The Enchanted Writes Book One Page 11
Chapter Eleven
When he appeared in her house without bothering to open her door, Henrietta screamed.
She punched up to her feet and brought her hands up as Brick fell forward.
Though he was tall and well built, and she was hardly a body builder, she managed to catch him and hold him in place.
“Brick!” She twisted him around in her arms until she saw his face.
It was covered in bruises and blood, and his bottom lip was fat and cut right down the middle.
He offered her a bare smile.
“What happened? Are you alright?” She brought him down until he rested on the floor, and then she leaned over him like a worried mother.
She heard a soft bark from her bedroom, and then Barney, showing never-before-seen speed, ran up to Brick's side. The dog sniffed over Brick's jacket, and then began to nuzzle at his hand.
Brick chuckled. “Bring me food,” was all he said.
“Brick, you are injured, what can I do?” She didn't rush to her kitchen and bring him a sandwich; he was so beaten and bloody it looked as if he could hardly move, and though it had been years since she had done her first aid course, she doubted that a hastily-made cheese sandwich was recommended as a cure-all.
“Bring me some chicken,” Brick said, his voice faint and light.
He even reached a hand towards the kitchen.
Henrietta was still dressed as a witch hunter. She hadn't bothered to change; she’d just run all the way home from the dock. She still had her wand pressed into one of her hands.
She looked at it.
While she'd been fighting witches for several weeks now, she still hadn’t figured out how many spells she could write. There was always more to learn and more to try.
Henrietta ran her fingers over the crystal at the top of her wand, then she looked down at Brick.
“Chicken,” he said again, voice still pathetic. If he wasn't so injured, the scene would be farcical. A man in a giant leather jacket groping towards the kitchen and pleading for chicken; it belonged in a cartoon. But Brick was obviously injured. His breathing was ragged, what was more, blood kept trickling and oozing from the injuries on his face, and as Henrietta looked down to his chest, she could see his shirt was spattered with red.
Heal him.
She wrote the words. Nothing happened. No rush of energy came out from a symbol at her feet and collected over Brick, fixing him up in an instant.
Henrietta looked down at her wand again. “Come on,” she encouraged it.
Healing.
She wrote that word instead, but once again, nothing happened.
“Chicken,” Brick moaned.
It was sometimes hard to find the right words that would cast a spell. Not any collection of phrases would produce magic; she had to pick the right ones.
She had no idea what she was meant to write.
She wanted to heal Brick, and she had no reason to believe she couldn't.
Health.
Light appeared from under her feet, and then a whirl of orange, yellow, and white sparks rapped around her and shot right down into Brick.
He jostled, twitching, and Henrietta crammed her hands over her mouth and screamed.
What had she done?
Soon the sparks settled down into Brick’s skin, and they crackled around his injuries, dancing like fireflies in the wind.
The effect lasted for 30 seconds, the light dissipating with a pop.
Brick shot to his feet.
The move was sudden, and she reeled backwards.
Brick looked fantastic, if the warrior monk could ever look good in his leather jacket getup. The point was, he looked healthy, vibrant even.
He turned to her and nodded his head low. “Thank you, Warrior Woman Henrietta.” Without another word, he walked off to the kitchen and helped himself to some chicken from the fridge.
Henrietta followed after him, staring down at her wand as she walked.
She had healed a man. She had taken away someone's injuries with magic.
Incredible. It was incredible. Just how much magic could she produce? Just what other spells was she capable of?
“I was wondering when you were going to learn that spell,” Brick said as he crammed a chicken wing into his mouth, chunks of food splattering over his chin and neck.
Henrietta grimaced, walked over to one of her drawers, and pulled out a tea towel, handing it to him. Then she listened to what he was saying. “Why didn't you just tell me to cast that spell?”
“It doesn't work like that, Henrietta. I can't tell you how to learn; you have to do it for yourself. If I told you what spells to cast, you would never develop a proper battle brain.”
“Battle brain?” she asked him. “What does that mean?”
Brick paused, the chicken wing still half in his mouth, and he tapped at the side of his head. “Your instinct. That subconscious connection that tells you what to write, that knows the best spell to win the battle. I can't teach you that; you have to learn it yourself.”
Henrietta pressed her lips together. “But you were so injured! Why didn't you just tell me the name of that spell, I could have healed you the second you got in the door.”
