I know it’s somewhat predictable, what with the “Storywitch” website and all, but a witch. A willowy, elfin witch who looks forward to Halloween every year, who buys a new filmy black dress with long draping sleeves (to go with her long black nails) and a flowing skirt with triangular points to reveal tiny high heeled boots that lace up over the calves.

I’d hop on my broom which, to celebrate the holiday, will be draped with black and orange ribbons and battery operated pumpkin and bat lights, and take off from the roof to soar through the night sky. I can go so fast that with one blink I’m soaring through black rolling clouds and shards of lightning where the electricity vibrates through my body and the rain slides down my neck.

Then on the next blink, I’m traveling through places where the skies are clear and show the stars sparkling like diamonds. The moon hangs so low I feel the weight of anticipation like the sweet chance of a lover’s embrace. I spiral up, dive, somersault and know the freedom of this night is incomparable with any other night, for this is when the Veil is thin and anything is possible. There is no fear of falling, no matter how large the leap.

At length, I am skimming along the ocean, a stretch of beach beyond civilization. The foam is milky white, like cream in the moonlight against the glittering sand. And they are dancing. All the witches are gathering here, their legs and feet bare, skirts hiked up in their hands as they laugh and cavort in the shallows, their brooms diving among them playfully like chimney swifts.

The spark of their uncontained magic arcs over them like ribbons of multi-colored flame. The cat familiars that accompanied them stay well above the water line, sitting in a straight black row with matching yellow-eyed looks of disdain.

The witches raise their hands as they see me coming, for I am welcome, one of them. I keep going, toward a circle just beyond them, because there is one I must see first. He is dancing, his head covered with the semblance of a magnificent stag, his body strong and muscular, covered with a light sheen of sweat.

He turns when he sees me. When he stops to remove the stag’s head, the soft fur slides over his broad shoulders the way my fingers itch to do. His dark hair whispers across the high cheekbones, his eyes glittering with an anticipation matched by my own… There can only be joy in coming to the Lord on such a night and paying homage to him with lips and hands, body and soul…

It’s good to be a witch.  🙂

Tell me why vampires are so sexy to romance readers (send to storywitch @ ec . rr . com, minus the spaces). I’ll pick my favorite answer and that person will win a signed copy of The Vampire Queen’s Servant (or another title of their choosing if they’ve read that one!).

That answer will also be posted on my author blog, along with highlights from some of the other responses. Deadline for responses is midnight, October 31. I’ll do the drawing November 1 after I’ve returned from my nighttime broomstick ride and had my first cup of eye-of-newt to wake up.

Signed,
The Storywitch
Joey W. Hill