Genevieve heard the words but could not accept them. She kept her hand firmly pressed over the wet cloth on her son’s burning forehead while the healer approached her, intent on saying the foul words once more.

“He will not see the next full moon, my lady,” the old man shook his head, “it is best if you isolate him from the rest of the children so that the sickness does not fall upon them.”

The healer moved in even closer, his beard almost touching Genevieve’s shoulder.
“It would be wise to remove yourself from his presence as well.”

A crackling fire warmed the inside of the roundhouse, but even still, a cold chill descended upon the healer when Genevieve finally turned to look at him.

“I will not leave my child!” Genevieve replied suddenly and the healer took a step back. “And if there is nothing more you can do for my son, I suggest you remove yourself from my presence at once.”

Bowing his head in red shame, the old sage gathered his robes, like a bird rustling grey feathers, and rushed out of the roundhouse as quick as his old bones could carry him. Allyn, her eldest, walked up behind her and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. She had not noticed he was present.

They remained that way for a moment, a mother contemplating the loss of her son, a brother looking for the proper words to say, but at last, the weight of the burden was too much to bear and Genevieve’s flowing tears forced a hand to her mouth as she struggled to fight against the burning sensation behind her eyes.
She had to remain strong for the family she still had left.

Outside a boy cried out in pain.

Allyn and Genevieve turned almost simultaneously, recognizing the high pitched voice, and ran out into the cold air.

For a moment, Genevieve lost the sickening feeling in her stomach to the grassy hills she was meet with and the orange sunrise behind them, its rays a reflection of her own wild, amber curls. This land had a way of doing that, even after so many years. But Genevieve soon looked around and studied the dilapidated homes surrounding her, and was struck by visions of a seemingly long past time that had, in reality, not been so long ago.

In the eve, a bonfire would have been burnt, its glow rising into the darkening sky. The distant sound of strings and laughter and singing would have filler her ears along with the music of the village winding down to praise their gods and ward the evil spirits away for the night. Edward would have been next to her right about now, begging her to tell him another child’s tale, her daughter Cara, only twelve years old, would scoff at his puerility and Allyn would tease his sister about her newfound maturity.

But it was not to be. Not anymore. No music played tonight, only the occasional wail of a family who’s loved one had just passed, and no fires were burnt, leaving only shadows and specters to lurk in the dark.

Aidan called out once more and Allyn pointed towards the base of the hill where their roundhouse home was situated.
“There!”

They both made their way towards a group of boys that had crowded around a child who was pinning Aiden to the ground with a foot. Allyn pushed the circle apart and pulled the boy off of his brother, scowling as he shook the kid and tossed him into the wet grass.
“He’s scarcely five, you little vermin. Scamper away and go fight someone your age!”

Genevieve recognized the boy by his stubby, upturned nose, and his mischievous, gaped tooth smile.

Maedoc had arrived recently with an influx of villagers seeking refuge from a country side ravaged by the plague. He was only eight, but the boy infuriated her like no other man. The refugees had not been settled for one day when Maedoc had taken to torturing the younger children. He had, however, an affinity for harassing Aidan, something that had not gone unnoticed by Genevieve.

She stood menacingly over Maedoc, as Allyn picked Aidan up from the ground to console the whimpering child, and finally spoke.
“By the gods, if I ever catch you near my son again I will have the men throw you into the river!”

Maedoc grinned.
“Would you bathe me yourself, milady?”

Several of the boys chuckled as Maedoc jumped up to his feet boasting an even larger smile, but the crowd hushed when Allyn started for the boy and Maedoc ran off into the darkness giggling as he went.

“I’ll have a word with that boy’s father soon enough,” Allyn growled as the crowd scattered.

“You don’t think I’ve tried?” Genevieve’s eyes burnt. She put a hand on Aidan’s head and pulled grass out of his auburn hair. “The boy’s probably an orphan. No one knows who his parents are.”

Aidan tugged at his mother’s dress and wiped a tear from his eye.
“I tried to fight him!” He threw up his fists, showcasing a thin line of scratches like a proud warrior.

Genevieve forced a smile.

The family was quiet for a moment and the lady almost lost herself into the sunset once more. But after a while, Allyn spoke up, his steadfast voice now quavering with dread.
“Is Edward going to die?”

Genevieve turned to her eldest, startled by the question. His eyes were red as he looked up towards the house.
“Is the plague going to take him?” He said once more.

Genevieve put a hand on his shoulder now, and replied with a monotone voice that betokened lassitude.
“Not if I can fight it.”

***********************************************************************************************************

The ride to Devyn’s cottage had been a torturous one. Upon parting from the village, Genevieve had been filed with the dreadful feeling that she might never see Edward again. If he passed away while she wasn’t there….

Genevieve’s horse neighed and stopped abruptly. Around her, the trees had finally cleared and the dirt path she was on now led into a clearing dimly illuminated by the pale moonlight which spread its blanket over the stone home of her old friend. She urged the horse forward but the beast snorted and shook its head anxiously. Genevieve dismounted and studied the construction. Light flickered past the empty space below the door, and Genevieve heard movements within as she neared the entrance. She was about to knock when the door opened.

Devyn was inside, standing by a table with a tome spread open before him. All around him, the interior of the stone house was riddled with glass containers, some bubbling with mysterious contents, others expelling thin wisps of colored smoke into the heavy air of the room. Several codices lay strewn on the floor and stacked upon shelves next to animal bones, dried skins, baked herbs, and other peculiarities Genevieve did not recognize but were, no doubt, some part of one of Devyn’s many schemes. If she did not have such a history with him, she never would have trusted the man.

When he looked up at her, Devyn smiled, closing his book loudly. Genevieve stepped warily into the house and looked around, expecting to see the person who had let her in standing just by the door, but there was no one there.

“I have been expecting you, old friend.” Devyn extended his arms as if to hug her from across the room.

A gust of wind rushed up behind her and Genevieve flinched as a dark mass flew past her and perched itself on a plank above the fireplace. The raven squawked loudly as its master offered up his hand with a seed between two fingers.

“My friend saw you riding towards us hours ago,” Devyn rounded the table and offered a chair to Genevieve after lifting some books off of it. “I’m afraid, however, that he was not able to see what it was that brings you here today.”

The raven gave out another call and Genevieve shuddered. The fireplace spat out as coals broke in two, and outside, somewhere deep in the woods, a beast howled in the night.

“Edward has the plague.” Genevieve’s own voice startled her, she sounded hoarse and worn down, and for a moment this reminded her of the immense exhaustion she carried and of the soreness in her legs, but she subdued it within her and regained her composure.

Devyn waved a strand of long, black hair out of his eyes with a hand and poured water into a cup he placed near the lady, who continued her story.

“The healers say he will not survive. I have prayed to the gods, I have said the words….”

Devyn’s raspy voice rose into the air, catching her intent.
“But the gods have not answered.”

He stood up and turned to face the fire, contemplating the coals with a cup in his hand. Genevieve turned her gaze towards the raven who seemed to be staring at her with an eerie awareness.

“I was driven away, cast out for my crimes, and yet now you come to me and ask for my assistance.” Devyn faced her now, venom in his tone. “Was it not your late husband who called my views heretical? Was it not the great lord of the Riverlands who called them false and made me a pariah?”

Genevieve stood.

The Raven squawked.

“Devyn, I once saw you bring life into the chest of a dying child for the sake of his mother, a woman you did not know.” She leaned forward now, practically hissing. “Will you not do this for me?”

A moment of silence passed between them, and the incensed look in Devyn’s eyes finally subsided into a quaint smile.

“There is still fire in you, dear Genevieve.” He made his way towards a cupboard and began rummaging through its contents, searching for something. “And, I must say, the years have done nothing to dampen your beauty.” Devyn turned for a second too long and his eyes traced Genevieve’s body from head to toe before he turned back to his search. Genevieve felt a shiver and drew the shawl around her arms over her shoulders.

