The Dark Witch Read online

  The Dark Witch

  By Tabitha Scott

  Disclaimer and Acknowledgement:

  Any similarity to any existing coven is probably due to compulsion and, therefore, not really my fault, but it’s unlikely there exists anything quite like Amura’s coven. Oh, and the Royal family may not be a coven of Fae witch hunters, but who knows for sure. Otherwise usual stuff… this is fiction.

  A big thanks to all the people at Wattpad who helped with this, particularly Sarah K. Wilson, who has a very good book series of her own, a sci-fi series starting with ‘The Ex-Pacifist’. Also thanks to Jesse Sprague, Lina Hanson, and many more from the Paranormal and Fantasy threads.

  copyright 2016 © by K. Scott A. Butcher

  Dedication:

  This book is dedicated to all of those people who aren’t black or white, but something in between.

  Table of Contents

  Ficketty Feck

  Disclaimer:

  Dedication:

  Chapter 1: Mornings are Crap…but then there’s coffee.

  Chapter 2: Pershing High School

  Chapter 3: Are carbuncles, zits?

  Chapter 4: Master fix

  Chapter 5: Don’t drop the vial!

  Chapter 6: An obsidian blade

  Chapter 7: The cottage in the forest

  Chapter 8: Hatchesput

  Chapter 9: Shocking, isn’t it?

  Chapter 10: Susan’s coven

  Chapter 11: Coffee after an all-nighter

  Chapter 12: The white Fae

  Chapter 13: Feckin’ angels

  Chapter 14: Deny, deny, deny

  Chapter 15: Little miracles

  Chapter 16: Apocalypse child

  Chapter 17: Ardan

  Chapter 18: Gaea, mother of the Earth

  Chapter 19: Green thumb

  Chapter 20: Torture chamber

  Chapter 21: Calculus

  Chapter 22: The covenant

  Chapter 23: Daughter of dust

  Chapter 24: Truths

  Chapter 25: Witches?

  Chapter 26: Daughter of darkness

  Chapter 27: Possession

  Chapter 28: Daughter of light

  Chapter 29: Who am I?

  Chapter 30: Royals

  Chapter 31: Under things

  Chapter 32: Awkward meet

  Chapter 33: The lab

  Chapter 34: Darkness

  Chapter 35: Ravens and Wendigoes

  Chapter 36: The Two Witches

  Chapter 37: Little tests

  Chapter 38: The big one

  Chapter 39: Cat’s out of the bag

  Chapter 40: Jimmy’s bones

  Chapter 41: Holy shizz

  Chapter 42: White boards

  Chapter 43: Red faces

  Chapter 44: Imbolc

  Chapter 45: Bound in blood

  Chapter 46: Witch of the year

  Chapter 47: The cups

  Chapter 48: Thanatos Moerae

  Chapter 49: The Black Rose

  About the Author

  Chapter 1: Mornings are Crap… but then there’s coffee.

  “Oooh, what was that one about?” I stretch and yawn. It was a dream.

  I don’t normally dream, in fact, I don’t dream at all, I see things though, real things – things that happened, things that are happening, and sometimes, things that will happen. I guess it’s a witchy thing. It doesn’t happen often, and in the half-waking it’s difficult to remember.

  I know I saw two sets of glowing eyes – that means demons. What did they say?

  “What are you eating, it smells good?”

  “Thomas.”

  “Tommy, that punk who does your dirty work for you? What did he do wrong?”

  “Nothing, he did everything I told him to. Want a piece?”

  The two creatures were in a small room somewhere. There wasn’t much light, demons like it that way, I couldn’t make out their faces. They were laughing across a table from each other. But when they were finished…

  “You should have let me kill her too.” The voice of the eater had turned bitter. “The problem would have been solved by now, she was so innocent, she would have tasted good. Thomas is tough.”

  An arm lashed out striking the eater across the mouth just as he was gorging it with another chunk of barbeque Thomas.

  “Hey!” the startled eater objected, his chunk of meat skittling across the floor.

