This story is not something typical of what you will find on Literotica. I have received many emails and feedbacks from readers wanting more of my upcoming book Rosebud. Granted, I can’t print entirely too much here. Rosebud will be my first non-web publication, and I don’t want to cut my own throat so to speak. So, out of respect for my constant readers, I will gladly publish a small excerpt from the heart of the book. This is all copyrighted of course. So be not greedy lest ye wish to meet the ol’ darkeyeddemon in person. Aye, he’s very possessive, he is. 

I have always welcomed ( and quite often been flattered by ) feedback from my readers. So in fairness to those who read this to follow the Rosebud story line, I should tell you that this particular excerpt is not necessarily intact. It may be eventually be re-edited as all lengthy works often are. I believe that the content will stay the very same, yet the execution of the events may change. Maybe. 

Often I provide a set up for a story. Any good story is a complete story, after all. No loose ends here. What I have given thus so far is not a set up for this story per se, it’s more like a reason for it’s being here. Set ups often provide writers a medium to operate from when they are exposing an incomplete work. And that is in fact what the writer is doing. The exposure is often what drives the reader’s interest. In this case I am not going to provide a set up at all. Rosebud is an erotic work of literature, juxtaposed with a gothic / medieval element that reaches into modern day life. It touches on some of the elements of change that have come about since the birth of the internet. Think about it, since the internet came screaming into existence, erotica has come a long way baby. And fast. So instead of a set up…….. I am metaphorically going to cap you in the knees, blindfold you, douse you in pig’s blood and drop you off on some lonely deserted road deep in the dark woods. In the middle of the pitch black night. Sinister sounds everywhere. Reeking of death and bound to attract every stalking leaping crawling slithering skittering form of death you can imagine. 

And from some dim chamber carved in an age old oak a hundred feet above the earth, the darkeyeddemon casts down a wicked glare. Watches a hundred dozen demon children and changlings dancing and writhing around a huge brush fire. A deep bed of coals a hundred hands wide cast a vivid red glow. The flames leap and dance. Bathing the tall dark trees in a random shutterflash of white and yellow light. Framing the darkeyeddemon’s haggard face. Still he is smiling. Smiling like all the demons of hell come to call. He grins wide and long. He hisses through his many sharp teeth as he speaks, his voice like the sound of a cadaver drug across a cobblestone road. 

“Fire up the cook kettles ya heathen bastads. We’ll be eatin’ fine tonight. No need to go out on the hunt. The poor bastads are on their way to us. All we ‘ave to do is keep the fires hot and wait………“ 

And here the prey comes, he thinks. 

As I sit and wait for the boy, I realize that tonight my thoughts weigh heavy on me. Heavier, indeed than they ever have before. I am exposing the boy to the greatest of our taboos. Still, tis best he know. 

The boy is 13. Dark, brooding. His worries seem to be as black as the hair on his head. He has his mother's features. Her skin, jet black hair. Her eternally quizzical eyes. His eyes are dark as jet. Deep and always watchful. I feel that one day he will lead our coven on to more peaceful times. 

As I sit here I feel great shame for the risk I am placing upon our family. My justifications are true. Still I fear the possibilities. Love, it seems, often requires a sacrifice. 

The boy is returning from a trade. Trade is normally left for the elder men in the coven. This is a rite of passage for him. Yet he isn't aware of how important this passage will be. All males of the coven Ware go through the rite of passage, the acceptance of responsibility. Having an equal hand on the reigns that guide the family. I have placed much silent faith in the boy, as his passage will not a typical one. His will be very difficult indeed. 

Tonight I am to educate the boy on the true nature of magic. Our magic, secret and beloved to our family. Our laws within the family, our ways of life. Over the years I have observed that the boy rarely speaks. As I sit here minding the fire as it slowly dies to a bed of glowing coals he is traveling through the night forest. The horses that lead him are old and wizened. They have been through the forests here countless times. They know the smells, the hills and falls. The hidden trails tucked away behind every limb and deadfall. I imagine he rides with a mingled sense of fear and exhilaration. On his carriage are six wooden crates. They are bound well, cradled in hay and swathing to keep them from being jarred and falling away. Four of them are small, no bigger than a man's fists together. The remaining two boxes are larger by far. Both are about the size of a large basket. The boy knows these are precious, secret. He was given his instructions early yesterday morn, and since I have seen a look of determination and doubt in his eyes I can identify with nigh well. 

