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  DARK WITCH, BLOOD WITCH © copyright 2021 Lili Black

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  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the writer, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover Design Copyright © 2021 L&L Literary Services, LLC

  Book Design Copyright © 2021 L&L Literary Services, LLC

  www.llliteraryservices.com

  Copy Editing by L&L Literary Services, LLC

  Printed in the United States of America.

  ISBN: 978-1-953437-64-8

  First Printing, 2021

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Also by Lili Black

  About the Author

  1

  The blisters on my hands break open, but I ignore the pain as I shovel more dirt into the grave.

  My eyes feel tight and swollen from crying, but I have no more tears left to fall as I bury the last of my family.

  Hattie deserves better than a grave in the mountains, far from home. She deserves proper preparation and blessing, and a pyre that burns for a day and a night. But I don’t have the materials for that, and I know she’d forgive me for doing the best I can.

  Maggie sits off to the side, standing witness to Hattie’s passing. While they never got along especially well, I think the small cat feels the loss, too. Or maybe I just want to think that because it makes me feel less alone.

  I chose Hattie’s favorite spot in the campsite for her final resting place and made sure her head pointed to the east, in the hope she finds the Summerland faster. It was more than the rest of my family got, and that knowledge smears this event with a layer of bitterness.

  My hands slip on the shovel, leaving bloody streaks behind, and I pause to wipe the sweat from my brow before digging the shovel back into the dirt pile that waits next to the grave.

  I probably could have found a spell to make this easier, to magic the dirt out of the hole, but Hattie always appreciated the balance between manual labor and using magic to make things easier. I think it would make her smile to know I struggled and sweated to bury her.

  Sunlight dots through the trees overhead, shining down on her final resting place, and I tell myself it’s the gods welcoming Hattie to the Summerlands, no matter how poorly I sent her off.

  My arms shake, and I can barely hold the shovel anymore by the time I tap in the last of the dirt.

  Letting the shovel go, I drop to my knees in front of the fresh-turned earth. My voice breaks as I begin the chant to the Horned God to welcome Hattie to the Summerland until she can be reborn.

  The brush rustles, and my head jerks up, my aching fingers curling stiffly around the handle of the shovel once more. The wildlife around us has never been an issue, but that doesn’t mean bears don’t exist here. I made sure to bury Hattie deep so scavengers would leave her undisturbed.

  Maggie rises to her feet and turns, but she doesn’t look scared, which eases some of my tension.

  Then, a doe steps out. It freezes, just as startled to find me here as I am to be found.

  On a different day, in different circumstances, I’d consider catching it for food, but not today.

  Releasing the shovel, I bow my head once more, and the doe scampers away, its little tail flicking.

  With my prayer done, I haul over the rocks I gathered earlier, ringing the grave and whispering wards of protection to discourage animals from crossing the line.

  Then, I just stand and stare, unblinking. I don’t know what to do now, don’t know how to process Hattie’s deathbed revelations. The sense of betrayal wars with my grief. All these years, I could have been the witch I was meant to be, if not for the bindings she and my mother inadvertently put on my power.

  I can’t help but think about how things would have been different if I was the destined heir to the coven everyone expected me to be, if I lived a life being accepted by the witches around me instead of ostracized as the black sheep.

  But the what-if game doesn’t change the past, and now, everyone I could prove myself to is dead. It all feels so empty, so hollow.

  Maggie pads over and rubs her sleek body against my legs, before she headbutts my calf and mewls softly, urging me to get moving.

  But where to? Without Hattie, my training has ended, all the work we put in snuffed out by a cursed bullet. If she told me she was dying, could I have helped stop it? Would her pendant have been able to revere what was done if she used it sooner?

  I shake my head to dispel those thoughts. There’s no going back. Only forward.

  Leaving the shovel where it lays, I turn and drag my tired body back to the clearing. I need to make dinner before the sun sets. There are chores to do. The plants we’ve been growing need to be weeded and pruned. I should check our supplies, too, and make a list of what we’ll need the next time I go into town.

  No. What I’ll need.

  The burn behind my eyes returns, my vision growing misty, and I take a deep, steadying breath to push back the grief. This is nothing new, and even without the poisoning, Hattie was old. We just assumed we’d have more time.

  Or I assumed. Hattie knew she was losing the battle against the poison and hid it from me until the very end.

  My aching fingers curl into fists, nails biting into my bleeding palms. The pain helps me focus, and the urge to cry dissipates until I see clearly once more.

  Back in the trailer, I carefully avoid looking at the bed as I clean my broken blisters and cover them in salve before bandaging them. It makes my palms sting and tingle, but I welcome the sensation.

  Eventually, I’ll need to clear the bedding, take it to the river, wash it, then hang it to dry. But not tonight.