Finally, Devyn produced a twisted root which he placed on the table along with a vial of clear liquid. He picked up one of the strewn books and began flipping through its pages briskly.

“The plague is unrelenting,” Devyn stopped at a page and eyed some lines, “but with certain help from a certain purveyor, it can be stopped before it is too late.”

Genevieve allowed herself to draw a deep breath. She picked up the vial of liquid to study it but Devyn intercepted her hand before she could bring it to her nose to smell it.
“You don’t want to do that, darling.”

She lowered her hand and he returned to his book.

“Will it save him?” The lady asked.

“If used right, it just might.” Devyn rushed past her and looked out into the night sky, studying the moon, and called his pet over with the snap of two fingers. The bird spread its wings and flew over to Devyn’s arm without a sound. Devyn whispered something to the bird, low, hushed words Genevieve could not discern and the bird squawked one final time and then flew up, through the doorway, into the night sky.

Genevieve leaned back on the table, certain the exhaustion would bury her there.

“Tell me something, Gen, do you still bleed?”

Genevieve stood straight once more and felt her cheeks blush with indignation.

“Ah, there’s that temper of yours again,” He moved closer to her, placing both the root and sealed vial within a leather satchel. “Forgive my impropriety but the matter is pertinent, I assure you.”

Genevieve clenched her fists.

“Now tell me, age has not eloped with your beauty, but has it stolen….”

“No,” she adjusted her shawl, “I still bleed. What does it have to do with any of this?”

“Everything.” Devyn handed her the leather satchel and bid her step through the door.

“The boy will live, Genevieve.” He said as she took a step towards him. There was gentleness in Devyn, in spite of everything that had happened, and Genevieve remembered a time when he had been like a brother to her. “There is a full moon tonight, but the proper conditions will not last for long. Make haste down the Northeast path that leads from here to the Lake of the Deep Forest. When you are there, you must drop the root in the vial and toss them both into the water.” He spoke quickly, walking beside her and waiting as she mounted her horse.

Genevieve struggled to note everything he said.

“Once you have done that, you must seek out Eogann, he is an old friend of mine who inhabits these woods. He will know what to do.”

Her horse neighed loudly and stomped its hooves into the dirt, ready to leave the place.
“Genevieve,” Devyn produced a sword from within his cloak and handed it to her by the hilt, “Do you still remember how to wield a blade?”

Genevieve nodded grimly.

“You will need it.”

She strapped the blade and scabbard around her waist and gave Devyn one last look.
“Thank you, Devyn. I will not forget this.”

With a kick, Genevieve’s horse leapt forward into a strong gallop, leading her down a trail past the moonlit clearing and into the darkness of the forest.

Back inside his home, Devyn settled into a chair by the fire. He sat there for a long time, a slow grin gradually growing into a satisfied rictus. He spoke hushed words again, low, sinister incantations that rose from his lips like the wisps of smoke around him. The fire dimmed suddenly, and a wailing wind broke through the silence of the night, and in the center of the flames, a charred mass settled itself into the image of something terrible.

Devyn bowed to the smoldering image and smiled at it.

“You were right, my lord, the lady did seek out my counsel after all.”

The shape in the flames stirred slightly, obviously pleased.

“She rides for the lake now. I hope your son enjoys his gift, do give my regards to the young prince.”

The mass spoke, and Devyn smirked, and, within and without, the night was darker than before.

***********************************************************************************************************

The Deep Forest sang all around her, yet it was truly the most silent place Genevieve had ever been in. The slightest hint of frost fall lit up occasional flickers of glimmering specks of translucent light as Genevieve made her way into yet another clearing where she was met by the incandescent glow of a second moon, wavering in dark waters with the occasional ripple of some hidden inhabitant swimming beneath the surface. Genevieve was prone to astonishment, even in such troubling times, and she found herself entranced by the serenity of her surroundings for she had never expected to find such a peaceful place within the Deep Forest.

The large conglomeration of ancient trees was a day’s ride north from the heart of the Riverlands where her people had reigned as rulers for hundreds of years. The kings of old had often turned their eyes south, east, and west, conquering lands and establishing new kingdoms. None, however, had ever dared to march on the Deep Forest. A foreigner might have mocked Genevieve’s apprehension, ridiculing her “petty fears.” But those who held the faith of the old gods, and were familiar with the things that occurred in this strange place, knew all too well that amid all the myths and tall tales told to scare little ones at night, there was a measure of truth to the stories spoken.

Genevieve approached the lakeside with counted steps as she opened the leather satchel Devyn had given her and produced the vial and root. Behind her, the horse’s hooves drove into the ground, its anxious snorts becoming more recurrent. With shaking hands, Genevieve twisted the vial open and dropped the thin root into the clear liquid. The thing hissed almost instantly, twisting and coiling in on itself within the glass container. Overcome by the strong smell of ginger, Genevieve tossed the bottle into the lake without a second thought and fell to her knees.

She did not know what to expect, and, for a while, nothing seemed to happen, but when Genevieve caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the water, a dreadful sensation crawled up her back and settled itself on the nape of her neck.

Genevieve leaned closer to the water, blinking her eyes to make sure what she had seen was not an illusion. But when her own reflection began moving on its own, the lady fell backwards away from the lake, breathing heavily and clawing at the grass.

The reflection had looked at her.

A low humming noise filled the clearing, like waves of bees dashing through the leaves, and Genevieve tried to stand up. She turned around frantically, looking for her horse, but he was nowhere to be seen. When something began rising from the lakeside, Genevieve unsheathed her sword and prepared for the worst.

She cursed Devyn and began whispering prayers beneath her breath, but when the thing finally arose from the water, Genevieve’s blood ran cold and a breath caught in her lips.

The doppelganger drifted towards her, making eye contact that made Genevieve fall into a trance. She remained fixated on the eyes, her own eyes, large, beautiful pearls that drew her closer, driving her to take steps towards the reflection. Genevieve dropped her sword on the damp grass and stood face to face with the image. She reached out a hand and was surprised when it found a gentle cheek to lie on. She grasped her reflection, burying hands into the amber curls of its head and kissed its scarlet lips, tasting her own flesh. Her head rushed with vanity and lust and suddenly the Doppelganger put its hands on her, pulling her closer and parting her lips for another passionate kiss. Genevieve felt its heat, smelled the lilac scent of her own skin, and suddenly came to her senses.

The trance broke and fear entered her again, fighting back the rush of blood to her pelvis, as Genevieve pushed the thing away with a scream. But forest exploded around her. A sound like screeching metal filled her ears and Genevieve heard the squawks of a particular bird before the Doppelganger pulled her into the bitter waters. The hands pulled her deeper, submerging her in a rapidly turning maelstrom that tumbled her around. Genevieve shut her eyes, certain she was about to meet her end when, suddenly, she fell upon her behind.

Genevieve opened her eyes, expecting to see some terrible thing, but, instead, she found herself sitting on the grass of the lakeside within the clearing. Only it wasn’t the clearing. Not the one she had entered. The two were similar. The lake was more or less the same in size and shape. But the trees surrounding the waters were now bent in terrible shapes. And there was something else as well.

Genevieve stood quickly, the terrible feeling of horror filling her insides once more as she studied the sky. A sickly, darkened red color had replaced the monotone, midnight blue that had once been there, and where the moon had once been, there remained only a gaping black, circular abyss.

Something moved within the cover of the trees and Genevieve turned to face the woods behind her. A strange fog crept in the depths of the forest, crawling between the trees just shy of the lake. Genevieve readied her sword.

“Were you offered to the centaurs?” A voice croaked in the darkness. “No, no…you’re much older than their usual lot. Not centaurs then.”

The shape of a short creature finally materialized into view, but its features were still obscured by the shadow of the forest. “How old are you child?”

Genevieve steadied herself, ready to shed blood. She called out to the being and clenched her jaw nervously.
“Show yourself!”

