Written Fireside: A Witch By Chance

...a Halloween Round Robin Story

This month I'm lucky enough to be invited to participate in a Written Fireside story with Lori Connelly and seven other writers. Our story, A Witch By Chance, was started on the 1st by Lori. Now it's my turn to pick up the threads and weave them together.

If you haven't already read Part I, you'll find it here. And now...

A Witch By Chance

Part II by Aileen Harkwood

Surprised, Ivy jumped, losing her grip on the window frame. Her toes slid out from under her. Flailing wildly, she started to fall. With a sharp jerk on the fabric and an ugly tearing sound, her skirt ripped and kept on ripping, while she frantically reached for any handhold available.

Her fingers connected with the leather bound book she'd used to prop open the window and she latched onto it as a lifeline. Instead of staying wedged under the heavy window sash, however, the book gave way, sending her flying backward, where she landed on her butt with a gloppy splash in a puddle so soupy with muck it was sure to call to any pig within a five mile radius. Following her to the ground, the heavy old tome nailed her in the ribs with one of its sharp corners, bounced up, thwacked her in the nose and finally came to rest, balanced precariously on her forehead.

“Oww,” Ivy said. “Oww, dammit.”

Everything hurt, not the least of which was her dignity.

“Good to see you could manage on your own,” that delicious voice spoke again.

Ivy reached for the book and lifted it off her face to find the stranger leaning over her, hands in pockets, regarding her with a bemused smile.

His hair was the color of his voice, a dark, deliciously thick chocolate brown, his eyes a golden hazel with a touch of indolence. He squatted down next to her as she sat up, the book now in her lap and thankfully covering her–
   
“Oh, God.” Her skirt was torn all the way up, from hem to waist, exposing a the thong no one in town would ever dream she wore.
   

Gallantly, the stranger pretended not to notice and extended a hand. His forearm was bare, the sleeve of his black sweater pushed back to the elbow. She noted taut, spare, though powerful muscle, and a small, crescent shaped scar on the inside of his wrist. Who was he? How had she never met or even noticed him here in Ashton Harbor? Strangely, of everything about him, it was the scar that seemed familiar. Where had she seen that mark before?
   
“Uh, okay,” Ivy said.
   
She started to take the offered hand when she remembered the book that had miraculously mud-free thus far. She scooped it up, holding it tightly to her chest, when a shiny object on a long ribbon began to slide from between the pages. Though both her hands were slimy with mud, instinct won out and she scrambled to catch it before it could fall.
   
But the object on the ribbon wouldn’t be caught. It slipped through fingers, snaked over the tops of her hands as if alive, and coiled around her left wrist, where the ends caught themselves and joined.
   
“What the–”

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Ready to go on to Part III? I'm afraid you'll need to wait until the 8th, when erotic romance writer Zara Stoneley continues the story on her blog. Don't miss it. I know I won't. I can hardly wait to find out what happens to Ivy next!