His meeting with the tradesman was brief. I know the old peddler well. He has always proven to be trustworthy. Very resourceful. Today's trade was no doubt one of his most challenging ever. The wares I needed him to secure would no doubt raise question from anyone else. Luckily, he is to be trusted. As he takes his payment from the boy he smiles broadly. At best trying to comfort the boy. He knows - the coven must be facing troubled times. He hands the boy each of the four small boxes, uttering only one small word as the boxes change hands. 

"Careful"

Then one at a time the peddler hefts the last two boxes onto the cart. He looks at the boy, fixes him with his eyes.

"Now see lad ye must be vera careful with these, aye. if one of these were to come ap'at" he places his finger at his throat, draws it across in a long slicing motion. 

The boy watches him unblinking. Nods once then mounts the wagon to secure his cargo. Moments later the wagon with its silent cargo is trundling away toward the deep woods and home. 

The fire is now a smoldering bed of coals. I have to steep the kettle, ready the spell. The boy will be here any moment now. My old knees creak like dry timber when I move. My hands ache. My feet hurt when I walk on hard ground. My condition is not flattering of a man my age. My father was a man of 69 before he had the first gray hair on his head. I seem to be dwindling much faster. I was once told that worry was a blind worm that eats at a man. Now with time I believe that to be true. 

I hear the carriage approach. I stand, walk to the chamber door and open it barely. Carefully, aye. Be silent, look quickly. These ways have been adopted by us of long. Witches are easy game for the darker men of this world it seems. The boy tugs the reigns and the wagon crawls to a stop. In the still night air I can hear the steeds breathing. He dismounts and walks to my chamber door where I meet him. 

"I have everything father Maegnus. No one saw me or followed."

"Very well boy. You do me proud. Now bring in the goods and we will sit."

fade to black 

The old man and the boy sit facing the fire. Quiet for the moment. Seemingly lost in deep thought. The man speaks lowly. With a great subtle authority. 

"I was nineteen myself, before my grandfather Altheus educated me the purpose and nature of our magic. I spend many nights with my eyes closed so that I might see. Often I see you leading our coven into brighter days. Tis not uncommon to doubt yourself boy. When you do there is no need for guilt or shame. There is only need for you to be aware. Never doubt what the father warlock tells you. Never doubt me."

The boy listens raptly. 

"Yes father Maegnus." 

"Pick one of the small crates. Open it"

The boy selects a crate. Looks at it pensively. Feels its weight. The texture of the crude wood it is fashioned from. 

"With great care Joel." The old man speaks quietly. " These boxes are my only salvation. "

Suddenly the boy feels as if the box in his hand is incredibly heavy. He grows nervous.

"Open the box." 

The boy's hands are now shaking. He touches the hasp to open the box. The old man reaches to him and places his hand on the boy's shoulder. 

"Steady Joel. You are capable."

The boy pushes the hasp open and opens the box. Inside is a large oak leaf rolled up into a crude cylinder. He picks the leaf up, holds it up for the man to see. The man nods and the boy gingerly unrolls the leaf. Inside is a large green praying mantis. Dead apparently. The boy looks at the old man curiously. 

"Not dead boy. Asleep."

The old man holds his hand out and the boy passes the leaf bearing the insect to him. 

"The next." The old man speaks. 

He takes the mantis from the leaf and places it on the hard packed earth in front of him. The boy opens the second box. Inside is another leaf. This one holding a big red wasp. Its stinger is a rusty angry red color. He passes this, too to the old man who places it next to the mantis on the earthen floor. The old man nods, and the boy picks up the next box and opens it. He takes a leaf from it, unrolls it and stares at its contents momentarily before holding it up for the man to see. 

"Aye the widow, I imagine."