  “You’re not to touch a hair on her body. She has to die naturally or the test will fail. It’s been more than a thousand years since the last time this chance came, you jeopardise this and we’ll be eating your flesh.” The sneer was implied. “She’ll die soon enough anyway, it’s all arranged. When she’s spent her last breath, then, and only then, you can gnaw on her bones.”

  That’s it. That’s all I can remember, there might have been more, but it’s gone. I file the memory away. It might be important somehow or other, not that I give one iota who a couple of demons might be feasting on. Hey, I’m a bit dark myself, besides, it’s not my business to interfere with other creature’s evil doing. I only ‘see’ things that have meaning for me though. Not sure how this relates. Oh, and I’m certainly not the innocent they were talking about, I’m anything but. I wonder who she is? But only for a second or two.

  Anyway, I’ve had worse ‘seeings’ this one barely rates. Ahhh, I’ll just stretch here a bit.

  Oh! That’s not right.

  “Ficketty feck,” that was close.

  I’ve just opened my eyes and there’s a bit of shrapnel from the clock radio embedded in the wall above my head. I don’t remember seeing a warning on the clock saying ‘beware of shrapnel when blowing up’. There should really have been a safety notice.

  The radio was blaring at me, trying to wake me up a minute or two ago, so I blasted it, but apparently it retaliated by trying to kill me.

  “Oh crap.” It’s morning, I hate mornings, but I guess I’m wide awake now.

  Shite. It’s cold, too. Who makes these rules anyway? Why do we have to sleep naked? For the hundred millionth time (well, maybe not, I’m only a hundred and fourteen) I try to magik a few clothes on before I get out of bed, but it’s just not happening. Nup. Not going to happen. Shit. There are times I hate being a witch, and getting out of bed into a freezing cold room is one of them.

  So now I’ve dragged my naked shivering self out of bed. I pause in front of the mirror to look at the 16 year old body that is eternally mine.

  “Not bad Amura, still looking good. No boobs though, well, tiny ones, B-size cups, but they’re okay.”

  Hatchesput’s droop down to just above her knees, I cringe at the thought. B-cups are fine.

  There are a couple of cute looking moles, one on the edge of my arse. Was that there yesterday? Yes, dear, it’s been there for almost a hundred years. I wiggle my hips watching the mole do the morning shuffle.

  Clothes. Black. Well, what else? Maybe a touch of maroon. A scarf! Yep, a maroon scarf. Cool.

  I’m still looking at myself in the mirror, magikal dressing requires concentration. Black hair, pale, ivory white face. Cute nose. I cojure one of my favourite Goth clothing ensembles. I add like about twenty earrings along my lobes, a piercing to the nose, and a chrome, horned spike to just above my eyebrow - all the dark souled will drool over that wondering how the ficketty feck I get it in place. A couple of safety pins through the neck. Done. All put in place magikly, of course, it’d hurt if I had to do that by hand.

  Safety pins, huh, never get over that irony, it’s not enough to make me smile though, I haven’t had my coffee yet. In the background a kettle has just boiled. I can hear the bubbling come to an end as something electric clicks the little doodad off. Clever stuff they have nowadays. It used to tak
e me an hour to get the wood, stoke up a fire and get a kettle going when I was young.

  I only make the one press of coffee here. There’s no point in making more. I just can’t get the flavour they do at my favourite coffee spot. This is just so I can make the walk there.

  Holy crap! I’ve just had a thought. Heating! I could so have heating in the morning. I’ve probably had that same thought a hundred times before though, it’ll never happen. I’d never wake up if there weren’t a chill in the air. At least I don’t have to break the ice from a water bowl anymore when I wash my face.

  Some dark eye liner, a bit of lippy, and I’m off to the city just like P-diddy. Except I have to work. Before leaving, I wave my hand and reassemble the blasted (literally) clock-radio, pulling it back into one piece so I can do the same to it again tomorrow. It’s terribly satisfying blowing something up in the morning – especially if it tries to kill you back.

