THE WITCH AND THE DEMONGenre:
Young Adult High Fantasy (ownvoices)Word Count:
My MC and MA (main antagonist) are dressed as:
Ebba came dressed as a demonic goddess, to thumb her nose at the villagers who falsely accused her consorting with the forces of Hell. Kryptos, the Demonic God of Cowardice, came as himself, because he has an ego the size of a small planet. For their blasphemy in the eyes of the gods of light, they were thrown out of the party together.
THE WITCH AND THE DEMON is an 80,000 word young adult high fantasy novel. This is an #ownvoices story—both the heroine and I have Asperger syndrome, which leads to the heroine being condemned as a witch by her village and impacts how she approaches romantic relationships.
Eighteen-year-old Ebba isn’t a witch, but she’s always been considered funny in the head, so it’s no surprise when the witch hunters come for her. Fatally injured, she flees into a magic-blighted forest and stumbles upon Kryptos, a demon whose heart has been ripped out. He promises to save her. In exchange, she must lend him her heart to replace his.
Only after striking this devil’s bargain does she learn he’s one of twelve dark gods planning to invade her world. She’s become his champion in the death match to determine which deity will lead the conquest. Bound by their contract to fight or die, Ebba plots to sabotage Kryptos, only to accidentally initiate a courtship. How was she supposed to know throwing a severed head at him would be taken as a proposal of marriage? As she gets to know him better, Kryptos turns out to be charming, handsome, a bit awkward—and utterly dedicated to world domination.
As Ebba’s heartless condition erodes her conscience, her resolve wavers. To save her world, she must betray the demon who possesses her heart in more ways than one.
First 250 words:
Ebba’s soaked dress clung to her skin as she ran through the moonless night. The lake water left from her near-drowning had crystalized into icicles. If she fell, she might not get up again. Keep moving. Get far away from the witchfinder, may he be reincarnated as a drunkard’s chamber pot.
Heedless of direction, she climbed up the mountain, away from her village. A wolf’s cry pierced the air. Ebba froze.
The forest was dead silent again, eerily devoid of owls or bats. An ancient demonic invasion had left this place magic-cursed. Ebba shivered. Most wolves avoid humans. Except for the red-eyed ones living deeper in the forest. Anabiel help me.
She refused to be devoured like her mother. Perhaps she could sneak back to steal a knife and some food. She’d been too panicked in her flight, afraid the witchfinder might wake up…
First, he’d poked pins into the mottled red birthmark covering her left cheek. He’d held her down with giant hands, his nails filthy and his liver spots as big as spiders. His too-close breath had reeked of onions.
“Confess,” the witchfinder had ordered after every pin. Each time, she’d refused. They’d kill her once she confessed.
The second day had been the hot iron. This morning, the dunking. Through a blur of watery suffocation, her most distinct memory was, peculiarly, the smell of the sausages. Mad Gill had sold them to bystanders. Her pleas with her neighbors had been met with disdain or wide-eyed fascination.
No, she wasn’t going back.