NoNoWriMo Upon This Rock (Urban Witch)

My wooden hair clip is the first victim of the explosion, the thing being literally ripped from my hair by the shockwave that throws me back. At least the charms hold long enough to spare me a broken neck and the certain death that comes with it. Next to go is my leather wristband. It burns through way faster than I’m comfortable with, a signed smell and the sudden hot burn against my skin telling me exactly when it has lost its power. The bracelet beside it barely holds three seconds longer, the leather band snapping apart violently and sending trinkets flying everywhere – good luck to me trying to find purified, century old elder wood again, not to mention the ball of perfectly marbled granite, from a glacial river no less, that just flew past me and that will blend in perfectly with the rubble from the explosion.

It is the small, braided band around my wrist alone that withstands the forces trying to rip my body to shreds. Three interwoven strings, so thin I could rip them apart with my own hands, but connected with love – and that is what matters in the end, what makes their magic so much greater than the other charms. It's what saves my life.

Funny business that is, being a witch. I can harness the power of the earth itself, however small my mastery over that power may be, but still my abilities alone always pale compared to anything made for one human by the hands of another, the threads so much more powerful because they were touched by the heart of a person.

None of that softens the blow when I hit the asphalt of the street, however. The jeans save my legs from the worst of the bloody scrapes, the thick hoodie the rest of me, but my hands still tear open as I try to break my fall, and my ears ring when my cheek hits the ground hard. Fuck, this shit hurts. It hurts a mother fucking lot, actually.

Supernatural powers? Check. Superhuman powers? Nope… and the cuts on my fingers from three weeks ago had just finished healing. I swear if I'd scar as easily as most people I'd be a twenty-four year old map of Hong Kong by now.

Blinking to get my eyes to work properly again I pick myself up slowly, which means I almost fall on my ass twice because my head is swimming. The only thing keeping me standing is adrenaline, but that will only last so long.

The dust cloud from the explosion still hangs in the air, giving me a little bit of added cover for now. A normal person might have taken this for a gas explosion – heck, I'd bet money that they will explain this as a gas explosion, I've been in this situation often enough to know my shit – but gas has nothing to do with this.

Witch hunters. Oh the joy.

Seriously, I should have never set foot into any part of the Americas. This is just ridiculous. Everybody and their mother and their grandpa and their dog has a gun hidden somewhere. I’m not made for this shit, there should have been a damn witch survival training for the Western Hemisphere. “How to survive a gunfight” would’ve come in handy so much in Brazil.

In Europe they at least try to kill you where there won't be a dozen onlookers that get caught in the crossfire or run and get the police. It’s so much easier if you don’t have to look out for collateral damage left and right.

Africa. Gotta love Africa. Civil war in half the places, drug lords everywhere, but nobody shoots at a damn witch because they have a healthy dose of respect for the ground crew working their asses of to save the planet in general and humanity in particular. Also less skyscrapers. Less skyscrapers is always good.

Those Americans however… no, just no. I though Brazil was bad, but a witch hunter in the middle of the street in broad daylight in New York City beats even Rio.

Had this been my place I’d have dumped the bastard into a river for trying to pull that stunt, or at least left him bound to a tree, but yeah, right, I had to go and leave my tiny, cozy mountain village – where all my magic is anchored – and travel all over the world. Because why have peace when you can have a mission?

This is exactly why a clever witch never leaves her comfort zone. Inside of it you need a small army to get rid of us, outside of it we’re just freiwild.

Stumbling through the dust I try to orient myself towards the low thrum of power beating against my skin. The presence of the sacred place is faint, still too far away for me to pinpoint its origin. It's trace is vague, a once well-frequented site overwritten by hundreds of years of mindless people trampling the place, but from this far out it’s hard to tell-

A bullet hisses past my head. Shit.

It wasn't close enough to be a hit yet, but my tiny wristband can only avert so much before it will tear apart as well and leave me completely defenseless.

I scramble towards the closest alley I can see through the cloud and debris. Maybe I can lose the hunter in traffic. There's enough people around the city to confuse whatever they are using to track me with, but then again them having found me in the first place means that it's no cheap shit. This is either the inquisition, a very well-supplied fanatic or a mercenary who knows their shit.