The creature emerged from the shadows, the red glow of the sky illuminating her wrinkled, green skin and tattered, grey robes. She approached Genevieve at the pace of an elderly woman, using a wooden cane to advance.

“Ah, that is quality steel if I ever saw it. So, you are highborn.” The old crone chuckled to herself.

Genevieve studied the being’s strange features and recalled stories of goblins and imps. She raised the blade even further.

“There’s no need for it, child, I won’t harm you.”

The short woman finally stopped just a few paces in front of Genevieve. “You’ll have to excuse me,” the creature waved a hand over her worn down clothes. “We don’t get many people of noble birth around these parts.”

Genevieve lowered her sword but did not ease her stance.
“Are you Eogann?” She asked tremulously.

The goblin woman spat out a cackle that nearly sent her into a coughing fit. “I am neither portentous, nor vile enough to be that old sack of bones!”

“Well who…what are you?” Genevieve realized her impropriety as soon as she had spoken the words, but in light of all that had occurred recently, her head was filled with a childlike curiosity.

“Now, now, no need for unnecessary chagrin either.” The goblin noted.

Genevieve’s expression must have betrayed her.

“I am what I am,” the old crone waved her cane around and began walking towards the forest. Genevieve felt compelled to follow. “And what I am is quite alarming for the likes of you.”

Genevieve and the crone stopped within the cover of the trees and the little goblin woman pointed at the red sky with her stick. Genevieve followed the direction of the piece of wood and noticed a raven roaming the red sky.

“You have been followed, yes, and I fear you might not realize just exactly what you’ve gotten yourself into.” The crone clicked her tongue. “No worries. The beast has no power in these woods.”
She turned and started down a narrow path carved into the undergrowth, Genevieve noticed it led for quite some distance though thicket and rows of trees. She followed the goblin and began to ask a question but the crone interrupted her.

“You have many questions, yes, too many perhaps. But you answered none of mine, no, none of mine. And true, there is much you must know if we are ever to make it out of here, but no, now is not the time to discuss such matters. Fate has brought us together, but Time seeks to rob us of our chance.”

Genevieve rubbed her forehead, still flustered from the flurry of terrible things she had just experienced, and turned to look at the dim reflections of the lake before finally following the crone into the murky recesses of the forest.

Somewhere in the distance a beast howled at the abysmal moon.

What had she gotten herself into?

***********************************************************************************************************

Genevieve had a hard time adjusting herself into the small confines of the goblin-woman’s earth mound, but when she finally gave up on trying to sit down on a chair that was too small and too rigid for her, and sat, instead, on the warm earth, she crossed her legs and found a comfortable enough position.

“You did not answer child.” The crone stood before a boiling pot, stirring its contents with a wooden ladle that looked just like her cane. “How many new suns have you seen?”

Genevieve opened her eyes. She had been close to falling asleep. “Forty.” She leaned forward, fighting the urge to lie down.

The crone raised an eyebrow and looked over her shoulder at Genevieve.
“Your body does not betray you, child. Do you still bleed?”

Genevieve was getting tired of that question, and, in her languor, she answered with a more irritated tone than she had truly intended.
“What does it matter?”

The crone turned suddenly, the fire dimmed as the light was stolen from the cramped, circular home, and the goblin seemed to rise in size as the change cast a horrifying shadow on her face.

“I offer you hospitality, child, bring you into my home! The least you owe me is a modicum of respect, and not the brutish tongue your kind have imbued you with!” The crone glared at Genevieve for a few more seconds, her nose twitching petulantly, and then turned back to the boiling pot, with a despondent look in her face.

Genevieve released the white knuckle grip she had on the handle of her sword and bowed her head into a hand.
“I’m sorry. You’re absolutely right. Thank you for taking me into your…fine home. My journey has made me weary but there is no excuse for offending such a wise, and kind….”

“Now, now, child, there’s no need to be sycophantic about it.”The crone paused for a taste of the boiling liquid. “Though I must agree, this is as fine a home as you will find in these parts.”The crone chuckled to herself in her croaking voice and Genevieve relaxed, seeing that her host was as easily appeased as she was angered.”

“I do still bleed, but why does it matter?” The lady asked, truly curious.

The goblin woman added a dash of some pungent ingredient to her soup and put a lid on it before turning to sit on a chair.

“And, I do not wish to question you…er…my lady,” Genevieve continued, “but why did you take me in?”

The goblin sat silently, old rheumy eyes fixated on some distant point as she reminisced. But, at last, she explained herself, her wrinkled face lighting up proudly as she began.
“I am no lady, child. I am Hilda of the East Bank! The goblins of the Stones answer to me in these parts, and the centaurs seek my guidance when their young fall into illness. The Waers honor my territory and do not hunt unless I allow them to, and even the imps, those wretched creatures, must admit that not much goes on in these woods that I am not aware of.”

The crone’s gaze fell and the fire’s light flickered once again.

“But it was not always so. I was a woman once, like you, yes, much like you. A pretty lady making men swoon even well into my years.”

Silence took the air again, leaving only the boiling pot’s contents to fill the void with their bubbling. A bony, green hand, twisted with swollen joints, rubbed the crone’s chin as she recalled her past.

“I will not waste time, for time is precious even here, telling you about my fall from grace, child. But know this…” Hilda raised a finger and pointed it at Genevieve. “I miss my home and life on the other side, and you are the key to our escape from this dark land!”

Hilda jumped to her feet as the pot began to hiss and continued fiddling with the soup.

“Can’t you just walk out of here?” Genevieve inquired.

The crone spat and waved a gesture in the air. “You still do not see? Mankind is still as dimwitted as I thought, yes, still very dimwitted.”

Genevieve’s mouth opened, insulted, but she did not say a word.

“Open your eyes, child!” Hilda raised her cane and swung it around in all directions.” “You go south, east, west, north, you find more trees. The Deep Forest, yes, it is called that for a reason. It does not extend far in your world, but here…”

Genevieve finally understood.
“The lake is a door?”
The lady clasped her chest, stunned by the realization.

The crone cackled. “Not so dimwitted after all.” She nodded her head, the loose green folds of her neck bobbing sideways. “A door with very specific keys.”

Hilda tasted the soup again and decided it was ready, taking it from the fire and placing the wide, metal pot on the ground next to the table. “Yes, we may get out of here soon enough.” The crone handed Genevieve a wooden bowl filled with a brown sludge that made her want to lurch by sight alone. But when she brought the bowl to her lips, so as to not offend her host again, she was surprised by its pleasing taste.

“I cannot go back without first meeting this Eogann.” Genevieve’s voice was timid and cautious.

The crone’s face was hidden behind a bowl as she slurped its contents greedily.

“My son, he’s sick….The plague has taken many already.”

“Seldom does a wise man make a pact with the imp king.” Hilda gulped down the soup loudly.

“Eogann’s an imp?” Genevieve smiled incredulously.

The crone slammed her bowl down on the table and the lady’s grin disappeared.

“The self-proclaimed king of the imps has no more powers than I do!” Hilda replied curtly.

Genevieve lifted the bowl once more between interlocked fingers and said nothing else.

“If we make it out of here I will cure your child of any illness, yes, the gods shall not have his soul just yet.”

Finishing her soup, Genevieve curled up by the fire with her hands beneath her head and her back against an earth wall. She kept her sword a hand’s length away from her, and her body pointed towards the circular, pine entrance, vigilant while she remained awake.

“As soon as you have rested and gathered your wits we will collect all we need. Our hunt for ingredients will lead us to more perilous parts of the Deep Forest, but if you do as I tell you, our way will be paved out for us, and your son will soon be healed.” Hilda poured herself a second helping and spoke no more.

Genevieve eyed the old crone as she hobbled within her abode, wondering just how much she could trust her, but at last, the fatigue was too much and she succumbed to a deep slumber filled with dreams of a lakeside.

***********************************************************************************************************

Genevieve scanned the land around her slowly, searching for a hint of white, but when her efforts led to naught, she continued walking through the thick undergrowth.

