The Reaper Witch
Chimney swifts twittered and darted about in the air above the blackened walls of Castle Goll. With a duet of plummeting screams, Demonica and Spitemorta suddenly tumbled out of the air where Spitemorta’s bower should have been, landing with arm-flailing rag doll bounces in an explosion of deep soot and terrified chickens at the bottom of the castle’s gonne powder crater.
“Aagh! Aagh!” cried out Spitemorta in anguished gasps, struggling to pull away from her legs on her elbows. “Damn it! Grandmother! Help!”
Demonica opened her eyes. When she had recovered enough to breathe again, she lifted her ears out of the feather bed of lampblack ash.
“Please, Grandmother!” wailed Spitemorta. “I hurt!”
Demonica sat up, suddenly feeling about herself for the Heart. “Ha!” she cried. “Splendid! We just might be in good shape.”
“No we’re not!” whimpered Spitemorta. “My legs! I hurt!”
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