Sin's Dark Caress by Tracey O'Hara

water. She placed it in the middle of the table.
    â€œWhat the hell is that?” he asked.
    â€œThat is an absinthe fountain. And this is absinthe made from an old family recipe with anise, fennel, and wormwood grown in my mother’s very own garden.”
    â€œIsn’t it illegal?”
    â€œProbably. Good absinthe is around seventy to eighty percent alcohol. This is the best kind—homemade. It’s the wormwood that made it illegal—it’s poisonous.”
    â€œSin, you surprise me. I’d never have guessed you were into homemade illegal hooch.”
    â€œThere’s a lot you don’t know about me, McManus,” she said, filling two of the antique glasses with three fingers of the green spirit. “Anyway, my mother gave me this. Like I said, it’s an old family recipe. Witches have been doing this for centuries, and we’re going follow the old way, the proper way.”
    She took two slotted spoons from the back pocket of her jeans and laid one over each glass. On top of each spoon she placed a single cube of sugar and then positioned the glasses under the tiny fountain faucets. Water drops fell onto the sugar, dissolving it a little each time. As the cube melted, the green spirit slowly changed to a milky color.
    â€œEverything is about ritual with you people,” he said. “A man could die of thirst waiting.”
    â€œRitual is everything to a witch.” She glanced at him before returning her attention to the absinthe, regulating the water to drip at just the right rate. “Patience is a virtue. Anything good is worth waiting for.”
    â€œI’ll try and remember that.”
    The silence dragged on for what seemed forever as the sugar cube totally dissolved and turned the liquid pale and cloudy.
    Finally, she held out one of the glasses. “Here you go.”
    She set up another set of glasses before picking up hers.
    â€œÃ€ votre santé,” she said, holding up her glass. “To your health.”
    â€œAnd yours.” He closed his eyes and held his breath as he drank, but this time it tasted better—smoother, more subtle and slightly sweeter. “Mmm—not bad.”
    Bianca put her glass down and turned to him, all seriousness. This was the moment he’d been regretting.
    â€œTell me about it.”
    He had run from the memories for so long, it almost felt a relief to stop and think about them. He drained his glass before putting it next to hers. “The Sisterhood found me at their gates, wrapped in a woman’s blue sweater, my umbilical cord still wet. A note was pinned to it with the words ‘Lancelot McManus.’ The sisters didn’t know if it was my name or not, but that’s what they called me.”
    â€œLancelot?” she said, smiling with amusement.
    â€œGo ahead, yuk it up.”
    The alcohol warmed his body and gave him the courage to keep going. Even if just for a little while. Maybe telling Bianca might help him rid himself of some of the demons haunting every sober moment.
    â€œLife with them was good. Until . . .” He looked at his hands, searching for the words, but it was probably best to start at the beginning. He looked at the water dripping on the sugar cube over the absinthe and sighed. “The sisters took in orphans when required. They were devout, and didn’t use magic.”
    Bianca nodded. “The Sisterhood believed that the best way to honor the Mother and their devoutness was to give up magic use.”
    She reminded him of the Sisterhood, a witch without magic. “Because most were familial witches, they wouldn’t allow any animals in the Sanctum, in case they accidentally bonded. I remember when one of the other kids found a homeless dog with a litter of puppies. We hid them in the dormitory, but Sister Morgan found them and had them taken away. Some of the younger kids cried for a week.”
    â€œThey must’ve thought that was