Morning was no less dull in the Deep Forest. Day had replaced the red sky of the night with a vapid, grey sheet of clouds, and the thick canopy above her allowed the woodlands to retain their shadows. The fog that had lurked between the trees the night before was gone now, but the crone had been right. When Genevieve studied the horizon, she could see nothing more than trees and more trees, large, thick beasts of trees, sprawling up into the large organism that lived and breathed above her with the strength of thousands upon thousands of the crowns of trees.
.
Genevieve stopped again, several yards away from the glade and the lake, her eyes running through dense foliage. Somewhere off to her right, a twig snapped and Genevieve’s head turned sharply, like a doe sensing a hunter. She had run across no wild life throughout the first part of her search, and she intended to keep it that way.

Hilda had given her a list of ingredients she needed to collect in preparation of the liquid that was half of the key to reopening the portal, while the old crone herself had ventured deeper into the woods to gather the root that made up the other portion of the requirements.

“I shan’t take you with me, child, no. The Faeries of those parts are wicked, little devils,” Hilda had said to her before they parted. And when Genevieve had protested to being left alone, the goblin woman had raised a finger and shaken it slowly. “If you do not wander away from the lands I hold power in, your safety will be an absolute certainty.”

But then the crone had stopped, before leaving her with a parcel of instructions written in ink, her tone turning serious as she drew herself closer to Genevieve. “But heed my words, child. The inhabitants of these parts are terrible beasts that have no inkling of honor and morality as we know it. Trust no one.”

Genevieve had wondered if the same applied to the crone herself.

After a considerable amount of time, though Genevieve could not tell exactly how long it had been for time seemed to elapse differently in this realm, her leather satchel had practically filled itself with a myriad of herbs, weeds, and plant stems. But the white petal flower, that Hilda had said Genevieve would find on the undergrowth that grew on the border of the woods by the clearing, was still nowhere to be found. And, to exacerbate her situation, Genevieve was certain that something was stalking her.

It had started out as an irrational inclination, the feeling of impending doom steadily morphing into the sensation of being watched. But as Genevieve had walked further and further away from the land near Hilda’s earth mound, the feelings had proven justified when the sound of scampering feet moving through fallen leaves had begun to trail just behind her. It was a terrible hunter, moving obstreperously enough so that Genevieve had a vague understanding of the distance between herself and whatever it was that was out there. She would turn with her weapon drawn, certain it was right behind her, her arm lunging with force enough to hack into a man, but nothing would be there, and the steel would merely clash into a dense root or split a plant in two.

It was out there again, just now, she was certain. Genevieve turned once more, only this time, she caught a glimpse of a red, clawed foot and a hooked tail disappearing behind a tree. And Genevieve ran. Her childhood training and her father’s voice telling her to watch her footing, to carefully measure her steps with calculated tact, were ripped from her mind by the fear of what she had seen and her blind sprint was only interrupted when she tripped on an exposed root and fell against a thick trunk that tore at her dress with its bark. When she steadied herself, Genevieve whirled around with her blade extended and when she was met with the emptiness of the forest, she sheathed her blade quickly and began running again.

Genevieve broke through the line of trees and ran into the shore of the lake, struggling to catch her breath. She faced the woods with her back against the waters, but upon remembering the warm embrace of the doppelganger, she turned to and fro, until the tears welled in her eyes and she fell to her knees and wept. She was lost.

The gods were surely punishing her for trying to take the matter of her son’s life into her own hands and going against their will.

Wind swept hair into her eyes and something landed on the pebbled ground next to the lady. Genevieve turned and saw the raven cocking its head as it looked at her. She recognized the bird.

“I don’t suppose you can get me out of here…”

The raven hopped on its skinny legs, moving closer to her.

“Just a lift back to that damned goblin’s place.”

She wiped a tear off her cheek with the back of a hand.

“I don’t weigh too much; it really shouldn’t be a problem.”

Genevieve chuckled in spite of her situation. It grew in her chest and she found herself laughing until her nervous giggles turned into a sharp scream when the raven pecked at her leg, drawing a speck of blood.

“Damn thing!” She stood and the raven jumped forward again, stabbing her once more, digging is beak into her left shin.

Genevieve let out another cry and backed away from the bird which continued to advance towards her, squawking now, and flapping its wings in hostility. She moved towards the forest in fear as the black bird, its wings extended, seemed to grow in size as it jumped forward, making its hellish noises become more shrill. Genevieve was horrified when the bird swelled in size, its cries now like the screams of a mad woman. When it was half her height, the bird lunged forward and Genevieve fell backwards, tripping over a root and landing on her back on the shrubs of the forest.

She looked up at the canopy and at the morose sky beyond it.

Genevieve lay there for a while, resigning herself to her fate, but when she finally sat up, she saw that the bird remained on the shore, cocking its head. She had a feeling it would not let her back into the lake.

A sudden wind rustled the dead leaves around Genevieve, but when she realized that the sound was actually that of many feet moving through the forest, she stood and unsheathed her blade, heart beating in her ears once more.

Something darted between trees.

Another shadow leaped in her periphery.

“Who goes there?” Genevieve challenged.

Silence lulled for a second.

“Show yourselves!”

It persisted a few seconds more.

“What is it?” A disembodied voice asked.

“Move away, move away, let me see.” Another spoke out.

Genevieve shook as she heard the tiny voices. Her eyes darted from tree to tree, branch to branch, trying to visualize the beings.

“It’s just some bitch in white garbs.” A third high-pitched voice came from somewhere above her.

“That’s odd, she don’t look like a dog.” One of the beings, a dull sounding fool, commented.

With an audible smack, another of the creatures corrected the fool.

“Not a dog, you idiot, a bitch.”

Several of the beings scuffled around, and when they settled, Genevieve could hear their raspy breaths all around her.

“So Brae was right. Someone did make it through.”

“Explains why I couldn’t sleep last night.” One of them said gruffly.

“Look, look, it seems frightened!” One of the creatures squealed and Genevieve’s shaking intensified. She took a deep breath and tried to steady herself.

“Cowards, show your faces!” The lady yelled in the direction of the ever shifting voices.

Sickening giggles filled the trees around her, and Genevieve tightened her grip on the hilt of her sword.

“Oh, come on, let’s get it over with already. I’m getting hungry.”

Genevieve spun left, turning to face the voice.

“You’re always hungry. Herd of swine would suit you better.”

The lady turned to her right, sword extending towards a large bush.

“Quit your bickering! This one could be for the horse-men.”

Genevieve grew ever more restless. The voices had formed a circle around her.

“No. Ain’t no centaurs around here, and this one looks older than what they like.”

“Well then, let’s take a closer look.”

Five creatures dropped from the boughs above her and Genevieve stifled a scream when she saw them.

“What’s the matter,” the fool quipped, “you ain’t never seen an imp before?”

The short creatures laughed, some holding their red bellies, others with hands on the curled horns above their heads.

Genevieve waved her sword around. They were small. The tallest would have barely reached her navel. But the clawed nails on their hands, and the hooks on their tails told her she probably could not fight all five of them. Their eyes were upon her, black, watery eyes like those of a pup, and their gazes made Genevieve uncomfortable.

“What are you doing in the woods, lovely dove, searching for berries?” A large imp with a crooked nose leaned side to side, studying Genevieve.

“Virgin berries is what she needs.”

“Is that right? Do you need virgin berries to tighten up your twat?”

Genevieve grunted and swung her sword angrily, but the imp was quick, it rolled forward into her stomach, pushing her back onto the ground and pinning her arms over her head. She went frantic, kicking and then screaming when she realized the other imps were upon her, holding down her legs and arms. But now the largest of the imps was on her, straddling her abdomen, his loin cloth dangerously close to her chest.

“You trying to cut my hair, dove? Imps don’t have hair.”

The group laughed cruelly.

“I ought to teach you some manners.”

