by M K Mancos
Shadow Realms
MK Mancos
Copyright © 2020 by MK Mancos
All rights reserved.
Any resemblance to witches, shadow beings, or darkness fighting agencies, are purely coincidental. Spells and artifacts contained within are not to be used to vanquish demons, golems, or contentious family members. Sorry, if any of that happens, you’re on your own and the author is not to be held liable.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
To all you witches out there - you rock!
Acknowledgments
A special thanks to Victoria Miller for not only rocking the edits, but the cover. You’ve made this series possible. Thanks so much.
Contents
1. Kells
2. Kells
3. Malachi
4. Kells
5. Malachi
6. Kells
7. Malachi
8. Kells
9. Malachi
10. Kells
11. Malachi
12. Kells
13. Malachi
14. Kells
15. Malachi
16. Kells
17. Malachi
18. Kells
19. Malachi
20. Kells
21. Malachi
22. Kells
23. Malachi
24. Kells
25. Malachi
26. Kells
27. Malachi
28. Kells
29. Malachi
30. Kells
31. Malachi
32. Kells
EXCERPT FROM HATTIE’S SPIRIT
About the Author
Also by MK Mancos
One
Kells
All good legends started with a curse.
This was the truth universally acknowledged. Sorry, Jane Austen, but chick, you were wrong.
The curse and subsequent legends that surrounded the Doran family had been a passion of mine since I first learned about it while researching a paper on hereditary witchcraft for a comparative religions class back in my undergrad.
The entire idea that a clan of witches lived and bred across the mountain from me in Cooper’s Mill, had my eyes bugging out and breath coming short.
Having grown up in Cadence, North Carolina—the next town over from the hot seat of Doran activity—I’d wanted to know all about the famous, or should I say infamous, witches. All of them. To separate fact from fiction, and legend from reality.
I should have probably mentioned I was a doctoral candidate in anthropology, with a specialty in myth and folklore. Ever since I was little and my Aunt Rallie had read the classic and unadulterated Brothers Grimm to me, I’d been in love with fairytales. That scope had widened as I grew to incorporate myths and tales from every race, religion, culture, and civilization. My insatiable appetite for the root of what makes us human, of the stories we tell ourselves to teach, soothe, or survive, brought me to this place in my life. One that had taken a decided turn into uncharted territory.
I had traced a branch of the Doran family to New York and wanted to see how they fared so far away from the place where it all began.
Most importantly, I wanted to know how they differed from my rather impressive magical credentials. I, too, was from a family with very strong genetic witch blood, though we tended to fly a bit more under the radar than the Doran family ever did.
But I digressed.
The drive through Upstate New York was about as beautiful as one could imagine, and looked as if it was put together with movie magic CGI. Fall had started to show her colors in vibrant reds, yellows, and oranges. The air smelled sweet and smoky with burnt leaves and logs in fireplaces. Temperatures had started to plummet—so much so I had to turn on the car heater as I drove steadily north.
Nerves twisted in my belly. I was, after all, on my way to catch some Doran witches. I’d been too late to do so when they had arrived in North Carolina during the summer. But I’d heard the murmurs and mumblings, even over in Cadence.
Speculations rose that the mine collapse had been due to the curse. Now, as far as I’d researched, the curse only went so far as to the witches having a hard time finding love and settling down. It had never extended to disasters. However, the road to romance for a Doran witch was paved with jagged stones and blown tires, and more than one death.
Now, that first paper I’d written back in my undergrad—the one that had started my love affair with a family I’d never met—I’d gotten an A on it, but not before I’d had to practically threaten the professor with grievous bodily harm. Oh, boy did I ever have to fight for the right to use witchcraft as a topic. He’d maintained there was nothing to it—that it was a “made up” religion. I’d assured him it was real, and that all religions were made up at some point. He didn’t appreciate my helpful tip and threatened to have me dropped from the class. Imagine my surprise when the a-hole had gotten himself arrested for exposing himself to coeds.
Never mind him. Back to the Doran witches.
If I was given to hysterics, I might have believed his arrest was part of the curse. That he’d had the affront to actually speak ill of the family and one well-placed spell had decided to land on his crotch. A visual that made me laugh out loud in both the literal and figurative sense. I mean, how often had someone in authority abused their power and actually had to pay the price? Not often. And it might have taken a curse to do just that.
Take Clarissa Doran for example. Clarissa was hanged in the tree outside the Cooper’s Mill Church of Christ back in the day. That is when it’s said the curse began. She’d stood there and told the town what fools they were for their prejudices. She’d been a healer by profession. Then she’d refused to give a young woman an abortion, and for that, she was hanged. Well, it wasn’t quite that straight forward. Nothing ever was. The young woman in question had lied and claimed Clarissa Doran had tried to kill her and the baby. No one had believed Clarissa’s side of the story. Come to find out, the father of the baby had been playing both Clarissa and the young woman false.
