Shadow Witch Rising (Copper Falls Book 1) Read online

  She'd tossed and turned, and ended up taking a long, cold shower, and then tried to sleep.

  Her sleep, when she found it, was full of nightmares. Nightmares in which she ran, and matter how hard she pushed herself, it wasn't fast enough. Each step seemed slower, and she could hear the warlock behind her, each moment bringing him closer to her until she could practically hear his breath in her ear, his whispered promises that she couldn't fight him off forever.

  They were getting worse, she thought as she woke up the third time. They'd nearly stopped, once she was free of him. Once she'd gotten used to not having her steps haunted by the warlock who'd been stalking her since she was fifteen.

  Marshall. Even the name was enough, now, to make her blood run cold.

  “Nightmares aren't real,” she whispered to herself, trying to settle down again.

  But she knew better. The nightmares had first started just before she'd seen him the first time, as if warning her. Her mother, in those rare moments they'd stolen to talk about her magic, had wondered if Sophie had some power of foresight. She remembered times when she was very young, when she'd told her parents about things that hadn't happened yet.

  Sophie didn't know about her powers of foresight. If she had that, one would think she would have been able to sidestep a few of the disasters life had thrown her along the way. But she knew well enough that her nightmares about Marshall were a warning.

  Or maybe the Calder situation had her so messed up, she was having old nightmares again. Of the two possibilities, that was actually the preferable one.

  She dozed off, waking with the sun shining brightly onto her face and the goats bleating outside, waiting to be milked and fed.

  “All right, all right,” she muttered, swinging her legs out of bed. She tossed on jeans and a long-sleeved top, pulled her mass of frizz up into a clip, and clomped outside. She let the chickens out of their henhouse, threw down some scratch for them, then went and let the goats out, milked the females as they ate. She swore they looked at her with disappointment.

  Merlin kept trying to work his way under the fence in the new pen she'd moved him to, and she cussed him out and he bleated at her in response, then went back to what he'd been doing. She grabbed a few of the metal stakes she'd picked up in town, used them to reinforce the old chain link fence around the pen he was in. He admonished her with a few bad-natured bleats, pissing on her boot to ensure she understood his displeasure.

  “Keep it up and I'm gonna let Layla and Cara hunt your ornery ass,” Sophie warned him. He just stood there chewing.

  Animals cared for, Sophie gathered eggs and picked the few meager tomatoes left. They'd be getting a frost soon, and then she could kiss her garden goodbye. Maybe permanently, if she didn't break Calder's stupid curse. She harvested some of the remaining sage, rosemary, and lavender, breathing in the pungent aroma as it hung in the air around her. She'd bundle and hang them to dry, and then she'd use some of it in her soaps, some in teas.

  She took everything inside, put it away, then fired up the wood stove on the back porch. She thanked, again, whichever of her ancestors had had the idea to put a second stove there. She didn't know what they'd used it for, but it was the perfect place for her to make her soaps, out in the fresh air. She got the stove warmed up, then hauled her big soap pot, lye, fats, oils, herbs, and goat's milk, and went to work.

  She let herself get lost in the familiar, comforting routine of soap-making. It was always one of her more enjoyable tasks, especially that moment when the soap came together in a perfect luxurious swirl of fragrant creaminess.

  Of course, her soaps and lotions always had a little extra something to them. It was the reason she'd managed to establish a fairly profitable business as quickly as she had. While there were many good soaps out there, as a Lightwitch, she was able to put a little something extra into her products, and each bar of soap, each tub of lotion she sent out, had a little bit of actual magic to it. So while she had scents called “Vibrance,” “Good Fortune,” and, her best seller, “Amorous,” the names had as much to do with the spells she worked as she made her products as they had to do with the scents themselves. As she stirred, she closed her eyes, focusing on drawing her magic. She pictured the magic winding its way into the fragrant liquid, imbuing it with the properties she intended as she chanted, murmuring soft words she didn't even have to think of anymore. They came automatically, out of habit, and she could see, the way she could see the landscape around her home, the strands of magic twisting, turning, working their way into the soap itself. It took some work, some strong focus to make it all work, and it was very easy to lose a spell like this, to have it all unravel before the last bit of it wound its way into the soap. She could see it in her mind, feel it all through her body, the instant the spell had been completed successfully, and she smiled. The spells broke on her less now than they used to. She finished, whispering gratitude to her ancestors for their assistance, knowing, just as she knew anything, that her magic was augmented by the space she inhabited. When she used her magic, as she just had, she could feel, very clearly, her ancestors' magic, still strong after all of these years, around her. One didn't live in a place so long without leaving a mark on it. She only hoped that she'd live there long enough to leave remnants of her own magic behind.

  Of course, she knew well enough that her way of dealing with magic was unconventional. She made do with the little amount she had by forcing it to work with her. It probably wasn't the best attitude for a Lightwitch to have toward her magic, but it worked, and the magic hadn't left her when she'd started using it that way, so she let that be enough.

  She finished stirring, the soap having come together as it should, and went to work pouring the smooth, fragrant liquid into wooden molds. She would let them sit and harden for a few days, then slice them into bars and let them cure before packaging them.