The imp ran a caressing finger down her cheek, neck, and chest. Genevieve trembled violently and she cried out without any regard for her words.
“Please! Please, I have gold…silver…let me go…I can make you the richest imps in the forest.”

Her captor smacked her across the face, cutting her cheek and sending blood flying into the ground next to them. He grabbed hold of the hem of her dress that ran across her chest, tore it and exposed the top portion of her breasts.

“I don’t want gold…do any of you dogs want gold?” He said sardonically.

The imps grumbled and snickered.

“But you have a fine set of teats. Look how big they are.” The imp motioned to her chest and, when something stirred behind his loincloth, Genevieve tried to squirm to freedom again but her efforts were too weak to overpower the creatures.

“Yes, they’re probably nice and perky, aren’t they?” The large imp flicked his tongue.

“Please…” She begged.

“How many rats have you mothered, little dove?” He poked a finger into her cleavage while his tongue tasted the length of her neck. The devil’s little face lingered by the lady’s chin as he examined her beauty.

“I’m going to fuck you bloody.”

Impatiently, the imp leaned backward and squeezed her mound with a small hand, rubbing dangerously close to her sex through the fabric of her dress and undergarments. Genevieve moaned, and arched her back. No one had touched her in quite a long time. She protested and cursed the beast and he smacked her again with his free hand. He squeezed her tightly and then drove his hand between her thighs.

“I think she might actually need some virgin berries…”

“Wait…wait…” The fool called out.

The large imp bared his teeth and turned to his companion.

“What is it? You can have your turn when I’m finished.”

The other creature shook his head and lifted Genevieve’s blade, showing it to the other imps.

“Devyn’s sword.”

“That’s not Devyn’s sword. Give it here.”

“What would you know?” One of the other imps called out. “You’ve never even crossed over to the other side.”

“That is Devyn’s sword.” A demon holding one of her ankles said. “She’s the one he sent.”

The imps barked at each other, some of them relaxing their grips on Genevieve.

“I’ve seen it on him. She’s definitely the one he sent.”

“So what? We’ll take her to camp when we’re done with her.” The one on her chest declared.

“Eogann will have your head, Linor.”

“Eogann can have my balls.”

His hands returned to Genevieve’s chest.

The other imps growled.

Genevieve crawled towards the sword as the other imps fell upon the large one. She heard his bones cracking and his screams gurgling as the other four broke his bones and tore his throat apart. When she turned around to face them with her sword drawn, she finally realized that running or fighting would be useless.

Each devil held a piece of their companion’s body in bloodied hands, gnawing the meat viciously to the bone until only the abdomen and lifeless head remained on the forest floor, face frozen in agony.

Genevieve started backing away from the crowd of imps.

“I wouldn’t do that…” One of them said. “King Eogann would like to have a word with you.”

Another of the imps stepped forward, a piece of innards hanging from the corner of his mouth. It scratched its bald head and grinned a fanged smile.

“We won’t harm you, little dove. Our fealty binds us to honor our lord. Forgive my companions if they seem rude, they have never crossed over to your lands.”

There was a hint of sarcasm in his words as he pointed towards the carcass of the transgressor.

The other imps wiped their mouths and circled her. Genevieve understood the threat. She sheathed her blade. It would do her no good against these demons.

“Now come. The king is waiting for you.”

The fool produced a tiny blade. He pointed it at Genevieve, urging her to follow the first imp, who now walked into the forest. Genevieve’s hand went to her cheek as she began to walk, expecting to feel the painful gash the dead captor had given her, but her cheek was smooth and there was no blood on her fingers when she examined them.

They walked through the forest for most of the afternoon, the imps growing merrier but no less menacing as they neared their lands. They sang songs, vile, perverted rhymes that made Genevieve shudder, and they ate squirrels, crawling up into the trees to hunt them in order to satisfy their seemingly never ending hunger. Genevieve looked back often, examining the trail behind them, trying to picture her way back to the clearing and to Hilda’s house. When the imps hunted, she would look for a direction in which to escape towards. She tried running once, fleeing for many yards and sliding into a large ditch that had its top thatched over with shrubs and leaning foliage. But the imps had caught up with her in no significant amount of time, tripping her to the ground and laughing at her.

By the time they reached their destination, the fog had settled back into the forest, and the red glow of the sky broke occasionally through the leaves of the dense woods. As they advanced through the darkness, the sound of music and laughter began filling the air. Genevieve saw an orange glow, lighting the fog and trees and suddenly they came across a longhouse made of large uncut pines. Lit sconces lined the outer walls of the construction, their flames licking dangerously close to the straw of the roof, and from the light coming from several windows Genevieve could tell that there was a large fire burning on the inside of the place.

Without a word, the imps led her to a thick wooden door they pushed open with no regard to whoever might have been on the other side. The place was indeed large. A length of stone steps let up to a crude, wooden throne atop a dais. On either side of the walkway two long tables seated many imps, feasting upon roasted meat, drinking wine from clay cups, and boasting tales of their journeys to the realm of man. They hushed their voices as the four imps led Genevieve towards the throne, and many hopped from their seats and turned to watch the captive who towered over them.

Genevieve tried not to make eye contact with any of the beasts. She put her hand on the hilt of her blade, ready to turn it on herself if the imps attacked her again, and turned to look at the stout imp that entered the hall from an entrance that was beside the slightly upraised platform. This devil was much larger than the rest, roughly around the height of the goblin woman and only a head shorter than Genevieve. He was different than the rest in not only size but shape as well. A large belly jiggled before him, and his horns were sharper and broader than those of the other imps, like crowns that would adorn the head of a ram. His pudgy fingers were adorned with various rings with emerald stones and rubies, and on his back he wore the skin of a fox.

The imp king sat on his makeshift throne with a grunt and the imps were completely silent, allowing their nasal breathing to disturb Genevieve with the sheer number of them all.

“So,” the king started with a gruff voice that beseemed his fat body, “You are the one that Devyn sent.”

His eyes examined her, and Genevieve remembered her manners, even amidst all the horror. She bowed awkwardly, never having properly learned to curtsy, and realized the formality was not quite suitable for the occasion when the four imps beside her snickered.

“Quiet,” his voice boomed and her captors sunk into their shoulders.

“Did they do this to you?” The king looked at Genevieve, noticing her partially torn dress and the mud caked on it. She gave him a little nod.

“Speak up!”

“Yes!” Genevieve exclaimed, almost falling into a cry when she said it. She held tears back with all her strength, and felt like a scared child.

The king stood from his seat and nodded at the crowd of imps to Genevieve’s left. When they noticed their king’s gesture, they smiled and bared their sharpened teeth. Genevieve turned to them, certain they were about to attack her, but the imps pulled her four protesting captors into the crowd instead. A spray of blood flew up into the air and Genevieve averted her eyes as the four imps were dragged back to the table, the feast continuing on one side of Eogann’s hall.

“I spent a considerable amount of time in your lands when I was younger. My sons have inherited the same curiosity and appreciation I have for that place,” Eogann waved Genevieve over and she approached the dais, pleased by the justice the imps had received. “But I’m afraid that most of my subjects have never even been through a great lake. They are less inclined to follow the foreign customs of proper manners.” He turned to the feasting table and laughed.

“There are other lakes, your grace?” Genevieve glanced at the table when one final scream echoed through the hall.

Eogann seemed pleased with the term. He nodded, chins jiggling with his belly.

“Why yes, lady Genevieve, but only in other parts of the forest.”

Genevieve felt more at ease, thinking perhaps, that Devyn hadn’t sent her into a complete hell.

“You took long coming to me. It’s why I had to put out the word to the other curs of the forest.” The imp king pointed at the feasting imps. “I see now it was not that big of a mistake. “

Genevieve was somewhat satisfied with the cruelty.
“You are King Eogann, your grace?”

The large imp snarled and a small runt ran to him and gave him a cup of wine.

“I am he. Forgive me. A host should properly introduce himself. Even before enacting his justice.”

