The Witching Hour: 11 Enchanting Novels Featuring Witches, Wizards, Vampires, Shifters, Ghosts, Fae, and More!, page 178
“911 emergency,” a nasal voice responded.
While Josh gave the address and tried to explain the situation, I sank onto the wooden steps. Glancing up, I noticed the basement door that had looked like it was engulfed in flames was merely a trick of stage lighting. I wondered how Andrew had slammed the door until I noticed a wire dangling from the knob and swinging in the air.
Josh put his phone in his pocket and came to sit beside me. Draping an arm around my shoulder, he pulled me close.
“I’m not a witch,” I told him.
“What?” He looked as if I’d slapped him.
“I’m not a witch,” I repeated. “I can’t throw fire, or make things burn.”
Josh chuckled and held me tighter. He moved his mouth against my hair, and I wondered if he kissed me—making all thoughts of witchcraft disappear.
I held very still, waiting for Josh to kiss more than my hair.
Instead, he pulled slightly away. “Why would you say that? Do you think you’re in shock?”
“Maybe. Probably.” Did I really want Josh to kiss me? Yes. Not here, not now, and not with Hugh Thornhill and Andrew lying in the pit only a few feet away.
“How did you know?” I asked, my voice still warbly.
Josh shook his head. “I don’t know what made me come back . . . I guess I wanted to drive you home. Then I heard you scream.”
“But why come through the window?”
Josh smiled. “It seemed like the fastest way to get to you.”
The Mysterious Murders of the Thornhill Theater
By Evelynn Marston
In the spring of 1982, Hugh Thornhill, the last surviving member of the Thornhill family and founding father of the Thornhill Thespians, pledged his undying love for Miss Lauren Silvers before a crowd gathered for the inaugural show of the Thornhill Theater.
The theater’s very first production, Love’s Labor Lost, starred Miss Silvers and Hugh Thornhill. As Shakespeare himself wrote, “Love is familiar. Love is a devil. There is no evil angel but Love.” And so, it proved true for Andrew and Hugh—because things went terribly awry.
Andrew Aston also played a leading role in that Shakespearean production, and ultimately, he would play a villainous role in the deaths of both Miss Lauren Silvers and Mr. Hugh Thornhill.
For Andrew loved Lauren, and his bitter jealousy led to an argument that left Hugh Thornhill dead. Andrew buried Hugh beneath the Thornhill mansion and disappeared.
One would think this is where the story ended, but more than thirty years later as the renovations to the theater began, Andrew knew the secret he had so long ago buried was in danger of resurrecting. He had hoped to return to the Thornhill Theater undetected, but as fate would have it, his plan was foiled by his first love, Miss Lauren Silvers.
Although the years had greatly altered Miss Silvers, her vision and memories remained unchanged, and she recognized Andrew immediately. She knew of his deadly deeds, and she also knew why he had returned. She paid for this knowledge with her life.
And now all who have read this article share her knowledge. Although Andrew Aston is currently awaiting trial in the Fairfield County jail for the murders of Miss Lauren Silvers and Mr. Hugh Thornhill, his incarceration is not guaranteed, despite the mountain of evidence against him.
Reader, beware, knowledge, as well as love, can be deadly.
After English class, Mrs. Price requested I stay.
My stomach flipped, and not because it knew lunch was going to have to wait.
“Excellent article, Evelynn.” Mrs. Price motioned for me to take a seat.
I pulled up a chair and saw my paper on her desk. I was surprised that there wasn’t one red mark on it. In fact, it looked exactly as it had when I’d first turned it in, which was surprising. Mrs. Price usually returned everyone’s papers covered with painful scratches of red ink. Had I finally written a perfect paper? And if so, why wasn’t there the familiar WELL DONE! scrawled across the top?
My stomach flipped again.
Mrs. Price slid her thick glasses up her nose. “You’ve demonstrated not only strong writing skills, but also a true nose for news and the passion that all great journalists need to ferret out a story and pursue it.”