Why would he have done something so foolish when she was reported to be a witch? It didn’t make sense. Maybe deep down he hadn’t believed in witches. Though, in the time period Clarissa had lived, the populace was more susceptible to reports of witchcraft to explain things they didn’t understand.
The part I had found so fascinating in the tale was so many other members of the Doran family over the years had talents of a paranormal nature. I guessed, in a way, it might help to explain my own.
Here, I’d been going on about the Doran witches, and this was the first I’ve mentioned my own powers.
Well, to tell the truth mine weren’t as much about witchcraft as it was simply telekinesis. Oh, and a rather unreliable ability to see the future. I’d say it’s unreliable because it came and went without warning, and I might see the future for this reality or another. So, that made me a psychic, not a witch. And yes, I did say this reality or another, meaning I could see into the multiverses, but had no way to affect a change in any of them but this one. If that wasn’t a study in frustration, I didn’t know what was.
Which brought me to the question of why the Dorans continued to be labeled as witches. From what I could tell in my research, only a few of them had openly practiced witchcraft as a belief system. They were the ones I wanted to see. I’d traced the family to Fox Run, New York. The delicate part would be to get them to talk to me about their family history.
I’d found out the hard way that no one wanted to be anyone�
�s thesis or dissertation. Lying about my purpose wasn’t in my nature, so that was out of the question. They had to deal with me straight up or not at all. Their choice.
Realization that I sounded like some crazy ass stalker was very much in the front of my mind. I wouldn’t call it that because it implied that I have a particular target in mind, or object of obsession. That wasn’t entirely true. My fixation encompassed the entire family history. It’s really no different than how some people got caught up in the royal family, or the Kardashians, or Duggars. My fascination just happened to be a clan of witches unrelated to me and mine.
I took the exit for Fox Run and traveled down the two-lane county road that twisted and turned and made a corkscrew out of the pavement. I passed a town center chock full of antique stores and law offices.
Once there, I had no idea how to proceed. The family no longer used the name Doran. At least this side of the family. This branch had come down from the female line. An Adelaide Doran had moved to the area with her sister, Hattie, back in the late 1950s, early 60s. Adelaide had married a Jameson Cameron. That’s where my hunt began for these reclusive Dorans who dared to move away from Cooper’s Mill and out into the wider world.
I parked at a small motel that had a homey cottage appeal. The structure was built in a half circle and in the middle was a courtyard with a fountain. The office sat off to the right. Next to that was a diner. My stomach promptly growled to let me know it had been hours since I’d stopped at a station and restaurant along the New Jersey Turnpike and downed a quick burger and large coffee. It was the only thing that had kept me going—that and the audiobook on the history of witchcraft.
I checked into the motel and went into the diner to grab a bite. Not many people were in the dining room for the middle of the afternoon on a weekday, but then I liked the sparseness of the crowds. It allowed me privacy to work and quiet to get my head together. I had my computer set up on my table, going through a genealogy search of the Doran family, when the server approached my table and squinted at me as if she knew me from somewhere.
Or maybe it was the fact I hadn’t even cracked open the menu yet that had her looking at me as if I was a waste of her time and effort.
I smiled and dutifully picked up the menu. “Sorry about that. I’ve been driving for hours and was anxious to get some work done.”
“Sweetheart, this time of day, I don’t care if you sit there and read the entire dictionary.” She tapped her pen against her order pad. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Large. Big. Huge water.”
“You want that in three glasses?” Her deadpan delivery was made for sitcoms.
I smiled again. “No. One will be fine.”
“One bucket-sized water coming up.” She turned and went back to the drink station while I sat there thinking I’d come here for witches and found comedy gold.
The menu was pretty much standard Mid-Atlantic diner fare, meaning anything and everything imaginable. I’ve traveled a few times to this part of the country and knew that, as far as food, it was pretty hard to beat a diner. The specials were printed on a computer sheet and stuffed behind a protective plastic barrier. Chili and grilled cheese. Unusual combo, but it appealed to the weary traveler in me. Plus, with the temperatures dropping, chili was the perfect fall meal.
I ordered and went back to my chart building.
The diner door opened, blowing in leaves and the sounds of rustling trees and traffic along the main street. A prickling sensation went up the back of my neck, and I reached up to rub the hair back into place.
My intuition stirred. Compulsion to look up and see who had walked in grabbed hold of me, but I fought it down. When my talent stirred, it usually meant I was at a cross-section where the multiverses touched. Whoever had walked into the diner was at the very least a catalyst to kick my power into gear.
