankies for posting!!! :slight_smile:

It’s that time again! Let’s find out…

Chapter Six

Bianca waited in the foyer, slowly going crazy. Serena hadn’t checked in - the woman hated protocol and “hand-holding” but this was a real situation, not some drill or test put on by the White Witch.

And where the fuck was Sarah? She should be front and center, but no one could reach her. Her private suite was one of the most heavily warded locations in the city, no communication spell could reach her there without her consent - which she wasn’t giving, and she wasn’t answering her cellphone.

“Aw, Benny,” she heard Lorenzo say sadly behind her as Donna carried the imp’s corpse back inside. “He didn’t deserve that.”

Bianca sighed and laid a hand on Lorenzo’s shoulder. He and the imp were friends, Lorenzo had actually done the binding ceremony that had elevated Benny from the stinking masses of humanity into the family.

“Sorry, Lorenzo,” she said as he accepted the tiny corpse from Donna.

“Oh I’m going to kill whoever did this,” he swore, his eyes burning red with the magic that trickled out of him as he gave way to his anger. Lorenzo was an Associate on his way to Soldier - he wasn’t the most powerful Witch in the coven, but he was mad. No Witch would want to be in the Hunter’s shoes. Whoever did this should hope that Lorenzo killed them rather than capturing - and his wrath would be nothing compared to Sarah’s.

Suddenly, all eyes went to the eastern stairwell. The Witches could all smell it - fear mixed with magic. Someone was coming down those stairs right now. Lorenzo set Benny’s corpse on a table in the lobby and flew across the room to the entrance to the stairs. Bianca nodded to Donna to take a flanking position. The fear felt small to her - almost like a Familiar, but the flavor was wrong. It could be Aurora - but they probably wouldn’t be coming down the stairs. Did someone’s pet get lost?

The foyer of the building was two stories tall and the presence wasn’t on the ground floor yet… Lorenzo climbed the wall above the door, scrambling on all fours like a beast, his magic adhering him like a spider. His fist glowed red as he slammed it into the wall and reached through the hole, coming back with a Familiar in a puffy blue dress. It screamed in fright as he leapt down. This was definitely the presence, but why was a Familiar wandering the stairs?

He dropped from the wall, landing easily and holding the Familiar aloft.

“Who do you belong to?” he shook it, demanding an answer.

He was overcome with his rage - he wasn’t thinking rationally, and the Familiar’s response did nothing to soothe his temper.

“I belong to my Owner,” the creature squeaked. Lorenzo roared, holding the girl to his face. She was a pretty thing, blonde curls and brown eyes… but her ankles were covered in blood. Something was wrong.

“What is your owner’s name,” he demanded as Bianca walked over, trying to figure out what was missing here.

“My Owner’s name is Mommy,” she cried, tears streaming down her face.

Of course that’s her answer, Bianca thought, what did you expect, Lorenzo?

“You stupid girl,” the male Witch growled and brought the Familiar’s face close to his, baring a mouth full of pointed teeth.

“I’m sorry I’m stupid,” the Familiar whimpered. “I’m sorry, please punish me.”

“What were you doing on the stairs?”

When the wall exploded, Rachel reacted instantly - she hadn’t been expecting it, but she had been expecting trouble. The Witches weren’t swarming her, which meant they were plotting an ambush. Bursting through a wall hadn’t been the ambush she expected - she had expected another chameleon spell.

Instinctively, she turned her body away from the explosion, debris flying all around her - not even thinking about the fact that the Familiar was on her back.

And then she wasn’t.

“Shit,” she breathed as she tried to plan her next move. She moved to get a peek out of the hole in the wall - without exposing herself - as the Witch dropped down, the Familiar in his grip. Two of them. A female and a male. The males tended to have less magic, but that one seemed agitated - he would likely be reckless with his spells, but they would be stronger.

They were distracted, however - and Rachel didn’t mind using this Familiar as bait quite as much as she did when it were her own sister. The girl cried pitifully as Rachel descended the stairs, listening to the idiot Witch’s questioning. He wasn’t thinking.

Rachel was so close - the doors that led out into the world were right there, she just had to grab the Familiar, dodge the hexes that would be thrown at her, and get out. The disgustingly tall Witches all had their attention focused on the Familiar… and they didn’t seem to recognize her. Sarah hadn’t told them about her victim.


“What were you doing on the stairs,” the male Witch snarled as Rachel slowly - ever so slowly - pushed the door open. Shit. He might actually get something useful out of her on that one.

“I was going to get ice cream,” the Familiar blubbered.

Rachel slipped from the stairwell, drawing her knife - there were only two of them, and two dead Witches were better than two live Witches chasing her through the streets. She stilled her mind as she prepared to strike - there would be no anger, no fury… and the Witch wouldn’t see it coming.