The boy nods, visibly unnerved. He has been warned countless times about the triangle spider. The black and red itching death. The black widow. The spider is big. Its abdomen shines like polished obsidian. It looks awkward lying with its legs splayed at random. Somehow different and indignant. He is glad to hand the leaf to the old man. The old man places the spider as he reaches for the next box. There is no leaf inside this box. There is a scrap of burlap covering a warm lump of black feathers. The boy pulls a small raven out of the box. Holds it up for the man to see. After seeing the spider the raven is a relief for him to hold. The feel of its feathers is almost friendly. 

"Aye, tis you Joel. To me you will always be a raven with bright eyes. You make me proud boy."

The boy chokes back tears. His face barely changes in expression. The old man observes this, thinking to himself. Not only is the boy growing. He is quickening. 

"Now boy. Take one of the big crates. Carry it here by the fire. And carefully boy."

"Yes father Maegnus."

As the boy moves the crate the old man stands and takes a leather wrap from the mantle behind him. It bulges slightly at the sides. He sits cross legged ( slowly, wincing as he kneels ). He unrolls the wrap. Inside are seven objects. A wooden handled knife with a flint blade. A copper punch with the handle wrapped in leather. A large black feather. A large wooden spoon. A small pouch made of doeskin. A long slender candle of yellow wax. The last object is alien to the boy. It is a dirtied white color. Narrow and tapered on one end. Attached to the wider end is a tether with beads sewn into it. The boy is sitting in front of the fire. The large crate sits beside him. His eyes are fixed on the object.

"Bone pipe" The old man says. "Now open the crate."

The hasp on the larger crate is different. Instead of a simple metal slide it has a small hoop with a wooden pin driven into it. The boy takes his one of his sandals off and places the sole against the bottom of the pin. He hits the sandal with a sharp rap and the pin slides out. 

The old man muses to himself. Clever boy. It would have taken me much longer at his age to figure how to open the hinge using a wooden soled sandal. 

The boy places the pin aside and looks at the old man warily. Then he opens the crate and looks inside. Relieved, all he sees inside is dry hay. 

"Reach inside, pull it out." the old man speaks. 

The boy digs in the hay with his hand. He feels something smooth and warm. It feels like the coat of a dog with short hair. Coarse when rubbed in one direction, smooth when rubbed in another. He feels the weight of the animal and reaches in with his other hand. The boy feels certain there is a puppy in the box. It will feel comforting resting in his lap. He grabs the animal with both hands and with a solid motion pulls it out of the box. 

The old man watches. Hiding a wry grin. 'for shame maegnus' he thinks to himself. 

The boy holds the animal up, almost triumphantly. He sees what he is holding and the half grin on his face is wiped away. He is holding a huge leathery thing, folds of rough skin draping here and there, caressing his hands. He can feel lean muscles and spindly ribs just under his skin. The head of the thing lolls forward almost touching his own. The reek of rancid death is about the animal. The boy starts, almost screams. Behind the creature he is holding he sees the old man watching him. The boy takes a hitching breath of air, regains himself. The creature's head is slender. Catlike. The snout protrudes oddly. Inside the lower jaw are set two gleaming white fangs. The nose pig like and pointed. The leathery flaps of skin around the animal drag to the floor. The boy looks at the old man questioningly. Afraid to move the thing, afraid to drop it. Afraid to breathe the dead air around it. 

"That, young Joel, is a vampire bat."

The boy rises and carries the bat to the old man. 

"From birth?" The boy asks quietly.

"Aye boy it is this way from birth. This animal is still one of our own. Only different. Only from very far away. Not to be feared Joel."

The boy nods. He returns to his place by the fire. The old man gestures to the last box. The boy retrieves it and sits again. He eyes the box with a great apprehension. The box is much heavier than the rest. 

"Joel............. they all sleep." 