Brick kept shoveling the chicken into his mouth. “It doesn't matter, you cast the right spell anyway.”
She always hated when he used excuses like that. He would do something dangerous and risky, and then he would blow it off by telling her that everything worked out in the end anyway. If Henrietta were Brick's mother, she would go over there and clip him around the ears for being a smart ass. Instead she grabbed at the plate of chicken and pulled it across the table from him.
“Hey, what are you doing?”
“You don't get any more chicken until you tell me who that guy was at the dock,” her voice shook. “He was a witch king, wasn't he?”
Brick let the chicken wing fall from his mouth, then he rested his hands on the table. “Yes.”
Henrietta felt sick, but she hid the feeling by straightening up in her chair and crossing her arms. “Why did he appear?”
Brick let out a worried-sounding breath. “I had hoped that he wouldn't. I had hoped that we would have had time to train you before your first encounter.”
“Why did he invite me to join him?” Her voice wavered, and she clutched hard around her middle as her sick feeling surged.
“Well, technically, not all witch hunters were killed off in the last war.”
“What do you mean?”
“Witch Hunters are not all that different from witches; they are both capable of using strong magic,” Brick pointed out.
“Brick, answer the question.” She had been around him long enough now to know that the warrior monk always dodged around uncomfortable questions by answering something else.
Brick looked at the table. “They can join in union. Witch King and a witch hunter.”
Henrietta scrunched up her brow instinctively. “You mean marry? A witch hunter can marry a witch king?”
Brick nodded. “They prove to be powerful partnerships.”
Brick’s words and the notion of the concept he was explaining sat heavily with Henrietta, and she rubbed at her stomach, trying to chase away the nausea. “Well I would never marry that man. I don't even know him!” she pointed out, as if that was the most important factor. But, seriously, he was a witch king. He commanded a force of nefarious, horrible creatures hell-bent on destroying humanity.
“Nothing happened, Warrior Woman Henrietta. You managed to get away, and now we are safely in your kitchen,” he looked across at the chicken, “feasting.” He leaned over and grabbed at the plate.
She got there first, and picked it up, taking it out of his reach. “I am not done yet, Brick.” She gave an uncomfortable swallow. “What happens now? Is that guy going to appear every single time we fight a witch? Am I going to have to go into hiding, and practice on my own, until we are ready to face him? Is he going to hound my every move?”
Brick raised a hand. “Henrietta, I know this is difficult, but the threat is over for now.”
He was calling her Henrietta again. Not Warrior Woman Henrietta, or witch hunter, just Henrietta. For some reason it calmed her.
“To answer your question, I do not know. Though I doubt that the Witch King will appear every time we fight a witch. I believe tonight... was different. That water witch was very powerful, and may have been one of Witch King Hellier's personal bodyguards.”
Henrietta let a sharp breath through her teeth. “But is he going to be after me now?” That was the question that was most important, the one she needed an answer to.
“The answer is yes. He is a Witch King and you are a witch hunter.” Brick gave a shrug. “It is only natural.”
“Brick!”
He put a hand up. “What I mean to say is, he will not be after you any more than before. While we have every aim to clear this town of witches, his own goal is to secure his power and influence over his own kind. He now knows of your presence, and he will try to interrupt our operations. But if we stay away from him directly, and only go after the lower class witches for now, we will have a chance to train you up before you meet him again in battle.”
Henrietta pushed the chicken towards Brick, and the warrior monk grabbed at it like a hungry child.
Then she walked into the center of the room and wrote Henrietta Gosling. She transformed, and she was back in the clothes she had worn to the party. She changed into the fluffy pajamas she only ever wore in winter, and shrugged into her bath robe, cramming her slippers onto her feet. Then she made herself a cup of cocoa, and sat back down at the table. When she did, it was to the sight of Brick finishing off the plate of chicken, and burping loudly.
“You are disgusting,” she mumbled as she pressed the warm cup into her chest, reveling in the heat.
Though she was sick and tense and frightened over what had happened with the Witch King, she calmed down enough to go to bed.
That night she slept with her hairpin in hand. She was careful to find some leather to put over the bottom so she didn't end up stabbing herself in the middle of the night, though.
Pen in hand, Henrietta Gosling drifted off.