The Warlock's Bride

“Twelve beautiful women stand in the garden of life.”

“Waiting inside the ring of Capricorn are seven warlocks who seek a wife.”

“When the red robes fall, the time has come to decide.”

“Which of the witches under kerchiefs of gold will be your bride?”

“The ancient griffins will seek the one with a courageous heart.”

“A woman not only of beauty but also compassionate and smart.”

“Let their wise tongues whisper the truth tonight.”

“Under the smoke and aromatic torchlight.”

“Great one, we call on you to bless the couples we create here.”

“Guide us as we begin the harvest held in honor of the reaping year.”

The voices of the enchanters stopped, and the room became unnaturally quiet. It was as if the surrounding area was sealed inside of a vacuum. The only sounds heard were the faint flickering of flames as they danced on top of wrought iron torches strategically placed around a white ceremonial stage.

The high sorcerer stepped forward and pointed towards the hallway with his staff. The end of it glowed white as a mist poured from the tip. The vapor quickly turned into a dense circular shape. Slowly, it morphed into a portal about four feet wide and seven feet tall.

Out of this mystical doorway, seven satyrs entered the room. Each of them possessed a secret object on wheels hidden underneath a black cloth. These odd half creature, half men wore outfits from the Victorian era. Not the flamboyant clothing of royalty and wealth. Those clothes were on the guests they served. These strange beings wore working class Dickens apparel. Including matching wire-rimmed glasses worn low on their longed hooked noses. Which gave the wearer an expression of contemptuous gaiety.

The conga line of hybrid men and their mysterious parcels finally stopped. They took their places in front of the selection committee responsible for this year’s contestants. The panel’s identities are kept secret until the day of the event to prevent persuasion by bribery or blackmail. Being chosen was a coveted honor that sometimes made the best woman behave in less than honorable ways.

The well-dressed satyrs arranged the carts next to each other. Then one by one they removed their waistcoats made with the same fabric as the warlock they represented and draped it over one arm. In one synchronized gesture, they tipped their bowler hats to their master’s and shifted one front leg back in a bow of respect.

The men they served weren’t hard to pick out among the other hooded figures. They wore uniquely colored robes of maroons, grays, and forest greens. The same colors as the satyrs who worked for them. Their strong physical stature reminded everyone they were dealing with men who immersed themselves in their craft. From day one, they trained to be masters of war and magic. Which meant they were forever bound to fight spirits and monsters in realms humanity had never heard of.

To show their gratitude, the subjects created this event to honor them with the most beautiful women to choose from. It’s been a tradition going back longer than anyone can remember.

The seven warlocks taking part in today’s selection were extremely pleased with the physical appearances of the women. It was agreed they would be pleased with any choice and were more than willing to leave the rest of the selection up to tradition. They raised their hands in unison to their satyrs and gave them the signal to proceed. Then they moved to a viewing area near a grand fireplace that offered plush leather chairs and tables filled with centuries old brandy.

***

Using modern creature comforts during the ceremony is against the rules, which include the furnace. This made it exceptionally cold for Michaela, who stood naked inside this private cathedral deep in the mountains of the Pacific Northwest. The dark red silk robe she wore when entering this room now lay in gathers around her ankles like a halo of pooled blood around her feet. The Earth’s moon shone down on her and eleven other nude young women. A star-shaped window in the ceiling beamed down lunar rays as they stood on the outer ring of a golden circle embedded in a polished white marble floor. They were a surreal sight, as they stood like living works of art. Equally beautiful in their own ways, they stood naked in the moonlight, with identical opal pendants and matching gold kerchiefs wrapped gently over their eyes.

Michaela could smell the incense getting stronger, which could only mean one thing. The selection was taking place. A chemical cocktail of excitement and fear flowed throughout her body as the smell of Nag Champa infiltrated her olfactory senses. She was more than ready to get this over. Truth be told, she hated being on display like some piece of meat as the warlocks reviewed and no doubt appreciated the variety of assets on the menu.