The boy takes some dim relief in the old man's words. He removes the pin on the last box in the same fashion as the one before. He looks at the old man, opens the box. He reaches into the deep hay packing with hands and takes a hold of the animal inside. The animal is heavy. He slowly pulls it out of the box. As the hay packing falls away he sees he is holding a great lynx. Its fur is a bright grayish white, shot with stripes in different shades of black. Its paws are huge, almost as wide as his own outstretched hand. The tufted ears are tall, each topped with a neat triangular stand of black hair. The fur is coarse, like the bristles of the brush the men use to clean pigs after the slaughter. His arms strain under the animal's weight. The boy stands slowly and takes the big cat to the old man. The man takes the cat and lies it aside the other sleeping creatures before the fire. 

The man motions to the boy to sit beside him. Takes a deep breath. Closes his eyes and places his hands over his face. Brushes his hands back over his gray hair. Exhales slowly. Then he looks at the boy, staring into his eyes. 

"Magic" the man whispers "is life." 

"There is magic within everything you see. Everything you touch, you feel. Magic is in everything you eat and magic in the flesh and blood of your body. Magic lies strongest in a man's heart and in his mind, boy. My great, great grandfather told me of this many seasons ago. I came to truly understand it only after many years gone by. Magic is a matter of a man's faith, his understanding. His actions are possessed of their own magic. His love and his passion are all his own magic. The magic a man can use and develop can be in anything he does. Man's existence with everything and everyone around him is wrapped in his own personal magic. But beware boy, there is dark magic in this world. Indeed. "

The boy listened raptly. His eyes followed the old man's mouth as he spoke. 

"Our coven has been a family for seventeen hundred years Joel. In that time we have been blessed and equally cursed with great magic. At times black magic has found its way into our coven. Each time it has laid waste to our people and sometimes even our very homes. Yet still we have stood together. Recovered and rebuilt our family ties. We are a family, with the frailties and weaknesses of the mind and flesh of every family. Through these times, we learn to forgive. There is however one unforgivable offense in the coven Ware young Joel."

"Black magic." The boy says flatly. He looks expectantly at the old man. 

"And why black magic boy?"

"Because if magic is life, black magic takes away life." The boy speaks in a hushed tone. 

"The trade you made today was paid for in magic Joel. The peddler was in great need. A human need. The magic I passed onto him was made from and for man. I shed no blood, I stole no food, I broke no vessel of keep nor passed without permission onto any man's lair. I took the blessings I have and I used my own magic to give them to him. Our magic, boy, is simply our good deeds and our good will. By our free will we take what nature has made abundant and learned to tool it. When your mother takes water from a stump and makes a tea with it to make bruises go away, she is exercising her own magic. She takes her belief, a part of herself and her heart and makes something greater than any one thing by itself. We are all separate elements of this nature we live in. When we bring those together to the benefit of good will and benevolence, we are creating magic young Joel. We help to protect, improve and create life. When a man slaughters a sheep and feeds his family, there is no magic in the act of the kill. The magic is the man's will to feed his family. His ability to withstand the unpleasantness. To kill a sheep and feed a family is not magic young Joel, our magic nor black. Given the opportunity, there are many animals of this world who would kill a human for food. This is what makes us so common with everything around us. Never, ever make the mistake of assuming you are any greater than anything about you boy. We are all part of the same everything."

The boy is captured by the old man speaking. His eyes seem to drink in all the light in the dim chamber. 

"The peddler needed magic? Was he ill?" The boy asked.

"No. The peddler's wife has been an unhappy woman for some time now young Joel..." the old man whispered and grinned. 

The boy giggled, blushed deeply. It's so rare to see the boy act his age, the old man thought. The moment passed and he began again. 

The old man sighs. Long and shallow. 

"Black magic has always been the bane of man, whether they practice magic or not. Killing a sheep for food is not magic. Killing with magic is black magic. Our coven has banned black magic from the earliest days when we first banded together for protection. The outer coven practices black magic Joel. Their heathen coven uses black magic like a sword or a club. That is why we keep the great distance between us. They have used black magic to their benefit for many centuries. The magic they use has blinded them. They cannot see that it has not furthered them any in all these years."

"Do they move like us father Maegnus?"

"Yes, boy. They too, are plagued by the witch burnings and the dark hate. The flatlanders make no attempt to understand our use of nature. Our use of science boy."