  From the outside, the cottage is a typical witches’ lair. You know, ramshackle, run down, broken windows, falling shingles, blah, blah, blah, it could double as a crack house. Except it’s in a wood (yeah that’s traditional too, I had no choice in that) it’s got old moss covered trees hanging over it (tradition), and it’s on a path that you can only find by magik (yep, boring old tradition again). The inside I had more choice with. I keep my liar ultramodern with a fan forced oven, moulded counter tops, fresh paint, and polished hard wood floorboards. Some of the older witches like to stay with cauldrons, wood ovens, chimneys and such, but I’m not that girl.

  I have to concentrate on the path as I go, otherwise it could end up leading me anywhere. It’s hard to do that on just one cup of coffee, but I focus on the coffee that will be waiting for me at the other end. The path leads me to a back alley on Glebe Point Road, where my favourite coffee shop is. It’s warmer here than at home, I probably don’t need the scarf, but I won’t be here long enough to warm up anyway. Well, home is in the UK, here is in Sydney, Australia, and it’s summer here (winter at home).

  I wait for a second, the shop has a giant open window onto the street and I like to sit and watch people pass by. At 8:00 am, the day before today (there’s a time difference between Australia and the UK, so I use magik to overcome it) everybody mysteriously files out of the coffee shop so that I get it all to myself for a good 20 minutes.

  Yum. By the time I get in they have my coffee waiting for me. I have the staff well trained, they don’t even realise that some twenty people have just left their shop. They think it’s a slack time, but it’s the busiest time of day. I just don’t like crowds, and how else am I going to get my favourite window spot? I suppose they lose a lot of money because of me, but hey, evils gotta do what evils gotta do.

  Finally, I smile. Hmmm, that coffee tastes magikal…it isn’t, but it tastes like it is. I first found out about this place a decade ago. Some guy I was going out with introduced me to it. I think I let him live…no, wait, he was a bit of a dickhead, so I don’t think I did, hmmm, I’ll have to check my records and see what happened to him. I’m spoilt now, coffee in the US is like dishwater in comparison. I think Starbucks tried to start some stores in Australia, but most of them failed miserably, they couldn’t compete.

  The UK is just as bad, thankfully I can make a half decent cup of coffee myself, but nothing like this.

  I have a pastry with it, the staff here always know what I want, I never have to say a thing…funny that, it’s almost like magik. After my second cup (and we’re talking big cups here) I gather my things and leave without paying. This is part of my daily ritual. Outside there are another dozen or so people milling around having forgotten what they were going to do, but after I leave they’ll all remember and file in for their own coffee fix. I don’t think the shop loses too much from my going there in the mornings, but hey, I can probably work it out: 10 years, we’re talking like some 300 days a year that I visit, they probably would have served some 40 ish coffees per day without me, at about $4 a pop, so that’s…um, um, um…$480,000 they’ve lost, all because of me. Yes! Woohoo! I’m totally going to use that in my report.

  Chapter 2: Pershing High School

  To work now, I return to the back alley and soon find myself on the path from my cottage. Concentrating, I turn up in a toilet stall somewhere in a girl’s loo. Well, it was a convenience call when I first organised this. The stall has a permanent ‘out of order’ sign on the door – which the cleaners never see, so it’s always lovely and clean when I want it, and after three big cups of coffee, well, I want it.

  Having emptied my bladder (cause magiks don’t help with that sort of thing…well, they can, but usually only when you want to leave someone in their death throes) I exit the stall into the girls loo.

  “That’s out of order, you know.”

  There’s always gotta be one.

  “Didn’t notice.” Looking into the washroom mirror, I ignore the bitch as she starts screaming about the grey hairs I just added to the front of her head, and then I plump my cheeks (something we did a hundred years ago, I don’t think girls do it now) adjust some of my earrings, and head for my locker. I’m at Pershing High School, Pennsylvania, I’ve been a senior here for, well, almost a hundred years. This is where I first started showing magikal tendencies, so I’ll be compelled to return here as long as I live. Still don’t get calculus though, it just doesn’t make sense to me. And… I don’t like it when people comment on my accent. Yeah, it’s British. Evil Britain in America, I know, it’s cliché. But try and tease me about that and you might disappear.