Yet she understood and knew her place. These were high-ranking warlocks of the Golden Order, and they were also men who were lustful by nature. She ate clean and exercised regularly so she would look her best. Knowing this humiliating part of the selection process was mandatory. It wasn’t enough to memorize the beginning verses of the mystic anthologies of the triune ages. She had to be physically flawless, too.

Was all this degrading on some level? Yes, and it was worth it to her.

Becoming a warlock’s wife was more than just the trappings of matrimony. The woman he selects would wield power by his side and power was something Michaela craved since her days as an orphan.

Being part of the ceremony went beyond everyone’s expectations, including her own, especially when she made it to the finals.

This didn’t make her popular around the rest of the women. There were two out of the other eleven who made it to the finals that were never chosen as brides. This was their last year of eligibility. When one of them didn’t make it to the final round, they all blamed Michaela for taking the last remaining spot. The way she saw it, the other woman should have worked harder. Like life forced her to do all her life.

It’s never been her intention to enter a contest and not take it seriously. It’s not her job to prove to anyone why she’s worthy of standing here tonight. Not that it would matter. They would never accept her as someone who belonged here, and that was just fine by Michaela.

She’s been a loner without friends, which was a blessing that left her free to dream big. Nothing would stop her from becoming a full fledge asset by the age of maturity to her warlock and then become sorceress shortly after. Michaela fantasized about this one since her years at the academy with her secondhand supplies and wearing her hand-me-down clothes. When watching the warlock’s wives come into town for supplies, she fantasized it was her in those amazing dresses. She remembered it like yesterday. Beautiful women riding on top of their horse-drawn carriages. She would hear the percussion of clip-clops across the brick lined roads through the town of Marlay and run to the windows to watch them. A vivid memory came to her of a gorgeous red dress one woman wore on a summer day. The tops of her shoulders glowed with a bronze that showed off the toned muscles of her arms and back. She walked with her satyr escort through the marketplace, adored and respected by everyone.

Michaela’s constant exposure to the lifestyle of the elegant sorceress convinced her to settle for no less than that status for herself.

She heard the loud sound of a gong reverberate through the room and her thoughts came rushing back into the present.

A cloaked figure stood in the middle of the circle with his arms spread to the star-shaped skylight. His mouth began to move and twist as if he was snarling at the moon.

Michaela almost had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. He kept making weird noises which sounded like a combination of singing, moaning, and humming. She recognized who it was. It was High Priest Reichenberg. Of course, adding a mental image of the tone-deaf moaner’s receding hairline and pointed ears didn’t help her in the quest to squelch her laughter.

***

The high priest stopped the weird singing and spoke. “States men, get ready to release the hunters.”

With one swift movement, the satyrs pulled the covering from their cages to reveal seven miniature griffins. Six were a vibrant white, iridescent color. The seventh was a black, shimmering midnight pearl color.

The sounds of surprised and approving whispers rippled through the room. The energy of the crowd’s curiosity dissipated when the high priest tapped his staff three firm times against the marble floor to regain order.

A hush came over the room, and the high priest pointed at the cages. The satyrs reached for the handles and opened the doors.

The animals headed straight toward the women and circled the outside of where they stood. Intimidating, miniature beasts had their noses to the ground, all except one. The black one had already taken its place in front of Michaela. It sat patiently and waited while the other griffins went through their lengthy process of selection. The remaining six slinked through the waiting prospective brides. Muscular feline bodies prowled around, analyzing the scents and auras of the women who remained.

Michaela and the others waited in brave anticipation of the outcome. She wondered how the two other first year women were doing. Her only experience with griffins had been with them in cages and out in the wild, but never this close while she was naked and blindfolded in the same room with them. She kept assuring herself it was completely safe. The previous years’ prospects didn’t bother talking about this part of the ceremony, so how bad could it be? Yet she couldn’t help feeling nervous at the strange sounds of the creatures roaring and flapping their wings. It was so hard to tell if it was either joy in their choice or perhaps fighting over a prospect.

***

Per the rule two griffins could fight over a prospect. The selection process wasn’t first come first serve. The process was based on the need of the warlock, and it was up to the satyr appointed to the role as his statesmen to train a griffin who could deliver.