The old man pauses, catches his breath. He is deathly tired.

"The outer coven is made up of the last surviving members of the family Cree. Their first villages and townships are far, far older than our earliest. Through their history black magic slowly crept in like a patient snake. In their early times they had the same morals as us. Time and weakness has corrupted that. Not two seasons ago their township was discovered in the elm forest by the flatlanders. Most were killed. The rest were injured and fleeing. As a result the few who regathered in the outer forest have committed the darkest act of black magic."

"They killed someone with magic?"

"No boy." The old man stared into his peering eyes. "They created life using black magic. Dark life."

The words hung in the still air of the chamber. The boy felt keenly uneasy. Even under the safe watch of the old man. 

"They took nature's own life and killed it, changed it in death and brought it back as something entirely different. They killed with magic to create a guardian, an assassin. The remaining elder warlocks created a hungry wild eyed ranting beast only to be controlled by them. A night crawling killing monster that they would use to hunt the nights and kill every flatlander it found. The beast was insanely hungry and mad, it was hellishly painfully mad. They created a being born of hurt and hate and thirsty for flatlander blood. Their creature took to the night with a scream and a leap and disappeared. Days later tales begin to surface of flatlander men being skinned by some hell spawned beast, right before their families, then the children and women being mauled and eaten alive. Neither the young sons nor daughters were spared. The flatlanders soon realized the nature of the killer on their hands. They attempted to enter the outer woods to kill the elder warlocks. Little did they know that they were walking right into the demon's web. Seventy flatlander men charged into the forest of the outer woods last summer. None returned. Soon afterward the remaining flatlanders retreated to the western plains. Their witch burnings and hate died with the last of them. Tales say that the last of them died traveling a dark foot trail on a ragged half dead horse. The demon hunted down every last one and killed them."

The boy's eyes were slowly growing wide. He was visibly engulfed in the old man's whispered words.

"Did the demon go away?" He asked. 

"No young Joel. That is the true nature of black magic. Nature is never forgiving of it. Weeks after the last of the flatlanders had been killed, farmers in the eastern groves begin to fall prey to the beast. Innocents. Men of the earth, this same earth we are a part of. The creature killed the family of a cobbler. The he killed the smithy from Roe and his wife and two daughters. The creature was born to kill. He was created of a magic that defied nature, now he has turned rogue beyond his purpose and lives only to kill. The beast is alive with black magic. The coven Cree has since fled. The elder warlocks all ate of wolf bane and died, hoping it would release the few innocent young remaining from the creature's wrath. Sadly enough it did not work. The beast was said to be hunting them all the way from the eastern grove as they fled west."

"But west is here father Maegnus.." 

"Yes it is dear boy. And that is why we are here." the old man says with a defeated sigh.

"Three days ago the courier who brings us bronze was killed by the Fallen Tree River. You remember him Joel. He was a peaceful man. An understanding and temperate man. He had no enemies to speak of. The way he died was most gruesome. His wounds were not made by anything I have yet seen. The courier was bringing a message as well as his bronze. The village of Willow has lost seventeen young girls since the creature killed the last of the flatlanders. The last fleeing flatlanders sent word of the creature eating young girls then killing the boys and leaving them to rot. The creature has a taste for the blood of girl children. Joel the creature is making his way here. And in this family we have only one girl child."

"Rosebud." The boy said breathlessly. The word seemed to hang in the air like windblown leaf slowly falling to earth.

"Do the others in the family know this father?"

"No. As it is now it would only cause them to flee. Make them easy prey for the beast. For the moment our safety is in numbers. What little safety that is."

A silver tear glides down the old man's face. Teardrops catch in the firelight. The boy suddenly feels fearful for the old man.

"Elise is dead. I am too old and barren to bare any more children. You are the only remaining male of the coven Ware who can carry the family name Joel." The old man cried between his hands. 

"But father Maegnus my father was Jon, Jon the drunkard. Jon carpenter from Roe." The boy spoke aloud. Confused, tears welling in his eyes. "You know that."