I really didn’t want to sit in the middle of a diner in New York State and have a vision. Not when I knew the repercussions of some of the stronger ones. It wasn’t pretty by a long shot.
Once, I’d been locked away for three days in a psych ward because they said I was hallucinating and reacting to things that weren’t there. On the fourth day, I woke without knowing how I’d come to be imprisoned. In my mind, the future I’d seen was happening in front of me, and I’d acted accordingly. Since then, I’ve tried to limit the amount of time I spend in company of those who might trigger my talent. And I wear a hematite necklace that tends to dampen the field. Whoever had walked into the diner had to have some kind of major talent in order to make it through my protective shields.
I tried to concentrate on the screen and all the records in front of me, but the screen kept moving and rearranging the letters. I sat back and rubbed my eyes. When I opened them again, my gaze collided with a man standing at the counter staring my way. He, too, looked as if he’d been poleaxed.
If I hadn’t been leaning on the table I would have fallen out of my chair. I knew that rugged face. Those soulful eyes. He wore his dark blond hair a bit longer than in some of my visions, but my hands still longed to run through it. The same wide shoulders. Same familiar stance, both confident and strong. I’d seen him before—but not in this world. In a future. In the multiverse.
In my vision, he’d been standing on a street with a cityscape in the background. I had my hand on the door handle of a cab. He was angry at me for something I’d done—or not done. I could never really get a good feel for my supposed crime, other than I’d hurt him deeply. The look in his eyes had suggested the kind of betrayal one never gets over if delivered by someone they love.
Guilt of my unknown future made me look away first. The screen in front of me had changed. Scenes from some yet lived future played out like a movie on a streaming service, though anyone who walked up would see the genealogy charts that were truly there. Though, what was real and how did the universe direct us to perceive it? Quite the esoteric conundrum. If considering, for just a moment, how much of what we learned and believed colored the truth of what is actually in front of us? We each bring our own unique perspective to any situation. I was no different, though I had to deal with it exponentially some days.
“Here you go, Mal. Tell Kara I’m going to get down to the city next weekend.”
Those names snapped my head up again. The vision playing out on my screen cleared to reveal the chart. Two names were typed into the branches of a family tree: Malachi and Kara. Siblings. Not just siblings, but those from the Doran line.
I’d found one of the witches. Or more precisely: he’d found me.
Two
Kells
That might have seemed pretty damned easy, but it wasn’t. Far from it. Happenstance meeting in a diner of all places—pretty much a New York cliché. In reality, that had been the last time I saw Malachi Sayer for about two weeks. Oh, he was an elusive character. So much so that I’d begun to believe he was a man of myth. Note, he’d never been seen in the same room with Bigfoot or the Mothman that I knew of. But then I didn’t know everything about him.
Instead of cooling my heels and getting nowhere in Fox Run, I decided to take a trip down to New York City—or as the locals call it—the City—and check out the store his sister owned.
I registered at a little hotel across the Hudson then took the trains into the city proper. Nothing could have prepared me for the majesty and energy of walking the streets of New York. Everywhere I looked, pockets of the multiverse leaked over into our world. Eddies out of time and place hid on every street corner and behind building facades.
They winked in and out of existence like stars across a midnight sky. None of them stayed long enough for me to make much sense of the rhyme or reason, but they did mess with my head.
Unfortunately, the temporal soup created by so many time wells caused me to have what amounted to severe vertigo.
By the time I arrived at Kara St. Ives' shop door, my nerves were raw and rattled, and I could have used a cup of tea the size of a Buick
. No lie. Not even the Brits had enough tea to soothe the edges of my talent.
I pulled open the door and little bells tinkled over my head. Warmth and charm immediately began to dissipate the queasiness rolling through my system with all the finesse of a medieval plague. One deep, calming breath later, and I opened my eyes to take in the scene before me.
Smells and sights to inspire imaginations filled every nook and shelf. I may have melted a bit on the spot. I’m not certain because, about that time, someone grabbed my hand and pulled me deeper into the aisles and sat me on a chair in the corner of the showroom.
“Are you, all right? You look about to pass out.” The person in question immediately started fanning me with a brochure studded with all kinds of ring settings, sans stones.
I smiled up at the woman who looked about my age. With her long blonde hair and bright eyes she was the very picture of vitality. We were quite the contrast at the moment. “Do I look that bad?”
“Pale, as if you’ve had a shock.” She continued to fan me, but I was really rather cold at the moment, so I put my hand up for her to stop.
“I’m fine. Thank you. Just a bit overwhelmed walking through the city.” Enough of my Southern accent showed that the woman backed up a bit and looked at me through narrowed eyes.
“You aren’t from around here. Sometimes the actual size of the city takes tourists by surprise.”