The two most important events in a warlock’s life are who he will train under and the selection of his bride.

Five griffins had claimed their prospects and sat in their designated place on the floor. The remaining two battled for the houses of their warlocks over a gorgeous blonde by the name of Samantha. If the other girls had to wager who the fuss was being made about, it wouldn’t surprise them one bit to know it was her. She wasn’t just physically attractive and smart, but her father is the head of the Esoteric Mystery Division in Wellington. Marrying her is like marrying into a dynasty. Which appeared to be top priorities for two of the warlocks, as their determined creatures did their best to get the other to back down. Blood curdling raptor screeches filled the room as their mighty wings beat in a flapping frenzy of dominance. One griffin leveraged enough strength and rose on his hind legs. His front paws slashed out in a furious exchange of piston like strikes. His opponent squawked and immediately recognized it was outclassed and retreated out of his opponent’s reach. Three diagonal cuts appeared on its muscular shoulder resembling strips of angry red licorice.

The sensation of wetness on the animal’s fur made it shake, causing the blood to splatter on the floor and some of the women.

A grand sorcerer tapped a crystal glass enthusiastically as the members of the council applauded at the extra piece of entertainment received this evening. Blood on the ceremonial floor was a good thing and if it happened naturally, even better.

Its owner stepped forward and waved his hand, sealing the wound immediately. The animal then took its place on a vacant square to claim a sultry redhead while its owner stared at its satyr displeased. In this realm it is not the animal who is accountable when it loses in a competition. It’s the trainer.

The warlock finally turned away after telepathically communicating his disappointment. He took his place among the other warlocks and waited for the ceremony to resume.

Michaela and the other women were confused and given the circumstances, could only guess at what was going on. She was curious if all the drama and theatrics were part of the ceremony. Perhaps to make one of them break character and ask a question when it was totally forbidden to speak once inside the magician’s circle. Once the ritual had started and they brought in the women. They were to remain standing, silent, and still.

The high sorcerer finally spoke the last incantation to close the ceremony.

“May the spirit bless the choices made.”

“May the magic formed in the bloodlines never fade.”

Then he rang the bell in the room ring three times.

She was the third one taken from the room as teams of people marched to the floor and took the chosen women. She felt two people rush to her side, take her robe off the floor, then place it on her shoulders and escort her off the marble floor.

They took Michaela down a hall then to a secret door. They entered a room and removed her blindfold. She was back in her dressing room. She blinked a few times trying to get her eyes to adjust to the light as she watched the two ladies that escorted her buzz about the room. One opened a mini fridge and pulled out an ice-cold bottle of water, then offered it to her while the other pulled out an old-fashioned steamer trunk. The kind people packed, going away for months at a time.

Michaela felt dizzy suddenly. This was happening too fast. She honestly didn’t think she would win. Now that she did, that meant she had to leave in the next twenty-four hours.

“Don’t you worry. Once the honeymoon week is over, they’ll send the whole crew out for your household belongings. For now, we need to get you in your formal dress so you can meet the man you’re going to marry.”

Michaela just stared at the woman. “I didn’t know he would pick me. I’m totally unprepared.”

“Oh dear, you must be getting a little dose of cold feet. Trust me. I’ve worked with a lot of women in the same situation you’re in now. You’re a little younger than most but I can tell you’re smart, not to mention tough.”

Michaela smiled sheepishly. “At least I’m not being shipped off in one of those outdated arranged marriages to some man three times my age. Not to sound shallow, but I was told Warlocks are known to be handsome at least.”

“Aye, they are,” said the other woman, who walked in carrying three garment bags and laid them down on a table. “The black griffin chose you. Those creatures are exclusive to the house of Morovo, specifically to one Dante Morovo. Handsome yes but known to be a little cold shall we say.”

Michaela was curious more than worried. “You know the warlock who has chosen me. What’s he like?”

The older woman spoke. “Oh, you’ll meet him soon enough. Like in ten minutes. We need to quit talking and get you dressed.”

“That’s right, you wouldn’t want to deprive the young woman from discovering the charming Mr. Morovo on her own,” said a stern female voice. A large woman wearing a tight bun walked into the room.