"Young Joel when your mother came to us she was ill with fever. I cured her fever, we made a home for her. She was carrying you then Joel. Your father was long dead. Joel you are Joel Carpenter but I love you and I am passing the family mantle onto you when the time comes. You were born Joel carpenter but you will tend this family as Joel Maegnus Ware. My magic saved you, and your magic will give this coven salvation. That's the perfect truth about magic Joel. When your mother stumbled onto us carrying your life within her she gave us all magic. Only the eldest warlock can pass the family mantle on to another warlock. Joel by your mother's magic you are my son. When I am gone I trust you to keep and protect my Rosebud. She is the only surviving blood relative of the family Ware now that Elise has died."

The boy was crying. The old man wrapped him in his arms. They wept together, openly. The man grabbed the boys shoulders and shook him. Their eyes met. 

"Joel you know I am sick. I have the blackness in my breath. I cannot protect Rosebud much longer. Especially now with this bastard creation of black magic on the prowl. If she dies I fear our special magic will never be regained. Joel tonight I have to sacrifice myself. Tonight you are the secret elder warlock of our coven. Tomorrow you will wake up the leader and the father. Your magic is so bright and so powerful I can see it in your skin, in your eyes."

"Why father? Are you going to hunt the beast? It will eat you! " The boy cried. " Why can't you scare it away? Cast a spell to ward it off. Make it blind to us?"

"Young Joel the creature is not of our magic, it will only allow the beast to find us much the quicker."

"But why do you have to let the demon KILL you?" The boy cried

"Joel...... I am not going to the creature. Nor am I going to let the creature eat me. Joel I have very little breath left within me. What I have to do tonight may very well kill me. My heart is heavy thinking of it Joel. Once I have completed my task I doubt my heart will be able to withstand the pain of shaming the coven. This family is all the joy I have ever known Joel. All the pride I have ever had. All that I love."

"What do you mean father?"

"Joel tonight I am going to destroy the demon." The old man hid his face in his hands, whispered quietly between his fingers. "by creating my own."

"Father?" The boy said

"Yes boy. Black magic." 

"But father..." 

"Joel you are far stronger than you believe. If I do not find you in the morning it means I am gone. If I find you we will keep this night's events secret and we will wait and see. If tonight's magic works you will take the coven into the deepest part of the evergreen woods and the coven will start anew from there. I cannot remain with the coven after tonight. That is the sacrifice. It is one that you will be proud if you are ever forced to make young Joel."

"But who will teach me the magic father?" The boy asked.

"Joel your magic is already learned. You only have to exercise it boy. Tonight as you traveled through the forest your magic kept the beast at bay. Your magic is your heart Joel Carpenter. Your magic is that you bring love to this family. Your magic is not jaded to the world. Your magic is pure boy. Joel you will grow a hundredfold when you realize that the strongest magic is love and good will toward man and nature. You will lead the coven and you will succeed." 

The boy stared at him. Speechless. 

"Now leave." The old man spoke in a firm voice. "I must start now. I ask of you, please sleep outside Rosebud's chamber tonight. Go."

The boy stood up. He hugged the old man fiercely. He looked the old man in his silvery gray eyes.

"Magic is life father Maegnus."

Then the boy opened the chamber door and walked into the pitch black night. 

Fade To Black

Copyright 2002 Lee Evans 

Me, if it were me…… alone on that dark empty forest road late at night. Smelling strongly of blood. I would have to think about it. Not why am I afraid to be some terrible thing’s prey. Instead just imagine the delicious poor misgiven creature I can attract and lure closer to me this way. I am hurt, indeed I am. But in my pain I am naturally given with a vitality all animals are in times of survival. Times of do or die. And we are after all animals at heart. Despite our intellect we often wear like a crown or use as a shield. Under the skin we all have the beating heart of an animal. I think with that I can summon just enough energy to sink my teeth though skin and bone and eat some poor, pitiful unsuspecting thing. Is my glass half full? Is it half empty? Fuck no, this glass has got nitro glycerin in it baby. Shake it up all you want. 

Thanks to all my readers. You mean the world to me. 

More to come. 

LE