“Where is your Owner?” the male Witch asked. The female’s attention was entirely on the Familiar, a puzzled look on her face. Neither of them had ever seen the girl before, Rachel could tell.

“She’s on the floor,” the Familiar answered with what undoubtedly made perfect sense to her. It was obvious that this male Witch didn’t have a Familiar of his own. Good. One less thing to worry about.

“Where!?” the male Witch roared, shaking the poor confused Familiar.

“She’s on the floor,” the girl cried. “She’s on the floor and she’s asleep and she won’t wake up and I don’t know what to do and I’m scared and my friend is taking me for ice cream!”

“Friend?” the male asked as Rachel lunged, driving the knife - parallel to the ground so it didn’t get stuck in the creature’s ribs - into the Witch’s back and bowling him to the ground. The Familiar hit the ground with a thud and a yelp, a six-foot drop was a lot for a small girl like her, but Rachel couldn’t worry about that. With a sick feeling in her heart, she lobbed the talisman at the female Witch, who was flinging green balefire.

The talisman flew true and embedded itself in the Witch’s leg, looking strange and golden poking out of the expensive suit the woman wore. She crumpled, dropping to her knees as the charm cut her off from all her magic. Rachel had paid a hefty price for that, but there was no sense in hanging on to a precious item when your life was on the line - tools were meant to be used.

She never saw the third Witch coming. She felt arms slip under hers and before she could react, she was dangling two feet off the ground in nelson hold, dark magics seeping through the skin at the back of her skull where the Witch’s hands rested.

“Fuck,” Rachel groaned. It was over.

“Where did you even get this?” Bianca demanded as she stood shakily, yanking the ceremonial dagger out of her thigh. Her mana well was drained, gone, just like that. A relic left over from when Witches warred openly with each other, after the Great Pact had been broken. This dagger was old. How had this Hunter gotten a hold of it? Why did it still exist?

She stepped over to the crying Familiar, who was laying on the ground in a heap. Lorenzo was still breathing, but Bianca had no magic to give him for healing and Donna couldn’t let go of the Hunter. He would either hold on, or he would die. He wasn’t that smart or that useful anyway. Even weakened and shaky from the relic athame, she lifted the Familiar easily, holding her close.

“All this for a single Familiar?” she mused. “Who does she belong to, Hunter?”

Bianca didn’t expect an answer, she was surprised when one came.

“Sarah Trippoli,” the Hunter sagged as Donna’s exhaustion spell worked its magic. If Lorenzo could hold on a few more moments, the Hunter would be too weary to move and Donna could heal him.

“The White Witch doesn’t have a Familiar,” Donna sneered. “Everyone knows that.”

“She doesn’t any more,” the Hunter laughed weakly. “She’s dead.”

The Familiar in Bianca’s arms straightened suddenly and stopped crying - the girl was disturbed by the news. It was true. Sarah took a Familiar after all these years - the question was why.

“You’re going to die for this,” Bianca snarled, lifting the athame with her spare hand, holding the Familiar with her other. The creature had to be valuable or Sarah wouldn’t have wanted it. And this Hunter lost her life trying to save it. She held the athame to the Hunter’s neck, the brazen woman lifted her head higher, exposing her throat.

“Don’t hurt my friend,” the Familiar’s voice was eerily calm… and Familiars didn’t make demands, they couldn’t.

“I’m not going to hurt your friend,” Bianca spat. “I’m going to kill her.”


Donna laughed harshly as Bianca dug the blade into Rachel’s throat.

“You don’t get a say, Familiar,” Bianca said harshly. “You are property. You are a pet. You exist only to obey and to please your Witch. Now beg me to kill your friend. Be a good girl.”

Donna’s face went white suddenly. Bianca looked down and there was a faint glow coming from the Familiar’s eyes.


It was the last word Bianca ever heard. There was a blinding flash, the brilliance coming from the Familiar filled the room and every inch of Bianca burned, as though she had been set ablaze.

Yay!!! This chapter was so awesome!!! I love that the savior becomes the saved. Not to mention the fact that you opened up an exciting twist that leaves me wanting more.

Thankies for posting!!! :slight_smile:

And yet role-reversal is my least favorite thing… unless it’s me pretending to be dominant and then getting “put in my place”, I guess :wink:

You want more? You got it. Here we go.

Chapter Seven

The door to the sub-basement banged in the pattern chosen for the night - two long, two short, and three taps with a fingernail. Sal was up and at the entry in a moment, peering through the camera and then she gasped, fumbling with the locks. She’d barely yanked it open when Rachel staggered in, carrying an unconscious Little piggyback… how she’d made it all the way across town without being stopped was a mystery, but here her sister was, glassy-eyed and exhausted, but in one piece at least.

