“When shall we three meet again, in thunder, lightning, or in rain?”
Modern witches with the dirt from the graves they have dug under their nails and with something of ichor in their veins, for how else is their to explain the way her eyes burn, and once you grow close to them, it can no longer be told if their light is of the stars or a pyre. One taste of their poison and you’ll feel that it belongs no where else but your veins. They don shadows as comfortably as their own skin and greet the darkness with a kiss, but it is the darkness that presses prayers on their lips. The blood that stains the lines of their palms can give life or death, collapse all you have known with the turn of their lips, monsters have awoken at their feet and others found their graves. They can make each touch create a scar, for all that matters are the women beside them, who can understand the ashes in the others bones and the quiet wildfires under their skin. There is only decay and beating hearts and flames.