  Tonight, I can sleep outside like I often do when the weather is warm enough to permit it.

  My phone buzzes in my back pocket, but I ignore it, the same way I ignored the last half dozen times it buzzed. I’m not fit to talk to Donovan right now. There’s no way I can force myself to sound happy and no way to explain why I’m sad.

  So, instead, I force myself back outside, going through the motions as if it was any other, normal day in the woods, using the chores to distract me. I even force myself to eat the pasty gruel I make, choking it down because I need the energy even if I don’t have an appetite.

  When I run out of things to do, I walk around the clearing, collecting fallen branches for the fire and throwing wayward stones into the woods. By the time the sun sets, there’s nothing left to do, so I bring out my sleeping bag and lay it next to the banked fire.

  Maggie immediately comes over and sits at the bottom as if telling me it’s time for bed. But, despite the exhaustion that makes my limbs heavy, my mind refuses to quiet.

  Instead, I sit on the log and stare at the embers, watching them die as the light fades from dusk to night, and the owls come alive in the woods that surround us. It feels like any other night from the last two years, and I half expect to hear Hattie’s snores in the camper.


  The normality of it comes as a surprise. For some reason, I thought the woods would stay quiet, to mourn Hattie. But nature doesn’t mourn death. It’s a part of the inevitable cycle of life.

  If things were as they should have been, tonight would have been spent in celebration as the coven reminisced over the good Hattie did in her life and the honor of rejoining those who passed before her. Sweet cakes and candles would have been placed on the altar. We would have danced beneath the moon and cast offerings into her pyre so she would have treasures to go with her.

  Grief and regret rise once more, a tide that will drag me under. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing it away, pushing it down into the place I locked away the pain of losing my family.

  Red light flickers and dances across my eyelids, and when my lashes lift, the coals in the firepit burn brighter, illuminating my sleeping bag and the book that lays open on top of it.

  I stare at the yellowed pages without surprise. While I left the dark grimoire on the floor in the trailer, I have long since stopped being surprised when it decided to move. The dark book goes where it wants without care for doors or locks.

  Much like me.

  Maggie growls at the book, her fur rising to stand on end, but I ignore her as I slip to the ground to see what the book wants to show me this time.

  Unbidden, the glow of the coals brightens, illuminating the pages, and my breath catches. Mortuus st ad vitam adducere. Bring the dead to life. How many times did I wish for a spell like this to bring back my family? To reclaim what was taken?

  I skim over the instructions. The ingredients aren’t even that hard to find.

  Hissing, Maggie pounces on top of the open book, blocking the spell from view, and I jerk back in surprise before I realize what I was considering.

  No matter how much I want my family back, spells like this won’t return what I lost. These are the kind of spells my family guarded against because they open the gateway for evil to enter our world.

  Pushing Maggie off the book, I close it, stand, walk it back to the trailer, then toss it unceremoniously inside.

  Tonight is not the night for that kind of temptation.

  My pocket buzzes again, and I pull out my phone, noting the battery is almost dead. I’ll have to charge it again soon. I bought one of those hand-crank battery chargers a while ago. It takes time and is just the mindless task I need to keep me occupied until the exhaustion gets to the point of knocking me out. I told Hattie it was to recharge the lanterns, which wasn’t a lie, but not entirely the truth, either.

  Before I dig it out from the storage space under the trailer, though, I swipe open the screen to check my messages, and my chest tightens.

  Donovan wanted me to go to some event with him tonight. His last message was an address where I could meet him, if it was possible. Knowing how much he hates those things, I bite my lip.

  I don’t own anything fancy, but he didn’t say I needed to dress up. Getting out of this clearing for a couple hours would help distract me better than cranking the battery charger.

  Decision made, I stride to the truck and climb inside, grabbing the keys from the dashboard.

  The trip down the mountain passes quickly, years of experience giving me confidence on the narrow path.

  Once I reach the main road, I turn toward town, following the directions I pulled up on my phone. Using the GPS will kill the last of my battery, but it doesn’t really matter. Donovan is the only person I call, and I’ll be with him soon enough.

  When the directions lead me into the expensive part of town, I start to question my hasty decision. While I knew Donovan came from money, it was never shoved into my face until this moment. Large houses with gated driveways line the road, and instead of normal streetlights, they have lamp posts like back in olden times.

  Stone walls discourage visitors, and the immaculate lawns I spot through the gates reek of professional landscapers.

  The house I pull up to looks even bigger than the ones I passed, and lights flood out of the sparkling windows. Expensive cars line the long driveway, and valet drivers in suits run back and forth, keeping everything tidy.

  When Donovan said event, I pictured something small, like a dinner with some of his dad’s clients or something, not this.