I flushed beneath her praise. “Thank you. So, I’m on the paper?”
Mrs. Price held up her finger. “I’m afraid not.”
“But you said I needed a great article . . . and you just called my article excellent!”
Mrs. Price fished something from her drawer, stood, and carried my article to the waste bin. Seconds later, she flicked the small cylinder in her hand and my article caught fire. The acrid smell of smoke filled the air, as flames licked away at my paper, making me feel sick.
Memories of the last time I was in a school on fire flooded me while smoke and ash lifted in the air, mingling with the smell of the dry-erase board and dusty books.
“That’s why what I’m about to say may surprise you.” She dropped the flaming article into the empty trash bin. “You’ll have to write another piece.” She tossed the cigarette lighter back into her top drawer.
“But why?” I fought tears and disappointment, knowing I’d never find another story as compelling as Andrew and Lauren’s.
“I’m sure you’ll stumble across another story, perhaps one less, shall we say, revealing?” She raised an eyebrow at me, as if to ask if I understood what she was trying to say.
I absolutely did not understand what she meant.
Leaning forward, she braced her elbows on her desk. “As you are fully aware, this school—this community—harbors a unique and talented collection of women. The safety of this community is dependent on discretion and trust. I’m afraid that publishing your article may raise unnecessary questions.”
I sat back in my chair. “Because Lauren thought she was a witch?”
Mrs. Price pinched her lips together, but didn’t say a word.
“But she’s dead! Nothing I can say can hurt her!”
“We have said too much already.” Mrs. Price pushed to her feet. “If you wish a place on the paper, you must find and write another article, a safer article. I hope, and trust, that in time you’ll understand. And learn to be more judicious.”
I stood slowly, my thoughts reeling.
“I know this must seem harsh, but I can’t guarantee you a place on the paper without a publishable article, and I will not publish an article that might garner suspicions and unnecessary questions.”
“But I don’t even mention witchcraft, or anything . . .”
She lowered her eyebrows, and pointed to the door. “You have until the semester break. I wish you well. You’ll make an excellent addition to our newspaper.”
“Thank you?” I mumbled, feeling dismissed and confused. After gathering up my book bag and glancing at the smoldering ashes in the trash bin, I headed for the door.
“Oh, and Evelynn,” Mrs. Price began.
I turned around.
“It’s not necessary to be a witch to be successful at this school, and in life, but it certainly helps.”
Outside the door, I leaned against the wall, clutching my book bag to my chest. Down the hall and through the open cafeteria doors came the sound of laughter, clinking silverware, and talking—hundreds of students, each trying to be successful academically, musically, athletically, by studying, practicing, and sweating.
She’s wrong, I decided. Every day I make the choice of whether or not to be a witch over and over again. Magic and witchyness don’t have to be the key ingredients. I can be my very best self on my own.
December
“There is no place like home.” Bree, with her hair tied in braids, and a stuffed toy dog in the basket over her arm, took center stage and received a standing ovation. The old theater reverberated with thundering applause, and I imagined the house was pleased with the Thornhill Thespians, and that if Hugh and Lauren were watching, they’d be happy, too—almost as happy as me.
From my place in the chorus of the Munchkins, I could see the first few rows of the auditorium. Uncle Mitch, my dad and Maria, Marcus and Bianca, all sat beside the long string of Hendersons. Josh caught my eye. He held a bouquet of daisies, my favorite flower. I hoped they were for me, but I thought they might be for Bree.
Dylan, lounging against the side-wall, ankles crossed, held a bouquet of red roses. Those, I knew, were for me. The spell on the scones had not worked, and nothing I said or did discouraged Dylan. He still insisted that we belonged together, although he no longer tried to kiss me, especially if Josh was anywhere nearby.
Birdie was seated in the aisle behind Dylan. I felt her dark eyes watching me, waiting for something that would never happen. A fellow Munchkin grabbed my hand and tugged, reminding me it was our turn to take center stage.