“What. The. Fuck? What happened?” Claire asked, dazed. She’d done as her sister had ordered - fresh sheets on a bed, warm water in a bath complete with bubbles to help ease the new Familiar into a feeling of safety and security - but now she realized that they’d have to start with a shower first and probably climb in with the girl to boot. The tiny thing wasn’t entirely covered head-to-toe in splattered blood and smoke… but it was close.

“Winchester Tower is gone,” Rachel said baldly, twisting so Sal and Claire could ease the downed Familiar off her back. Then Rachel cried out and stumbled to a nearby chair. “My leg’s fucking broken.”

“What happened?!” Claire demanded again, reaching for the shears to cut the atrocious dress off the blonde. Her fingers were still too clumsy to handle buttons and while there was a chance she might be able to just yank the thing over the girl’s head, if there were something wrong with her neck she didn’t want to risk hurting her further. The girl was breathing still, there was that, but covered in that much blood… would she breathing much longer?

As if reading the train of her thoughts, Rachel shook her head.

“None of that blood is hers,” she explained flatly. “It belongs to Winchester Witches. All of it.” Then she paused, considering. “Possibly some of it is mine. I got tossed around a bit.”

“I’ve got Rach,” Sal said quietly, resting a hand on Claire’s shoulder. “You take… you take her and get her cleaned up, okay? We gotta check her over, see where she’s hurt. Maybe no bleedin’, sure, but if Rach’s gotta broken leg-”

“I got that when the explosion hit,” Rachel sighed and grimaced, prodding her thigh. “Chucked clear across the room. Didn’t see a lot, just heard the screaming and when I came to the whole place was falling down around our ears. She was dragging me clear.” And then Rachel - strong Rachel, sarcastic Rachel, badass Rachel - sobbed a little. “I promised her blue ice cream,” she told Sal. “Cotton candy if we can manage it. She likes cotton candy ice cream.”

“On it,” Sal swore. "Lemme get you cleaned up and I’ll run over to the Quik Shoppe… “

“Thanks,” Rachel groaned as the taller woman slung an arm around her shoulders and helped her rise.

Claire lifted the Familiar in her own arms - she was stronger than she’d been before, now, thanks to daily workouts with her sister; Claire never wanted to be at the mercy of a Witch again and if all she could do was punch them in the face, then her punch might as well have enough force behind it to count - and went the opposite direction. She carried the girl into the bathroom and stripped her bare. The diaper was used - expected - and she had the normal set of bruises in all the usual places. Neck, wrists, ankles. Her ears had been pierced recently - the lobes were puffy and needed care - and Claire took out the small pearls and dropped them into a nixjar to contain them temporarily. They might just be expensive jewelry - Sarah Trippoli had been known for her expensive tastes and there was zero reason why she wouldn’t spoil her pet just as she spoiled herself - but there was no point in taking risks. Anything that came from the tower had to be destroyed - clothing, jewelry, and even the diaper.

The shower was warm after a few minutes of clanking and thunking in the walls; their sub-basement location didn’t show up on any maps but that meant creating it had required a few cautious liberties with things like diverting electricity and water. Claire eased the girl into the stall and stripped down herself, letting the water wash over them as she began systematically cleaning the Familiar. The patter of water made her gut ache and Claire gritted her teeth and held it as long as possible before propping the girl against the wall and slipping out of the stall to relieve herself in the toilet. She made it in time but resented the fact that she couldn’t just let go as she had when she was normal, just pee in the shower and think nothing of it and wash the evidence away with a squirt of body wash and careful adjustment of the shower head.

The water had cooled considerably after Claire had finally worked all the gummy crap out of the girl’s hair - there were stringy bits she was fairly sure were nerve bundles, oh my fucking god, and more than a few purple strips she was positive were veins and chunks of small intestine. Still, Claire was used to tedious work and when it was all said and done, the water sluicing down might be on the chilly side but the girl in her arms was clean. She wasn’t a particularly pretty woman - cute enough, Claire supposed, and she was perfect for a Witch, all they’d see were curves and big eyes and bouncing blonde curls - but missed the mark on true beauty. Still, that didn’t matter now. She wasn’t going up on an auction block, she didn’t need exquisite features to keep her alive. They’d figure out who she’d been and see if they could rehabilitate her and get her home.

Slowly, Claire lifted the slippery Familiar over her shoulder in a fireman’s carry and then eased her into the still warm water of the bathtub next to the shower. The bubbles were mostly gone now but there was a faint scrim of milky haze on the top of the water and it smelled enticingly of bubble gum. Claire draped herself in a dry towel and sat on the small library stool they kept beneath the counter, idly resting her crossed arms on the edge of the tub and her own chin - too pointy, too pale, faintly freckled - on her crossed wrists. Her red hair was tied back, just barely long enough, and a brighter red than her sister’s. All she could do now was rest awhile and wait, see if the girl woke up with the warmth and the good smells. She hoped so.