  She cleaned up, threw together a quick salad, then headed into town to do a short shift at the resort. It passed quickly, mostly because her mind kept flashing, stupidly, back to the night before. Calder.

  Part of what had gotten under her skin was the way he had warned others away from her. And she knew. She knew that there was a way to do that that was disrespectful and controlling. And while he'd certainly been doing it for himself, she was grateful for it. She had been uncomfortable when the strange shifter had cut in with Bryce. Whether he'd picked up on that or he'd just been doing the typical possessive shifter thing, she was just glad she hadn't had to deal with it.

  It just felt weird to have someone looking out for her instead of her constantly being on guard for herself all the time. And as nice as it had been, to her surprise… it still wasn't something she should let herself get used to. Because when she wasn't being a daydreaming idiot over Calder, she knew damn well that he had huge ulterior motives where she was concerned. Warning other men off of her was likely his way of making sure no more of her time was taken up with anything other than figuring out his curse. He didn't remember her. He had no emotional attachment to her, not the way she did with him. She had to remember that. They were coming from two completely different places, and if she didn't get herself together regarding him, it would be a mess. And she'd had enough of those to last a lifetime.

  She drove back home, and every stupid song on the radio made her think of him.

  Calder's hand slipped on the wrench, and he banged his knuckles against the engine. “Fuck,” he cursed, shaking his hand, inspecting his knuckles, all split and bleeding. Again. He sucked on the worst one, then lowered his hand and shook it again in irritation. Bryce's ugly car would keep him busy for a while, and he knew what Bryce was up to. Yeah, sure, Bryce wanted the car. He also wanted to keep Calder busy. Bastard wasn't nearly as sly as he thought he was, but Calder appreciated it nonetheless.

  Her. She was driving him nuts. He glanced across the road, even though he knew she wasn't there. Which was a good thing. He was finding it really hard to stay on his own side of the road w
hen he knew she was there, when he'd catch the occasional glimpse of her walking from her house to her car or from her house to her mailbox. And she didn't even know she was doing it. She didn't even know how crazy it had made him to sit beside her the night before, to smell her, to feel her softness against him, to look in her eyes and be taken back almost twenty years, to long days and even longer nights, sitting on the porch swing behind her house talking about nothing and everything.

  When she'd been everything, and he still had a stupid, misguided hope that he'd be normal, despite what he'd already seen his father going through.

  He shook his head, picked up the wrench again.

  He raised his head as a white truck drove down the road, slowing in front of Sophie's house. He leaned forward on his forearms on the hood, watching. The truck had pretty much stopped at her driveway, and Calder could make out the profile of a man in the driver's seat. As he watched, the guy sat there, looking at Sophie's house, and just the fact that he was there made Calder want to pull him out of his shiny city-boy truck and ask him what he thought he was doing. His house and Sophie's were the only ones around, surrounded by acres of forest.

  He didn't look like he was supposed to be there. And if he was supposed to be there, if this was someone Sophie knew… how stupid was it that he already considered the guy an adversary?

  He shook his head, went back to work, and he heard the truck drive away a few seconds later. None of his business. She was none of his business. He didn't remember her, and she wasn't his first love. That was the story he'd told her, and he would stick to it. This was complicated enough already.

  He kept working. His stomach rumbled, his mouth was dry. He was on edge, barely able to stay still, feeling his curse eating at him, feeling it wearing him down. Every day was harder, every day a new lesson in hunger. And the curvy, drop-dead gorgeous dream girl from his past was the key to saving himself and his family. His having a severe case of blue balls now that she was back in his life was a small price to pay.

  It wasn't like he was unfamiliar with ceaseless hunger. This was just one more thing.

  Sophie pulled into her driveway after her shift at the resort, climbed out of her car, and, even though she told herself not to, glanced across the road toward Calder's house. He was in his usual place, bent over the engine of Bryce's ugly car. Before she looked away, he stood up straight, and his gaze found her.

  It was disconcerting, to say the least, the way he seemed to home in on her like that. It had always been that way. And she was pathetic and she hated herself, but she could barely even breathe when he looked at her.

  He started walking across the road, and she took a step closer to her house. Something crossed his features; irritation, maybe. He slowed to a halt a few feet away from her.

  “I'm working on it,” she said, forestalling anything he might say.

  His expression hardened a little. “Good.”

  “Okay. So you can leave now,” she said, taking another step toward her house.

  “I'm not going to hurt you,” he said, and she let a sardonic laugh escape her mouth.

  “No. You're just going to threaten me and take everything I own if I don't fix someone else's mess. You'll just have to excuse me if I don't have the world's highest opinion of you, Calder. I've seen your type before, and all you are is bad news.” She almost felt guilty for her tone. Almost, except that she'd barely had him in her life for a week now, and he'd already sent her into a tailspin.

  “My type?” he asked, his voice a low grumble. He studied her in a way that had her stomach twisting. “And what type is that?”

  “The type who doesn't know the meaning of the word no, who takes what they want no matter whose life they trample all over,” she said, and it was as if she'd slapped him. He went completely still. “Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do if I have any hope at all of not having my life torn to pieces by you.” She turned and went into the house without another word, locking the door behind her.