Another bullet whizzes my ear, but this one’s a natural miss thankfully. Merc then, professionally trained and completely uncaring for any poor souls who have the misfortune of getting between them and their target. Like this day couldn’t get any shittier.

A mercenary with equipment to blow up half a fucking house can chase me for days, even in a city as big as New York. I just lost three of four of my protection charms in one blast. This one wants me dead.

I sprint towards the end of the alley as fast as I can – at least the job keeps you in shape.



Three and a half hours and a good dozen subway trips later I have managed to clean my hands somewhat to get people to stop staring at me like I’m a serial killer, my knees hurt, my head hurts and the adrenaline is almost gone. What isn’t gone is guy trying to blow me to pieces.

Brown hair, medium height, black jacket, perfectly nondescript. That's all I could see of him while maintaining enough distance between us to not give him the opportunity of a point blank shot or the chance to stab a knife into any of my vital organs. So far so good, but I’m not athletic enough to do this cat and mouse game for much longer.

If he'd been familiar with the city's layout and the tube lines he could have cut me off a few times by now, but at least this once luck is on my side today – it's the only reason I'm still walking. I never trained for having to outrun trained assassins in a long-distance chance. I never thought there’d come a day where I’d have to outrun a guy trying to put a bullet between my eyes in the first place.

We’re close to the place that’s calling to me now. It seems to be about as old as I thought it would be, but considerably more powerful up close. After almost four years I still suck at making a decent guess about how much energy a site actually holds. If this turns out to be minor place where some locals placed flowers two and something centuries ago I’m fucked.

The sun has started to set, I notice as I take another corner and- oh. Central Park. Duh. I should have thought of that, really. Like where else in the middle of such a large city could you keep an old place alive?

There’s a forest not that far ahead and thankfully a whole lot of tourists taking pictures right at the border of the park. Praying that the witch hunter isn’t into casual mass murder I dive into the crowd, trying my best to blend in with my ragged jeans and dirty sweater.

She’s close by, I can feel it. Most witches frequent the well of their power, the place that forms the connection. I remember the feeling, the ease of sitting beneath the wooden cross beside the river and letting myself be pulled along – it’s never like this to use another’s power, to be a tenant instead of the medium. There’s no anchor to keep you grounded, only the connection.

The streetlights are on already and there’s enough light from the sun left that there are people walking around further inside the park. I don’t dare use them for cover directly, but once I’m past the tourists I zigzag across the path towards what looks like a big clearing.

Once I leave the tree line power washes over me like it’s a physical thing. This place is fucking potent, it’s like being dumped in a pool of ice cold water. My skin tingles and for a second I'm disoriented, not sure where to look first, and it’s in that moment when another bullet whizzes past my ear. There’s no sound otherwise, just leaves rustling in the wind, the far away mumble of voices and water flowing into the nearby lake.

My wrist burns, the bracelet chafing against my skin painfully. One or two more close calls and it will be done for, leaving me naked.

Where is she? I run my eyes over the scenery, taking note of the people who aren’t passersby, the ones sitting around on benches or blankets, most clustered around the park in small groups. My eyes linger on the ones who are by themselves, trying to recognize the witch among them.

The footsteps behind me are heavy now, closer, and I’ll be out of time soon. Like in minutes. Breathing hurts, my lungs are reaching their limit, my legs are trembling too.

This is do or die. Fucking great.

I stumble over a hill and into a small valley beside the lake. Guess I’ll have to make a mad dive for the water in hopes that, well, my assassin will be a non-swimmer. I’m too out of breath and adrenaline to continue this cat and mouse game for much longer.

“Fuck,” I wheeze, sliding down the hill. Behind me I hear clicking as Mr. Witch Hunter reloads his weapon.

A sound from the lakeside makes me look up. I don’t even know what it is, a rustle or shuffling maybe, could be a bird too, or some other small animal.

She’s wearing sneakers, loose-fitting clothes and has her hair up in a bun. Her eyes are brown and deep and her skin has a wonderful bronze color that reminds me of- Of course. She isn’t any witch, but bound to this soil, not by choice but by blood, a line that’s as old as the sacred place itself. This is her land, much more than it is anyone else’s.

Her spirit is warm when it touches mine, light and fond and incredibly vast. We stare into each other’s eyes, one soul into another, and I can feel her smile even when I can’t see it.

“Ambassador.”

WC: 1946