  “Hey, dweeb.” It’s Gilliney, my familiar, she’s just intercepted me as I dump some books and the scarf in my locker. Most witches have an animal familiar, a crow, a raven, a cat, those are traditional, but I’m not traditional. Everything about me is a bit unusual. A human familiar is unheard of, but there you go, it is what it is. I didn’t pick Gilliney, she just was my familiar. It’s a witch thing. One day maybe I’ll turn her into a cat, or something, so that she doesn’t grow old, but for now, I like her as she is.

  “Hey, zit face,” I reply.

  “What’s it today?”

  “Zits!” I smile at her.

  “Really? Hey, did you give me these?” she points to her cheeks, which have come out in a handful of red blemishes.

  “Naw, wouldn’t do that to you Gils, those are natural. Too much chocolate, maybe. These,” and I point to my bag, “are big ones, thumb sized. Let’s find a spot and we can choose our victims.”

  “The cafeteria then?”

  “Choice!” It’s only 7:30 in the morning here. I get here early, before the crowds start, it gives me a chance to ply the trade. Well, a witch girls gotta do, what a witch girls gotta do.

  Gil gets herself a bit of the local, totally undrinkable, insipid, dishwater that they think is coffee here (one day I’ll take her to Australia). Oh, and a piece of fruit, cause it’s healthy. We sit back in a booth and watch as people go by.

  “What do you do for zits?” Gil asks.

  I ignore her for the moment, making sure we don’t miss anyone we shouldn’t.

  Oh, I should describe Gils. She and I are the two emos in this show. Well, I’m more a goth. She’s quite pretty, really, brown off the shoulder hair, dyed blue-black with a couple of bleeched rattails going down her back. She’s not really into puncturing herself, like I am, though there are a couple of scars on her wrists from before we became friends. I’ll never ask her about those, I looked into what happened there, and that problem no longer exists, his ashes are scattered so that he’ll never be found. Green-yellow eyes, nice complexion, apart from her zit outbreak. I could be into her if she weren’t a friend.

  “That one there, Susan Collingsworth, she’s a real pain. She talks about us with her friends, you know.”

  I knew, it was hard not to, they weren’t exactly subtle about it, they were talking about us now. There were surreptitious glances our way and whispered giggles. The blonde, drop dead gorgeous, cheerleader in question
was standing talking to a group of her cheerleader cohorts.

  I look at her for a moment, considering Gil’s suggestion, but there’s something wrong there. I cock my head to the side and look closer. “Naw, she’s got the clap. No point. It’s antibiotic resistant, she’ll be dead in a couple of years.”

  Gil’s jaw drops open. “Really?” she asks.

  “Really,” I reply. “Should have used condoms. I didn’t think that particular contagion was over here yet, maybe she visited the UK. ”

  Gil considers for a moment, then she does something I don’t expect. She gets up, and goes over to Susan, and gives her a big hug.

  For her part Susan is in shock. This, of course, is unexpected (probably unwanted) attention.

  Gil releases the girl, and holding her at arms-length looks her directly in the eyes. “I’m sorry you’ve got the clap, Susan.” Gil says to her, then hugs her again before coming back to join me. I’m pretty sure everyone in the cafeteria heard.

  “Feel better?” I ask her as Gil shuffles back into the booth next to me.

  “Much,” she says.

  “I don’t have the clap,” I overhear Susan trying, unconvincingly, to deny to her friends, all of whom watched and heard Gil’s commiseration. I don’t think they’re buying it.

  “That was a bit evil, you know? Telling her friends like that.”

  “But it was heartfelt evil.” Gil tries to explain. “I truly felt sorry for her.”

  “Yes, well…she would have lost them all eventually, anyway. They’re fair weather sorts.”

  “Do you think she’d like to join us?” Gil asks, and I can tell she’s sincere.

  I seriously consider it for a moment, “Yeah, maybe. I don’t see why not, give her a few weeks though. When she’s lonely enough we’ll start looking pretty good to her.”

  “But she’ll have to dye her hair black.” I add, for good measure.

  “Done, then. Oh, but she is a bit of a lemon-sucking bitch.”

  I roll my eyes. “She won’t be for much longer, or at least, she’ll be our lemon-sucking bitch.”