  For extra peace of mind, she murmured a few soft words, ran her hands along the sides of the front door. Her power flowed through her, barely there, but warm and comforting nonetheless. When she'd finished setting the additional protective wards, she glanced out the front window to see Calder stalking back across the road.

  “Good. Stay over there,” she muttered, shaking her head.

  She grabbed an apple and ate it as she checked on the garden, tossed the core to Merlin, then did the evening milking. Once everyone was settled for the night, she went back inside. Her plan was to go through more of the old books that had stocked Aunt Evie's shelves. She'd been thrilled to find two shelves of the old built-in bookcases in the living room had been packed with old spell books and books about witching history. She loved those books. It felt like every page she read was a clue, a piece of the puzzle to figuring out what it was her power could do, exactly.

  She pulled a black leather-bound book out and, as she did, another smaller book which had been perched on top of it fell onto the floor. She set the larger volume down and bent to pick up the fallen book. It had a floppy leather cover, and the pages were yellowed with age. She flipped through it gently, noting the dates, from the 1970s. Evie's journal, she guessed. She sat on the floor near the bookcase, started reading. Mostly, it was recipes for pies and preserves. Hardly a mention of magic at all. An occasional note about the gentleman from town that she was seeing. Sophie smiled, reading her fond recollections of him.

  Though fun, the book was pretty much useless. She held it in her hands, fluttered through the pages with her thumb. Then she stilled, and looked up.

  The attic.

  When she'd moved in, she'd gone up there precisely once, and, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of stuff packed into the space, she'd come right back down and closed the door.

  But if an ancestor of hers had caused Calder's curse, and she knew that generations of her ancestors had lived on this very land, wasn't it possible there was something up there — a letter, a journal… something — that would have some answers for her? It was unlikely. But it was better than sitting there mooning over the blackmailing jerk.

  She headed up into the musty attic, pulling the chain on the light fixture at the top of the stairs, then sweeping her flashlight beam across the room. There was another light fixture further into the attic, and she made her way to that, turned it on as well.

  She looked around helplessly. Where the hell was she even supposed to start?

  She shrugged and opened the closest box. She'd planned to clean it all out anyway, because it would make the perfect place to hang herbs for drying if it wasn't packed floor to ceiling with decades worth of stuff. Of course, she might not have the house for next year's herb harvest, but she definitely wouldn't if she didn't at least try to figure it all out.

  After a few hours of sorting through dusty, grimy boxes, mostly filled with old clothes and other useless crap, Sophie was ready to head back downstairs and declare defeat. Why did people hold on to stuff like this? What good was an entire box of plastic dishes, or boxes and boxes of paperbacks, which had been chewed mercilessly by mice? Books should be read, should adorn a room so you could look at them and remember the amazing places they took you. They shouldn't be boxed up and stuffed in an attic.

  She had to grin as she looked though them. Someone, in the seventies and eighties, had been a big paperback romance reader. The covers, complete with bodice-ripping heroes holding their prizes, made her roll her eyes. Not in a bad way, though. She remembered pilfering the same types of books from her mother's bedside table.

  She set the books down. She was too old for fairy tales.

  She got back to work. If there were answers to be found about Calder and his curse, she'd find them. She had to.

  After another few hours, she had about half of the attic sorted through. She had a few boxes of things she could use, mostly kitchen and gardening equipment, along with some decorative things that had caught her eye. She had a pile
of clothing to donate, several boxes of paperbacks (that hadn't yet been chewed by mice) and other miscellaneous stuff to donate. She'd already tossed several garbage bags outside. She'd have to drive them to the dump later.

  As Sophie carried the “donate” boxes out to the front porch and stacked them along one side, she reminded herself to call Purple Heart to come and pick them up. She went out back and did the evening chores in the dark, feeding and watering the animals, giving the goats their second milking of the day.

  As she did, she thought. A name. A date. Something. She didn't know anything about her family besides Evie and her family's almost non-existent magic. If Calder had been looking into the curse enough to know (supposedly) that it was her ancestor, then he must have names or dates or something to base that on.

  Chapter Six

  Sophie finished up, washed up a little, then headed out the front door and across the street. Calder was pretty much where he'd been earlier that day, hunched over the car.

  She walked up to him and leaned against the side of the car, watched him for a few minutes. He didn't acknowledge her, and she tried not to let that irritate her.

  “Can you tell me anything about the curse? What does it do, exactly? Which of my ancestors did it? Anything you know would be helpful, since I know absolutely nothing,” she said softly.

  Calder kept his eyes on the engine. After a few more minutes of tightening things and fiddling around, he stood up and started wiping his hands. “What have you been doing all evening? I knocked on your door twice trying to talk to you.”

  “I was in the attic. There's so much stuff up there, going back who knows how long. I'm hoping I can find something, anything, up there that will help me figure this out. But I figured if I can find out what you know, that will give me a head start. And maybe I'll know what I'm looking for when I find it. I should have tried to find out before. This is all so insane.”