Genevieve’s hands shook as she thought about her words.

“King Eogann…the bold, I thank you for defending my honor, but, with your leave, may I have permission to head back to the clearing from which I came?”

The clay cup broke between Eogann’s clenched hand, spilling wine through his fingers, whose color seemed to blend into that of the liquid.
“You will not waste my time any longer, lady Genevieve. You are my guest, and a grateful guest you will be.” The imp king stood. “Now, you have a petition. Speak so we may be done with it!”

Genevieve remained silent for a moment, unsure of what making a deal with the imp king would entail. She found courage in a thought of her son and in what little trust she still had in Devyn.

“My son is sick, your grace, a plague has left him sleeping and moving closer to death.”
She spoke the words, but did not want to hear them.
“I beg you, King Eogann, to cure him so that he may live.”

Eogann rubbed his chin and spoke out abruptly.

“Done.”

The imp king barked again and the runt ran to him, pouring his wine into a new cup.

Genevieve eyed the King tentatively, wondering what he would ask of her, but he merely swallowed his drink and demanded more. She stood silently, and detected an opportunity to leave when the drunken king barked for a third cup.

“Thank you, your grace. My uncle is lord of the Riverlands, he will not forget this gift you have given my family.”

Eogann turned to her and a grin formed on his wine dripped lips.

“We will repay you accordingly.”

The king rose again, holding himself up on the arm rest of his throne.
“And what would you pay for the life of your son?” He said with a smile.

“We have many things at our disposal…”
Genevieve felt all the stares in the room turn to her.

“Gold is it?” The fat imp barked, suddenly irritated. “Man always offers gold, as if it were of any real use to anyone.”

Genevieve opened her mouth to say something but Eogann snarled, interrupting her before she could go on. He looked at the crowd of imps and sighed.

“We are not so different, you and I,” a fat index finger extended from his hand.
“I have sons too, and I would give the world to them if I could.”

The fat imp stepped forward and almost tripped on himself. Genevieve couldn’t tell if it was because of the wine, or his belly, or his age, and decided it was probably due to a combination of the three.

“They bring me pain, my sons. I give them everything I can,” He motioned towards the group to Genevieve’s right and she noticed, for the first time, that some of the imps sitting on the table were different than the rest. They had no horns on their heads and on their chests they had tiny, uncovered breasts. Most of these imps also had large stomachs, but theirs were different than Eogann’s. Genevieve understood, and Eogann’s request began to dawn on her. She turned to eye the thick, wooden door, hoping it was still open…

“I let them choose from any of my wives. My line is strong. It must go on!”

The imps around Genevieve chanted in unison when Eogann said this.

The line is strong!

“But, even then, they grow greedy. And cast shame upon me!” He threw his cup at his subjects and they roared with laughter at the expense of their father. “But I’m afraid that I love my children far too much. It’s my curse.”

He pointed at himself and then at Genevieve. Her hand went to her blade.

“My youngest loves the Riverlands as I once did, Lady Genevieve. And he requested you personally.”

Eogann turned to the door from which he hand entered and snapped his fingers. Throughout the hall the imps began chanting the name of their younger brother but Genevieve didn’t have to hear them to know who he was.

The imp was small, just a bit taller than the runt of the group. He looked like any of Eogann’s other imps, but his rounded face, stubby, upturned nose, and mischievous, gaped tooth smile were particularly familiar to Genevieve and a fury rose within her as the demon came into the hall.

Eogann rushed to the boy and patted him on his bald head.
“Maedoc, my son, I have your present.” He chuckled and turned to look at Genevieve.
“Do not pout, lady Genevieve, it will ruin everything. My other sons are weak, but the line runs strong through Maedoc. I am old and cursed to see the end of my days shortly. Maedoc will rule in my stead.”

“Let me go, Eogann! Hilda will make you pay for this…”
Genevieve moved towards the door but stopped when she saw that a line of imps blocked the entrance. Eogann laughed and headed for his chambers.

“The old hag will do no such thing! Even her powers don’t extend this far.”
Eogann stood at the door and met eyes with Genevieve one last time.
“We love our sons too much, Lady Genevieve. It is our curse.”

He shut the door behind him and Genevieve heard the muffled giggles of young imp maids as their king returned to bed.

Genevieve drew steel, its edge ringing against the scabbard as it came into the light of the imp house.

Maedoc scampered in her direction, grinning. The imp crowd had returned to their tables, and most of them had taken a female imp already, creating sounds of disgusting lovemaking.

Genevieve rushed to the door and tried to pull it open but it remained locked by some means she could not easily discern. She turned and noticed Maedoc still advancing, the light of a sconce bringing him fully into view, and Genevieve saw, at last, what the imps meant when they chanted that the line was strong.

Maedoc was, indeed, a small imp, but between his legs, just barely obscured by his loin cloth, Genevieve could see the silhouette of a dangling member that swung to his knees. Genevieve returned to the door, frantically, and pulled with all her strength.

“Don’t be afraid, milady…” He had a sweet voice.

Genevieve lunged towards the imp but he dodged left, leaping with acrobatic ease.

“I could disguise myself as one of your kind again if it makes it easier.”

She extended her elbow but Maedoc jumped just in time and stood on the forte when the edge of the blade impaled itself on the thick pine wall. He darted at her quickly and when she stood to wrestle him off her shoulders, Maedoc slid down her back, making a tear down the length of her clothes. Her undergarments and most of her dress fell to the floor but Genevieve managed to grab hold of a lengthy piece she held to her chest to hide her naked body.
“Get away from me you devil!”

Genevieve pulled the blade from the wall with all her fury and all her hate and made one more attempt to strike Maedoc. But the imp evaded her once more with a backflip, and when he landed he boasted that same smile she had seen on him before.

“I brought you something,” He reached behind him and produced a white flower, its yellow center gleaming in the firelight. “I saw you looking for it when I came back through the lake.”

Maedoc lifted the flower into the air and then a thought occurred to him.

“Hey, I saw Aidan today!”
.
Genevieve let out a sob.

“We’re getting along just fine now.”

With a boisterous war scream that made even the copulating imps look up from their seats, Genevieve rushed the imp, but he rolled between her legs, pulling the trailing garment she held to herself away from her, and bringing the lady crashing to the floor.

Genevieve’s head spun as she spat out blood and stood once more, struggling to ready herself to continue the fight. Her lip throbbed with pain but when she touched it she realized that her wounds had healed once more.

Genevieve’s forearm covered her exposed breasts, and she whirled for one final attempt, but when she turned to face Maedoc, the young imp jumped high into the air, with the flower in his hands, and blew its yellow pollen into Genevieve’s face.

The lady staggered backwards, recognizing the ginger scent of the plant along with the rush of blood she felt go down her chest and to her groin. She let out a cry as the potent drug brought her down to her knees and nearly collapsed in a heap of heat. Genevieve tried to clear her mind, tried to go for her weapon as Maedoc walked around her triumphantly like a beast ready for the kill.

“The Faerie who gave me this told me not to use all of it,”
Maedoc tossed the flower aside.
“But you’re big! It shouldn’t be too bad, right?”

Some of the imps that were finished with their meals turned around to face the lady and began stroking their flaccid members.

Genevieve made an effort to stand but a second rush sat her down on her ass and she began trembling uncontrollably. She fought with all her strength, waging a battle against herself now as the fever took over her body inch by inch until at last she could withstand no more. One of her hands squeezed a breast while the other launched straight to her vulva and began rubbing furiously. She regained her senses when the young imp pushed her down on her back and stood between her bent knees.

“No…please…” The lady managed to say.

Genevieve struggled to speak, her quivering lips wanting nothing more than to expose what lay behind the imp’s loincloth. She began rubbing again in spite of herself.

“Come on boy, get on with it!” One of the imps called out.

Several more of the other imps had turned to see the ceremony and the sight of the devils stroking their tiny cocks only made Genevieve’s hand move faster.

