Her mother had discovered them, black panties down in Samantha’s bedroom.

“You wicked, wicked girls! No! You mustn’t do such naughty things!”

They each squealed adorably.

“Pull your panties up!”

Situated she stepped between the kneeling girls.

“This will hurt me more than it will hurt you. You may hold hands.”

A firm spanking was applied.

“Never again, Samantha!”

“Yes, ma-ma. Witches honor.”

“Never again, Serena!”

“Yes, Aunt Endora. Witches honor.”

They’d each peeked when Louise Tate used the Steven’s bathroom. Both were there when Louise unzipped her skirt, dropped it, lowered her girdle, careful not to put runs in her stockings, then changed her sanitary napkin. Perched above the woman the two starred at the sight of mortal blood, the stain bright, the maw hirsute. The smell sharp, causing their eyes to water, their tongues to trace their lips.

“She’s mine, Serena. Leave this house!”

“Sammy! We can share, we always have.”

“Not this time, cousin. I need her.”

“For what, cousin?”

“Darrin. I can’t have Larry rip him to pieces for the next eight seasons. And I’ve promised him I will not do it thru witchcraft. It must be mortal-thru the flesh. It’s all that mortals know and believe in. I’ve seen what you have not when you were with ma-ma in Salem for the dedication to our lost sisters.”

“What, Sammy, what did you see? Louise?”

“Yes.”

“With whom?”

“No more! I once made a pillar of salt of that man who lived next door to you, did I not, cousin?”

“Yes, Sammy. He was a sick mortal.”

“I could make the same pillar of you, Serena.”

“She is yours.”

The next afternoon.

“Come in, Louise.”