Like all the female Munchkins had been taught to do, I dropped into a deep curtsey and as I did, two ethereal figures caught my eye. Hugh and Lauren watched from the wings. Together at last, holding hands, they bowed low, and I knew they were there just for me.
A wind stirred through Evie’s room, searching. It ruffled the pages of open books, rifled through the papers on her desk, and shifted the clothes hanging in her closet. It skirted beneath the bed and twisted over the furniture, knocking over framed photographs and scattering pens and pencils. Finally, it found the book of spells on the floor beside the sleeping Amber.
The pages, mostly blank, fluttered, but then fell still as the wind hushed. The book remained open to the third page where the last spell was cast and recorded. Finally, the ink dried and the words appeared:
Rainbows, wildflowers, silent stars and musical winds
Let peace settle your soul for the magic begins.
The series continues with Witch Winter.
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Chaos Conspiracy
Sacrificial Magic, Book One
Holly Evans
1
The sun cut through the thick grey clouds, highlighting the angels adorning the old building before me. The cream stone was gently worn, speaking of centuries of stories waiting to be told. Thankfully, the tourists hadn’t found this quiet little corner of Prague. They were most likely bustling around the castle. I double-checked there were no witnesses before I pulled out my pair of daggers. Prague allowed open carry on blades, which made my life much easier. That being said, I wouldn’t have minded having a gun as I saw the redcap I’d been hunting come around the corner.
He was brutish, his face twisted into a malicious grin, and his lips were stained red from whichever poor bastard he last drained of blood. Then there was the cap that gave his kind the name. It had been pure white when he put it on that morning. Now it was dripping with fresh blood that trickled down through his short greasy hair. His yellow eyes met mine, and his grin widened, revealing dark yellow sharp teeth. I shifted my weight and waited. I’d set up an alchemical trap that would stop him from running away. It also hid us from any innocent eyes, should a non-magical person stumble into the area.
“Beautiful morning, isn’t it?” I called over to the redcap.
He laughed and licked his thin lips as he looked me up and down. I couldn’t hold back the shudder of revulsion. If I lost this fight, he’d eat me alive. Finally, he stepped over the thin black line that marked the edge of the alchemical trap. A soft silver glow filled the air before a crack of bright blue shot around the circle. The redcap didn’t notice, or if he did, he didn’t care. He wouldn’t be able to leave, but neither would I. Not until one of us was dead. The trap was the best I could afford. It formed a tight mesh of magic around us that would hold against anything as long as we were both alive within its confines. It had seemed like a great idea when I’d purchased it.
As the redcap flexed his thick fingers with the long brown nails that could cut through the denim of my jeans, I began to regret my decision-making process. He was easily a foot taller than me and not far off a foot wider than me. I reminded myself that I’d taken on far worse foes and won.
A look somewhere between mild boredom and impending happiness filled his face. I took a slow breath and readied myself for the incoming blow. He swiped at my stomach, and I stepped back as I assessed his movements. I had roughly two feet behind me before I hit the alchemical trap. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to give me a little room. His arms hung lazily by his sides, but his steps were small and precise while he eyed me with those cold, almost black eyes.
I could feel his blood singing to me, one of the pleasures of being a blood witch. Everyone has their own unique song, but the type of pull and song can usually be categorised by type of being. Redcaps were usually a deep thudding feeling that reverberated in my feet. He, however, was a bright addictive song that called me closer. I hadn’t met anything that felt and sounded like his blood did, which meant he’d been screwing around with some new and interesting magic. Redcaps weren’t often drawn to magic, but they usually had some shaman-type magic user within their group. The one before me wasn’t one of those. They were smaller and twisted by the dark magic they dabbled in. No, this guy was a classic brute. He shouldn’t have had anything special in his blood.