She walked over to the women. “Why isn’t she ready?”

“We just got back here, ma’am,” the servant said.

“Mr. Morovo is a busy man and has a tight schedule. Put the red one on her,” said the bossy woman.

The woman walked over to the bag and pulled on the zipper. It made a sound like a small bug racing around a tiny, enclosed space. She reached her hand in and pulled out a dress the color of red velvet cake. She shook it around to fluff it back into shape and held it up. “What do you think my dear?”

Michaela saw it and couldn’t believe it. It was the dress, or one like the one she saw the young woman wear so long ago as a child. “Oh, it’s absolutely beautiful,” she said. Practically cooing with delight as she ran behind a dressing screen in the corner.

The large woman who looked like a shot-put champion tapped her foot impatiently while she kept checking her watch.

In less than five minutes, which felt like a half an hour to Mr. Morovo’s assistant, Michaela stepped out looking ravishingly beautiful. The dress went perfectly with her dark hair swept into a partially messy bun.

A smile of approval flashed on the older woman’s face. “You look perfect, my dear. Let’s go.”

Michaela’s mouth was dry as she sipped on her second bottle of water. She silently thanked the other two women for the good sense of knowing she would need it.

“My name is Miss Lund, by the way. Vanessa Lund,” she said as walked briskly down the hall of the old castle.

“Please to meet you, I’m-”

“Yes, you’re Michaela Deleon. Descendant of the House of The Lion. Hence the name Deleon,” said Miss Lund.

Michaela stopped. “Wait, what is this House of the Lion? I don’t even know what you’re talking about. You must tell me more.”

Miss Lund stopped. “I’m sorry, maybe some other time.” She looked at the elaborate, oversized wooden door. This is where we say goodbye and you say hello to Mr. Morovo. Maybe by the end of your meeting you’ll be calling him Dante.”

“How can I get a hold of you?” asked Michaela.

Miss Lund smiled. “That should be easy. We’ll be living together at the castle, that is, if you say yes.” She fumbled in her pocket for a magic stone and held it up to the same type of stone on the door. There was a sharp click, and the door swung open.

Michaela stepped inside and immediately saw the man sitting in the chair. He was handsome, oh yes indeed, but there was something else. It wasn’t the cold she felt from. It was more like a mist of indifference swirled around him. He was staring at his future bride, a woman he saw naked less than fifteen minutes ago, and his eyes said he didn’t care.

“Come closer, please,” said a strong, calm voice.

Michaela took a deep breath and walked until she could see the color of his eyes, which were a bright blue like a butane flame. It almost felt uncomfortable to stare into them, but they were beautiful, so very much so she thought. She admired his thick, dark hair. He wore it down to his broad shoulders and it had a slight wave to it, like a sword and sorcery barbarian from a Frank Frazetta drawing.

He leaned back in his chair and rested his elbows on the padded rests. Then placed his hands together in that well-known way that was synonymous with every villain in a spy movie except this wasn’t a spy movie. This man was to be her husband.

“Let me cut to the chase. You’re here because I need a wife on paper to keep my ranking in Golden Order or they will demote me. I could use help in some up-and-coming long-term projects as well. In the appropriate time, say six years you can file for divorce if you decide to marry me. That should allow you to learn enough to get you sorceress status.”

Michaela looked at him and asked calmly, “Then why me? Why did you pick me if you’re just looking for fulfillment of a contract and someone to clean up after you? You should have picked the other woman who is no longer eligible after this year.”

“Because you reek of ambition and determination, someone who I can trust to go along with this agreement without telling a soul. Besides that, I need someone to not expect me to be a husband to them in any other way.”

Michaela wanted this and didn’t care if it was a sham. She wanted to be the youngest bride chosen by a warlock. She wanted to be a sorceress before the age of thirty. “You know me well, Mr. Morovo. I accept.”

Mr. Morovo got up and stepped close to her until he towered over her. He was at least six feet two inches tall, then he got on bended knee. He grabbed her hand and pulled out a fiery emerald and slipped it on her finger. “Please call me Dante.”