  For the first time in a while, I realize how different Donovan and I had things growing up and how much we don’t belong together. He’s meant for gold clubs and a wife who can run charities, not some girl who lives in a trailer in the mountains.

  But I don’t want to give him up. If I do, that means I’ll have lost everything. I need Donovan, need his light in my life.

  Driving past the fancy house, I circle back out of the neighborhood and park on the outskirts, where I’m less likely to be towed. Then, I walk the long blocks back to his house.

  I can sneak in through the servant’s entrance and find Donovan. With how many people are here, we can slip away for a bit before he’ll be missed. That way, I’ll be there for him to lean on without embarrassing him in front of his father’s rich guests.

  As I near the gate, I pull a string from my pocket and quickly weave a cat’s cradle, blurring out of view from one step to the next.

  No need to be kicked out before I even find Donovan.

  When I reach the house, I circle around until I find a fancy garden with topiaries and a cobblestone patio. Twinkle lights transform the space into a mini wonderland, and I’m pretty sure I spot the entrance to a maze.

  I would have paid to visit a place like this, and Donovan grew up here.

  Floor-to-ceiling windows cast light onto the patio, and I pause to peer inside. Women in nice dresses mingle with men in suits while waiters slip through the crowd offering flutes of champagne and small hors d’oeuvres.

  About to slip past in search of a less populated area, I spot Donovan in the crowd. He stands next to a man who looks like an older version of himself, and my breath catches at how handsome Donovan looks in a black suit and tie. He always wears jeans and t-shirts when we meet up, and seeing him like this transforms him into someone new, someone I don’t know.

  Then, his dad says something. He smiles, but it looks strained.

  The worry that filled me slips away. That’s still the man I love, no matter how he’s dressed. But how do I get his attention?

  While I come up with and discard a variety of ideas, his dad lifts his hand and beckons someone over.

  A sleekly dressed woman strides over to join them. She wears a hunter-green, floor-length dress and carries a flute of champagne in her hand like she was born with it. Heavy jewels dangle from her ears and throat, and glitter adorns the red, fiery hair she wears pulled back in a chignon, leaving soft curls around her face.

  My heart stutters, denial flooding through me as she slips her arm through Donovan’s with an air of familiarity. But that’s not what has me gasping and stumbling away, the string falling slack in my fingers.

  No, it’s because I recognize the smile that she gives Donovan, recognize the glint of greed in her eyes.

  Macey, the girl who tried to steal my coven’s tools of power. The girl who tried to kill me. The girl who Hattie bound and my mother sent away.

  What is she doing here now? And why is she cuddled up to Donovan like they’re together?

  2

  A scream of denial builds in my throat, and I cover my mouth as I stumble back. My heel slams into a potted plant, making it wobble, and a few nearby party guests turn their heads. Pivoting, I run back to the front of the house, toward the driveway that will lead me to my truck, and my means of escape.

  Power like I’ve never felt, even during the magic transfer from my family, sends electric currents over my skin. The rush nearly knocks me to my knees, but I stay upright and forge ahead. At this point, if I stay, everyone in that house will be dead. Macey was a smart witch, but not a powerful one. She wouldn’t be able to stop me if I focused on her.

  The temptation to run back, to take what’s mine, slows my steps. But,
as much as I’d love to take out Macey, I have nothing against the others, except Donovan, who’s cheating on me, which I don’t even know how to deal with. Right now, the pure hatred I feel toward Macey eclipses my confusion over Donovan.

  I make it to the tall, block fence that surrounds the property.

  Stopping under some trees to wait until the drive is clear of incoming and outgoing cars, I rest my back against the cold stone and stare at the stars. With the house lit up like a shopping center, the stars are muted, not like at the trailer, not like at home.

  Home. That’s where I need to go; otherwise, the power running through me will be unleashed here. These people shouldn’t bear the brunt of my hatred, but I add Macey to the list of people to take down, just under the man who stole my family from me.

  It doesn’t surprise me to see her at someplace like this, looking for a way to gain more without working for it. It’s why she tried to steal from my family in the first place. She must have learned enough magic to sneak her way into the real world, because she wasn’t cut out to live the coven life.

  When the coast is clear, I dash through the gates and sprint to my truck.

  With all the training and work I’ve done around the campsite, my strength, speed, and endurance have high marks, according to Hattie. She liked to remind me that a strong mind and body will benefit my magic, too, so I incorporated fitness into my regular daily routine, like running with a bundle of sticks that I carried back to the site or taking the harder trail to pick berries.

  What would Hattie think of this situation?

  Climbing into my truck, I grip the steering wheel tight. What would I give to have one more conversation with her? What would her advice be about Donovan?

  Nails digging into the steering wheel, I finally release the scream I held back.

  Macey fits the perfect mold of a dark witch. She takes what she wants. Now, it’s my turn to do the same.