Suddenly, he rushed me, and I really regretted being stuck in that small circle with him. He closed the space between us in two long strides. I ducked under his outstretched arms and sliced his inner thighs before I shot sideways. There wasn’t much room. It felt like the circle of the trap was shrinking around us. He took a quick shuffling step towards me, and it put him back within arm’s reach again. His claws raked over my shoulder, but thankfully slid off my leather jacket. His blood spilled down his filthy pants, but he didn’t even slow down. He should have been stumbling from the loss of blood. I’d hit the femoral artery perfectly. Fuck.
Things were not going to plan. Redcaps were dumb. I was supposed to open his arteries, he’d bleed out, and we were done. Nice and easy. Instead, we circled around each other again, and I wasn’t finding a hint of weakness in his movements. Given my lack of size, I depended on my speed and wiles. I wouldn’t do well in a long, sustained fight. A redcap would normally be slower, almost lumbering, but he was as nimble as a sidhe or a feline shifter. Something was very wrong there. Had I been set up? He rushed me again, and I slashed at his throat, but he pulled away and my blade slipped through thin air. He wasn’t giving me any room to dance away, not that time. He had his arms out and a manic grin on his face. I tried to duck under his arms, but he grabbed onto the back of my jacket.
I tried to stab him in the groin, but his arms were longer than mine. He leaned in, and his teeth grazed my throat. I tried to slash at his wrist to free myself of his grip. He dropped me, only to dive forwards and pin me against my own alchemical barrier. I should have known that was a stupid idea!
He licked my cheek, and I fought to free my arms so I could cut off that awful grey tongue. His rancid breath filled my nose and threatened to make me vomit.
“Ever heard of breath mints?” I asked.
He held my arms firm as he inched in closer, his teeth aiming for my neck. A quick glance around showed that we were still alone. Non-magical people wouldn’t be able to see inside of the alchemical circle, but supernals would be able to. I couldn’t afford the trap that made us entirely invisible, and really it would be good for business if supernals saw me kicking ass. I mentally reached inside the redcap and wrapped my consciousness around his blood. It felt so damn good to use my magic. If the Council knew I had it at all, they’d kill me. Blood magicians were outlawed for being too dangerous a century before I was born. As I held his blood in my mind’s eye and made it boil within him, I wondered if, perhaps, they had a point.
The redcap screamed and flailed as he clawed at himself, tearing great chunks of flesh out of his arms and stomach. Then he went poof. The black gunk that formed when a fae died rained down and coated me. It smelled like rotting meat and fresh blood. It was going to take forever to get that smell out of my hair. Thankfully, the gunk would dissolve soon enough, but that damn smell was going to linger on my skin and hair.
I sighed and ran my fingers through my hair, trying to get some of the gunk out. At least I’d earnt enough to pay rent. Ok, so it was three days late, but better late than never, right? The bone-deep tiredness that came with using my blood magic started to slip in just as the alchemical trap dissolved around me. A hot guy chose that moment to walk around the corner and see me coated in black gunk and looking frazzled from chasing that damn redcap for three days. I gave him a big friendly smile and a little wave before I realised I still had my blood-coated dagger in my hand. His eyes went big and he swallowed hard before he turned on his heel and walked very quickly the other direction. I had to give him points for not running, I supposed.
2
I got plenty of dirty looks as I walked down the street to the ATM. I didn’t dare look at my reflection in any of the shop windows. It was better that I didn’t know. My landlord texted me while I waited my turn for the ATM. He was threatening eviction again; I ignored it and sidled up to the ATM while hoping that the god who’d hired me had been paying attention. One of the nice things about working for the gods is that they drop the money straight into my account; I have to file paperwork when I work for the Council or the Order. The downside to working for the gods is sometimes they get a bit scatterbrained and take a week to deposit said money, and it’s not as though I can go and bang on their front door.
I chewed on my bottom lip as I waited for the screen to show my balance. It showed enough for rent and some food! I may have done a little happy dance as the ATM did it’s whirring thing while it pulls the money out. Someone whispered something to their friends near me. I raised an eyebrow at them.