“Let me go…”

But Maedoc merely grinned. She could feel his black eyes moving over her body, examining her clear, blue eyes, her pouting lips. They lingered on her chest and her erect nipples, and finally rested on the moving hand between her legs. The young imp tore his loincloth off and Genevieve let out a whimper as she noticed his member swell in excitement, moving up in synch to the imp’s rapidly beating heart, and the snickers of the other devils died down when Maedoc’s penis finally surpassed the size their own members. Maedoc walked closer and came down to his knees while one of his hands massaged the underside of his cock and Genevieve noted that the young imp shook a little, and his skin took a darker hue. It was his first time.

“Please…have mercy…”

Once more Genevieve fought, she lifted her upper body but her head spun with lust and she fell back down on her back powerless to the effects of the aphrodisiac. She tried to speak once more, tried to scream and curse and call for help, but her throat only managed a moan. Maedoc enjoyed her protests. A glistening droplet of clear liquid dotted the tip of his member as he drew ever nearer to Genevieve until the wet head pressed against her entrance. His face changed somewhat, nerves of excitement clearly running through him, but his self-control was impressive, and the young imp waited, enjoying the sensation of having his play thing finally pressed against another being.

Genevieve shook uncontrollably, she wanted to run through the door and never stop running. But her intoxicated body had turned against her, and in her state, feeling the imp’s cock press against her outer lips drove her mad with lust. She arched her back slightly, and thrusted her sex against Maedoc’s member, trying to coax the thing to finally enter her. Maedoc gasped and pulled back in surprise so as to not penetrate the lady just yet. He wasn’t done enjoying this part of his game.

The young imp pressed his tip against her once more and began exploring her lower body with his hands, his pointed tail wagging in pleasure as his lips sucked on Genevieve’s pale thighs and his small hands squeezed the parts of her ass they could grope. But suddenly the young imp could not contain himself much longer, and after leaving her legs slobbered, he smiled at Genevieve and pushed in. The lady ceased her rubbing, she locked eyes with the imp and noticed he still retained his smile as he advanced, bit by bit, enjoying the moist warmth he was met with. But Genevieve was on fire now. Using her arms and legs she bucked forward violently, swallowing the imp’s member deep into her.

Maedoc’s grin faded. His features turned into a pained expression as his chest was caught between two breaths, and his body remained motionless as he struggled not to orgasm. Not yet. Genevieve’s mind was a swirl of lustful thoughts and grief for her lost honor. She reveled in the feeling of fullness within her dripping hole, and her hands squeezed her breasts and played with their nipples.

When he had regained his composure, the imp began thrusting his little hips forward rapidly. He spread his arms and fell upon Genevieve’s abdomen, his left cheek pressed against her tummy, his hands a bit further down, squeezing her hips as his cock drilled into her. Genevieve nearly lost herself, but Maedoc was inexperienced, his thrusts lacking a proper pace, so she pressed one of her calves against the back of his lower body and tried to make each penetration as even as the last.

The room spun slightly around Genevieve, and she felt true pleasure looming on the horizon. Her hands clawed at the ground trying to steady her body, which now rocked back and forth with the imp’s forceful efforts. She found herself absorbed by the wet, flopping sounds of his young rod defiling her, and the smacks of his body crashing into her and she ran her hands around the imp’s unusual, bald head, massaging his sweaty skin.

Soon, Genevieve’s pulse became deafening in her ears, her moans and heavy breathing became shallow as she lost control of her muscles and let out a series of short cries. Heat exploded out from within her, and her feet pushed down, jerking her hips into the air, lifting the impaled demon up with them. She squeezed her breasts then ran hands into her hair, digging nails into her scalp, and squeezing Maedoc’s body between her thighs tighter and tighter and tighter until the imp let out a yelp and she let out an extensive moan. The pleasure and heat washed through her, and began subsiding gradually like the waves of water on the lake shore.

Almost instantly, her orgasm robbed the flower’s drug of its potency, clearing Genevieve’s head. Her hips fell and she lay flat on the ground, staring up at the thatched ceiling until she noticed the silence that had filled the room. With her ears still buzzing, she lifted her head to examine the scene around her.

All the imps in the hall were staring, not with the same evil glares she had gotten earlier, but with gaping mouths and looks of astonished arousal. She felt something stir between her legs and remembered the imp there. He had the same look of surprise on his face, and when she locked eyes with him, Maedoc lifted her knees back up, pushed his forehead into her abdomen and began ramming into her with more force than before, his grunts interrupted by short, rapid breaths. Genevieve let her head fall back to the floor, still exhausted from her orgasm. But she remained that way only for a few more seconds, for a change soon began to take place inside of her.

Maedoc’s thrusts became as uneven as before and he made a sound like a crying child. Genevieve realized what was starting to happen when she felt his member begin to swell inside of her.

Genevieve acted quickly. With new found strength she placed her hands on Maedoc’s horns, wrapping her fingers tightly against the ribbed appendages, and pushed down with all her strength in frantic fear of what might happen. She brought her thighs together and used her body to pull away from the imp as she kicked and pushed him away but, again, her protests only fueled the fire in the young imp and Maedoc overcame Genevieve’s tired muscles. He spread her legs forcibly, and, with one last forceful push, plunged himself in to the hilt.

Genevieve felt the pulses first on the smooth balls pressed against her groin as they jumped up and down. But like a wave, the sensation went down the length of Maedoc’s member and its entirety became engorged and incredibly stiff as the first pumps of ejaculate came bursting out of his genitals and into lady Genevieve. Disgust and anger filled her chest and Genevieve’s lips produced a little cry as Maedoc lifted his head up as far as he could and continued his pleasure induced whimpering with quivering lips and a pained expression on his blood red face. The pulsing continued and Genevieve felt a repulsive warmth grow inside of her.

When Maedoc was done he fell forward on top of Genevieve, sweat dripping down his red skin and mixing with hers, his heavy breaths warming her stomach. Around the lady and the imp, the other demons lay back on their chairs, spent by masturbation or by the aid of the imp maidens that gave Genevieve jealous glances. When Genevieve realized that Maedoc was not going soft inside of her, she sat up, mustered all her courage, and proceeded to extract the demon from within her. She pushed him back by the shoulders and his erect member came out of her with a wet plop. The warmth in her rushed out, and when Genevieve began to stand, she felt the sickening sensation of hot fluids dripping out of her lips and flowing down her inner thighs.

She stumbled forward, nearly falling to the ground once more, and stabilized herself with hands on slightly bent knees. Maedoc’s ejaculate kept dripping out. She thought about wiping her leg but stopped in fear of touching the liquid with her hands. And suddenly another thought occurred to her.

Genevieve looked at all the imps around her, some sleeping, most having succumbed to weakening orgasms of their own, until her eyes fell upon Maedoc, who slept on the ground with cock sticking out into the air, a disgusting reminder of what had occurred. Genevieve’s eyes darted around the floor until they found their mark. She reached down for her blade, trying not to double over, walked to Maedoc’s sleeping body and placed the tip of the sword just above his neck.

“If you do it, your son will die.”

Genevieve turned. King Eogann sat on his throne. He had been watching for quite some time.

“Let me go…” She threatened.

The imp king rubbed his oily head. Genevieve pressed the blade against skin.

Eogann’s laughter rumbled defiantly, waking some of the imps once more. Maedoc stirred, but his eyes remained shut.

A second passed.

Then a minute.

But finally the king waved his hand at Genevieve, and she heard the door behind her open with a creak.

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The way back to where the imps had first found her had been simple enough to remember, and once she was back by the lake, it was only a matter of circling the shore until she found the trail Hilda had used to get to her hole in the ground. But before going back, Genevieve had washed herself in the waters of the lake more times than she could count. She wept until her eyes had gone sore and dry, and then she had bathed once more, scrubbing at the places on her leg where the semen had dried to a crust.

