I hate those people. Those people who act all innocent and confused, when actually they know exactly what is going on and why you are mad at them. Of course I wasn’t quite mad yet. You would know if I was mad. I wouldn’t be talking civilly to her, I would be trying to bash her head in with the chair I was tied to. But she was pushing it.

            “Darling, it’s ok to be scared.” She lightly scratched along my face with her long, red, fake, nails. She was the clichéd villain.

            Not that I minded. Clichéd villains are much easier to kill then original ones. With the cliché, you just follow the routine. With the original ones, you have to make up a routine. It was more work, and what can I say, I’m lazy.

            “I’m not scared,” she really wanted to have her head bashed in, “just rather confused, and really pissed.”

            “If you’d tell me what I want to know you could go free sweetie.”

            “You’d just… well, I guess death is freedom.”

            “What makes you think that I would kill my own daughter?”

            “You aren’t my mother!” I was mad now, really mad, “My mother is dead! I don’t have a mother!”

            She slapped me, hard. My head spun for a moment the room blurring. I’m not one to faint, but I’d been through a lot that day, I was tired, hungry and dehydrated. You can’t blame me for almost passing out.

            “Akiva!” the name echoed around the room. My name. But she didn’t use my full name which is a good sign. Especially since she’s not my mother.

            “Shut the fuck up!” Ok, I started to cry. I was being irrational and screaming. That little bit of composure I’d had was gone.

            “Akiva.” Softer this time, soothing, she was using the tone she had used when I was little, when she would rock me to sleep. Of course, she’s not my mother, so none of that matters. “Aki, Akiva Claire, honey, shhh it’s OK.”

            “No it’s not.” I was whispering. I don’t know why, but for some reason I was whispering.

            “Aki, it’s ok, mommy’s here, mommy’s here.”

            Her voice was so soft and soothing. I wanted to hug her. It’s really hard to hug someone when you’re tied to a chair. But I wasn’t thinking rationally, this woman had me convinced she was my mother.

Of course, you probably want to know how I ended up where I did, and why I was there in the first place don’t you…

            There were six regulars and two partial (I guess that makes a total of eight) members of our Coven House. We aren’t really a coven, but it sounds cool and keeps outsiders away. What makes our Coven House different from the other fifty eight coven houses scattered across North and South America is that ours is the only (well, only if you don’t count the one in Brazil) ours is the only coven house who’s members have a personal grunge against the creatures we hunt. Tara’s family was killed by werewolves, Jared’s sister joined a clan of dark arts practitioners, Alana lost have her arm dealing with shapeshifter (yes shapeshifters and werewolves are different), Clarimonde is a German import. No one knows what happened to her.  Ezra lost his wife and son to a clan of vampires. Kristina and Manuel the irregulars (or partial members, call them what you want) they were the covens only legitimate husband and wife, most coven members wouldn’t have the time for a traditional wedding if they wanted one. Of course they were married before they had something to avenge. They lived a happy normal life with three children and cat. One night while they were out, a triad consisting of a vampire, which and shifter (even though that’s what all triads have) choose there house to do the ritual human sacrifice for some crazy pagan ritual. I hope you can figure out where I’m going with this. Yes, they even sacrificed the babysitter and cat. You’re wondering how I fit into this aren’t you?

            I lived a happy life with my single mother, Ataret, until I was about nine. Then my mother became a vampire. Did I mention she abandoned me? Being that my mother vanished and no one knew (or knows) who my father is/was, I went into foster care. Now, I’m not going to tell you horror stories, because I don’t have any, but having you’re mother leave you with no one when you’re old enough to actually know her is rough on anybody, so upon running away when I was fifteen I met up with Kristin and Manuel, who brought me to their Coven. My home.