Claire had questions.

Aurora hunched uncomfortably in the back of the human medical vehicle - the “ambulance”. These things weren’t built for her kind, they didn’t need human medical attention. But Mia did. The Winchester Lieutenant still had no idea how the tower had exploded, but she had been fine one moment, coordinating the magics of the building and unravelling the security breach, when she felt a flare coming from the foyer. It was like the first three floors had simply disintegrated and the building collapsed inward. Shrapnel and fire had been everywhere and her Familiar had been blown out of her arms, out of the window, and smashed against a neighboring building.

Aurora had followed without a second thought, snatching her pet midair as they plummeted for the ground, her plea to the winds slowing their fall… but Mia was burned and battered, broken and bleeding… and Aurora couldn’t reach her pet’s mana well.

It was like it was gone.

The human police and medical services were on the scene in moments, and she had forced her way aboard this one, laying her pet on the gurney and demanding that the human healer help.

“Fix her,” she growled as the young human man scrambled, jamming a needle into her precious pet and attaching her to some hanging bag.

“I… I’ve never worked on a Familiar, Your Grace,” the human stammered. It was the wrong title, but it was always better for humans to aim higher than lower. “What happened?”

“There was an explosion - she hit a wall. Just… fix her. Please.” Aurora’s agitation gave way to her worry.

“Mommy?” her little pet moaned, regaining consciousness. “Mommy, where are you?”

“I’m right here, precious pet,” Aurora assured her, stroking the girl’s soft brown hair with her long fingers. “Mommy is right here.”

“I can’t see you, Mommy,” Mia weakly turned her head this way and that, searching. “Why can’t I see you, did I do bad?”

The healer looked deeply uncomfortable as he shined a small flashlight in her eyes, waving it around. Aurora didn’t understand why he was doing that, and it irritated her that the boy was getting in the way of her conversation.

“You are a very good girl,” Aurora said softly, trying again to channel a healing spell into her Familiar’s broken body. The magic wouldn’t take, it wouldn’t hold. Mia began coughing uncontrollably, blood-stained spittle on her lips.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” the human said quietly, barely audible over the sirens as the ambulance sped down the road. “I don’t know if she’s going to make it - this is bad.”

“That is not an option,” Aurora growled, baring her pointed teeth at the boy. “You will save her.”

“Mommy?” Mia mewled, reaching out with her tiny hands. Aurora took those hands in hers, feeling those small fingers wrap around her own. “Mommy… I love you. Thank you. Thank you for being good to me, not like your sisters.”

“Mia honey,” the Witch’s voice cracked, pleading. “Don’t die. Don’t you die on me. We’re going to live another hundred years together, sweetie. Be a good girl. Be a good girl for Mommy and don’t die.

“I’m sorry, Mommy,” Mia whispered, a tear escaping her eye. “I’m sorry I wasn’t good at the end. I’m sorry I couldn’t obey.”

“Fix her!” Aurora screamed at the human, who was crying as well. “Fix her! Use your human science and fix her!”

“I can’t,” he whispered. Mia’s breath was labored and ragged, another coughing fit taking her… and suddenly she stopped. Just stopped, mid-cough.

“No!” She leaned over her precious pet, her darling Mia, and sobbed. “No… Mia. Mia, my precious girl. Don’t go.”

"I didn’t know Witches could cry… " the human said, stunned, staring at the red rivulets of blood that leaked from Aurora’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. I’m sorry for your loss.”

The air grew cold inside the back of the ambulance as Aurora tried one more time. The human fell to his knees as his life-force drained from him, as the Witch pulled every bit of life out of everything around her to try to give to her beloved Mia. It wasn’t a Winchester spell, it wasn’t any kind of wind magic or balefire, it was a dark spell.

“Please… stop,” the human begged, clawing at his throat as the greenish life energy spilled from his lips, gathering in Aurora’s hand.

“I can’t,” Aurora sneered. “I’d trade a hundred of you for her, you pathetic thing. Mia was the best thing your disgusting, terrible species ever produced.”

But Mia wouldn’t accept the lifeforce, wouldn’t take the energy. The skin on Aurora’s right hand blackened, the obvious marking that she had violated one of the core rules of Witchcraft - life mana was sacred. She squeezed the green ball in her hand in fury, screaming her rage as Mia’s body lay there, the light gone out of her blind eyes.

In her mindless fury, she conjured balefire into the globe itself, blasphemy upon blasphemy… it exploded, destroying the ambulance in a conflagration of balefire, destroying the human healer, the driver, and several nearby cars. Aurora stood alone in the wreckage, blood pouring from her eyes, her right hand blackened with the evidence of her crime.

Only one coven would talk to her now.

She had to call on the Black Witch of Thanatos.