When she had arrived to Hilda’s home, the old crone had not returned yet, so Genevieve had allowed herself in and commenced work on sowing a simple chlamys using some skins and threads she found in the goblin’s chaotic dresser.

Then she had slept. For two whole days it seemed, she slept, and bathed, and wept. And when at last the tears subsided, along with the deep hunger for revenge that had nestled itself in her heart, Genevieve began to wonder exactly how she would explain herself to Hilda when she returned.

Genevieve got her chance when Hilda finally arrived one gloomy morning. The lady had been gathering firewood in the brush around the crone’s home when she heard a yell behind her.

“What have you done?”

Genevieve’s heart began beating faster, afraid to finally go through with the confrontation she had been mentally preparing for.

“I came as fast as I could when word reached my ears….”
Hilda moved as agile as a young woman. She lifted Genevieve’s clothes and probed her tummy with cold fingertips, shifting positions with her hands before Genevieve finally slapped the crone’s arm away and let the chlamys drape over her body again. But Hilda had seen what she needed to see.

“You fool! You insolent fool!” The goblin ranted and raved, nearly falling to the floor in a conniption fit. “You’ve ruined it! You’ve sealed our fate forever!”

Her screeches echoed loudly, reverberating across the forest and sending birds flying into the sky. Genevieve was overcome with emotion, not quite comprehending how Hilda had been affected by what had happened. She rushed to her side anxiously, trying to calm the goblin down.

“It will be fine, Hilda. I can search for the ingredients again. We will get back home.”

Hilda’s eyes became cloudy with rage.
“Do you not see?” She spat, “The imp king will never allow you to leave this realm so long as you carry his legacy within you!”

Genevieve’s heart sank at the implication and she grabbed her stomach and felt nauseated.

“And what of your blood, child? The blood of a fertile woman is what we need to open the door from this end!”

Genevieve shook her head.

“No…no…we can fix this.” Her voice trembled as she tried to console both herself and the crone now.

“How? The only fertile women who come into this place are tokens of loyalty offered up to the centaurs by their vassals. It was a miracle I found you before the horse-men did.” Hilda snapped her cane in half and continued screaming. She kicked the ground with legs that did not appear strong enough to walk, and threw stones into the air with arms that seemed fragile and brittle. Her mouth raised curses to the air in a hundred different tongues that Genevieve could not comprehend.

“We can fix this!” Genevieve felt hot tears well up again and she sniveled as she pictured herself with a plump belly full of squirming imps. Hilda’s fit had ended and now she stood hunched over, breathing loudly through her mouth, and thinking to herself.

“Yes. Yes…It might still be early.” Hilda said between breaths.

Genevieve looked up to her companion, cheeks blushing with compunction.

“The little devils might not have reached their destination yet. No, not yet.”
Hilda yielded a dagger in her hands and took a menacing step towards Genevieve.
“There may still be time to purify your blood.”

At the sight of the curved blade, Genevieve wept loudly, and began to beg.
“Hilda, I’m sorry…they took me.”

“Hush child, it will be okay.”

The crone moved with the speed of lightning, propelled forth by her dark magic. One minute she was standing by the entrance to her mound, and the next she was just in front of Genevieve, her dagger plunged into the lady’s lower abdomen.

The sharp pain doubled Genevieve over, her shoulders falling against Hilda, and she sobbed tears of anguish into the damp wool of the crone’s robes. The past few days fluttered passed Genevieve’s mind. She thought of Devyn, delivering her into the hands of the lecherous imps in an act of terrible perfidy. She thought of Eogann, tricking her into selling her honor. She thought of Maedoc, smiling as he defiled her. And she thought of Edward, waking up but never seeing his mother again.

Gasping in pain, Genevieve reached beneath her garments and grabbed hold of her concealed weapon for one last act of revenge. With an agonizing scream she drove Devyn’s sword upward and through Hilda’s chest and ran forward until the tip pierced through the back of the old crone and impaled her to the wooden frame that held the door to her home in place. Hilda roared and pulled the dagger from Genevieve’s abdomen. It slid out with a gush of blood. The lady clutched her stomach and sat next to Hilda, ready for the end. Beside her, the old crone struggled to articulate words as she coughed out green blood.
“Man….kind…..”

Genevieve was ready, she leaned her head on the wood of the door and wondered what it would feel like to close her eyes and never reopen them. Hilda coughed and sent droplets of green liquid flying out. They fell on the dirt and seeped into the ground.
“Mankind….the forest….they heal in the forest.”

Genevieve opened her eyes in shock as she remembered the wounds the imps had given her and how quickly they had disappeared. She lifted the skins that covered her slender body and examine the place where the dagger had pierced her. Save for the blood that had begun to dry on her pale skin, there was no sign of the dagger’s fury.

Hilda clasped at the hilt of Devyn’s sword, shaking her head, refusing to die, and began muttering inaudible words as Genevieve rose, now aware of her mistake. With a pang of regret, the lady rushed to Hilda’s side.
“Tell me what to do,” she placed fingers on the pommel of the sword and Hilda cried out in pain. “Tell me how to fix it.”

Hilda’s whole body trembled, clearly nearing the end, but she persisted long enough to spit out her final words into Genevieve’s face.
“I curse you, Genevieve of the Riverlands, with all the power than flows through me!”

She scowled one last time and her raspy breath stopped.

The lady shook the crone by the shoulders, weeping once more, beating the goblin in the chest and then smacking herself uncontrollably with an outcry that echoed her impuissance. She tried to pry the sword from the doorframe but finally collapsed next to Hilda with an expressionless face.
Genevieve fell into the chirping of the birds and the silence that overtook the forest now that the commotion had ended. Wind shook the leaves of the stoic sentinels that surrounded her but not much else occurred in the woods, and soon the immensity of the lack of sound brought a faint ring into the ears of the lady. After some time, Genevieve picked up the dagger from the dirt and examined it with cold eyes. She studied the decorated hilt, trimmed with gold and sparkling with stones, and ran a finger down the sharp blade that had been inside her.

“Wow…you speared her good.” Maedoc grinned and walked towards Hilda’s impaled body. He was in his human disguise once more but he wore no clothes. Genevieve kept looking at the dagger. “I thought I’d come by, milady. Have another go at it in this body.”

He stood over one of Genevieve’s extended legs and sat, straddling the place where the upper leg met the knee. She felt his balls on her.

“I didn’t bring a flower, though. They’re awful hard to find around here.”
Maedoc frowned and folded the end of Genevieve’s garment up, exposing her lower body to his right hand, which began rubbing the warm flesh of her inner thigh, while his left hand went under the chlamys and squeezed a breast. His prick hardened over Genevieve’s leg.

“I’m not as big when I look like this…your kind is funny that way.”
Maedoc rubbed a finger over Genevieve’s vulva and drew it up to his nose with a smile.
“But I brought some virgin berries with me. My brother Brae said they’d make you tight as a faerie again.”

Genevieve’s hand shot forward and Maedoc flew back, a small cut on his arm.

“You’re gonna have to move faster than that if you want to spear me like the witch, milady. Even in this body I’m faster than that maid of a son you have.” Maedoc giggled to himself.
“I mean the big, lumbering fool, not the little runt, Aidan.”

Genevieve shook her head and screamed as she pressed the blade to her stomach and stood to face the little devil.
“You want your fucking legacy then you can have it! But if you so much as touch me with a finger again I will cut the bastards out of my stomach myself and drown their bodies in the lake.”

Maedoc’s smile faded. The line was clearly important to him as well.

“I never want to see you again. I never want to hear your fucking voice…” Genevieve pushed the knife into her belly and a gush of blood spewed out, spraying the young imp in the face.

Maedoc screamed. “Okay! Okay….”

He ran back to a safe distance and gave Genevieve a funny face before disappearing into the forest.

Genevieve sunk back to her place of mourning once more, feeling as the wound sealed itself, while her hand clenched over the dagger’s grip. She didn’t know how long it would be before Maedoc tried to take her once more but, when the time came, she would be ready.

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