*Gwen

Rain streamed down in cords, soaking through Gwen's leather jacket and pants, squishing in her knee-high boots. It obscured her vision, but the narrow, country road was empty except for her twenty-year old Honda Shadow roaring down the road. The engine was cobbled together from parts of many motorcycles that had died long ago, but her baby kept rolling. That was all she asked.

Gwen squinted through the rivulets of water on her helmet's visor. Through the dark, the lighter colored smudge of her camper came into view in the middle of a straggly field. The buckets, balanced on the handlebars, swayed alarmingly as she rolled off the pavement and into the muddy ditch. She lurched to a stop, bike stuck in the soft ground.

"For the love of...." She kicked a leg off to push it the rest of the way. Rain pummeled her helmet and shoulders. Mud sucked at her feet and the bike's wheels. The buckets nearly fell off, which would ruin her harvest that night. Possibly, her only harvest ever. This was the first time she had been successful.

"This had better be worth it," Gwendol muttered. A branch snagged the front wheel. "This had better make it all worth it."

Years of faking, hiding, and running. When she had scented the opportunity, the voices in her head urged her to strike, and she had listened. But those voices had gotten her in trouble in the past. She reached the side of her camper and rolled her bike to the slight protection of the less wet side. Grunting, she heaved the buckets off the handles.

"If this fucks up my life worse than it already is, it will be the last time I ever listen to the voices in my head. I swear by Hecate, if this goes sideways, I will be more careful in the future."

When she opened the door, it swung wide in the wind, banging on the camper's side. The hinge at the top wrenched loose.

"Of course." She shoved the buckets into the camper. And then clambered inside, over them to collapse on the thin strip of floor between the kitchenette and the toilet.

Her glamour sigils to hide her and the man's faces had taken more out of her than she had thought. She was running low. Too low. Magic barely sparked in her fingers. The buckets of blood and organs tempted her to take a taste, but they needed preparation first. Everything she had learned—all theory and no practice—was that the harvest of an evil-hearted man had to be carefully prepped before consumption or the magic would be wild and unpredictable.

The other man—Corman—the sweet geek she had recruited as a minion to help her had been a delicious surprise. She snorted, remembering how he had fainted, adorably helpless, during the draining.

Never recruit a computer nerd to do a witch's job.

But he had been kind of cute to watch despite his screaming and flailing at the victim's screaming and flailing. She had a weakness for the tall, lean type, but he was too nice to really stir her blood.

Thrumming raindrops drowned the sound of her breathing and the scents of drying herbs eased the tension in her muscles. She rubbed her face, inhaling deeply. A whiff of rot, or old, upturned earth, reached her nose.

Her nerves lit on fire. Twisting, she faced the back of the camper.

An antlered bog hag leaned casually on the bench among Gwen's crates of witchy goods she sold from town to town. With a snap of the hag's fingers a burning wisp sprang to life, lighting her wrinkled face in a greenish glow.

"I had expected more," the bog hag said. Her voice was like the gurgle of sludge from a drainpipe. "I thought surely that one of our kind peddling wares would have something of value. But this—" Her lips sneered as her hand came down on top of a crate. "This is disappointing. You are nothing."

Gwen checked her anger. "Get out."

"With pleasure." She stood, joints creaking. "Shit for charms, dried up grocery store herbs for ingredients, rocks from the side of the road, and discount dollar store decorations for alters? All as fake and useless as you." She spit on the floor.

"Get out," Gwen hissed. "And take your judgment with you."

The hag snarled and grabbed a crate. Heaving, she threw it to the floor, breaking the glass bottles and scattering dried bundles of flowers and herbs over the tight space.

Gwen's fists clenched. She edged the buckets to the side and pointed at the door, though. In her state, she would never win a fight.

"And you call yourself witch." The bog hag sniffed derisively. She stepped forward, but paused, eyes widening. She swiveled, sniffing deeper. "Ah, but there is something of value here."

Her eyes narrowed on the buckets. Lips curling, she pointed. "You are a cheap hack, and this is a fake store. But I will take the yum-yum in your pails, as payment for the waste of time spent here."

Screw this.

Gwen ripped the antler crown from the bog hag's head at the same time as she kicked—hard—at her midrift to send her banging onto the backseat. Faster than Gwen thought possible, the hag recovered and lunged forward.

Clawed fingers scratched the air, too close to her face. Gwen shoved back with the antlers, trying not to touch her—the dirt under the bog hag's nails alone could give her a sceptic infection. The hag pulled a weapon. Gwen ducked just as a sharpened bone whistled past her head to hit the kitchen counter. Mouth filled with oversized shark's teeth, the hag snapped at her neck.

Gwen drew an arching swirl in the air. A silvery shield filled the cramped space. The hag snapped again, only to hit the shield face-first with a splat. Spitting in anger, the hag shouted a garbled spell. It hit the shield, driving Gwen down to one knee. Her foot hit one of the buckets. It started to tip.

"No!" Gwen reached for it, letting loose a string of expletives.

The bog hag scratched through the sigil shield and swiped at the pail. It wobbled, tipping and swaying for a gut-wrenching second and then went over. Blood washed out, spilling sticky red and black, and oh-so-precious, organs across the trailer floor.

Squealing in excitement, the bog hag dropped for the bloody mess. The second bucket tipped over. Shoving the bog hag one-handed, Gwen made a blind grab into the pile. She found something soft and squishy. She jammed it in her mouth, taking a huge bite. Liver. Power—feral and unleashed—filled her.

Holding the liver aloft, Gwen painted the air. Raw harvest magic coursed from her fingers. Wispy sigil lines glowed, and the bog hag was thrown backwards to the bench as if a horse had kicked her chest.

Then, the bog hag started to swell.

Her face turned purple, torso and limbs bloating. She inhaled deeply, then moaned in desire. Her slimy tongue ran over her lips and shark-teeth. She lurched for Gwendol like a swampy Violet Beauregard.

Half kneeling and flush with magic, Gwen grabbed the antler crown from the camper floor. She pushed the hag back with the points. But the hag shoved herself forward, against the antlers. She kept swelling, too, ballooning up, deforming her features. Gurgles erupted from her mouth.

Gwen braced her feet on the back of the driver seat, pushing the other witch backwards as hard as she could. The antler points dug into the hag's chest and stomach. Then, with a loud pop, the bog hag exploded.

Black clots, dark juices, and gobs of streaming red and purple flames sprayed up and out, coating the interior and setting the furniture on fire. Sizzling sparks arched out from where the hag had been standing, spraying burning chunks onto the walls, ceiling and furniture. Gwendol ducked her face as fiery bits of bog hag scorched her. She slapped at her burning skin and clothes.

The spraying stopped. Pieces of rotted flesh plopped down from the ceiling and slid from the walls and windows. She wiped her face of the hag's guts and blood. The fires guttered. Drumming rain hummed from the storm outside.

"Of course." She clambered to her feet. "Of course things went sideways the second I got a break."

She opened the door to walk out, letting the rain soak her face and head. Gore slipped from the camper onto the field.

Her mother's voice was in her head, like rusting nails on her nerves. Take what you want, but never eat a raw harvest.

*** Thank you for reading! Smash the star if you love witches with sharp objects! ***