Dark Witch: A Paranormal Academy Romance (Academy of the Dark Arts Book 1)

by Analeigh Ford

  Dark Witch

  Academy of the Dark Arts Book One

  Analeigh Ford

  Dark Witch by Analeigh Ford

  © 2019 Analeigh Ford

  All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of including brief passages for use in a review.

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

  For permissions contact:

  analeighfordauthor@gmail.com

  Ebook ASIN: B07XSNRM58

  Also by Analeigh Ford

  The Forgotten Affinities

  Absorb

  Adapt

  Abandon

  Academy of the Dark Arts

  Dark Witch

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  From the Author

  Chapter One

  A witch burns tonight.

  My hands pause, resting beneath the base of the window looking out on the walled garden below. The air is warm and still, but a chill sweeps over me from outside.

  I shiver. I can’t help it.

  That witch isn’t the only one whose life as they know it ends tonight. Tomorrow I’ll pass through the initiation rites with the rest of my peers before moving on to Highborne Academy for our first formal training in magic.

  But that’s tomorrow.

  Tonight, I just want to be reminded that not everything has to change. Some things, I tell myself, are meant to stay the same.

  “Come on, Wren, you’re letting in the cold.”

  Behind me, my boyfriend Edgar pulls a rough woolen blanket up over his exposed torso.

  “Sorry,” I mutter, reaching down to bundle my long dark cloak in my arms—but Edgar reaches out a hand to stop me.

  “You could always stay. Just a little longer.”

  He looks up at me with hooded golden eyes. His hand trails up my arm to play with the thin strap of my silk chemise, giving it a little tug so that it slips down over my shoulder.

  It’s not just an invitation to stay. It’s an invitation for more.

  More than I’m prepared to offer. At least—for just a little while longer.

  “Edgar . . .” I sigh, averting my gaze as the blanket around him opens to reveal his own near-naked frame. “You know we can’t.”

  But Edgar must see the way color rises in my cheeks, because he doesn’t stop. He rises to his knees, pulling me closer to him so he can plant a line of kisses up my arm—starting at my wrist and leading dangerously closer to the exposed flesh above my breasts.

  My breath quickens with the flutter of my heart. More cold air spills in from the open window, tempting me further.

  His voice croons between kisses. “What’s the harm in doing it now? We’ve already waited so long.”

  He glances up again through those long, dark lashes of his, and I nearly give in. After all, what would be the harm? It’s not as if I don’t want it too.

  Just the thought, however brief, makes the inside of my thighs ache.

  But we didn’t wait this long for nothing.

  As much as Edgar’s warm kisses and strong, rounded shoulders make me want to jump his bones right now—I summon every bit of willpower left in me and push him away.

  He falls back with a disappointed growl.

  “Fine then,” he snaps, drawing the blanket back up around him and nodding to the window. “Just don’t let out all the heat on your way out.”

  Oof. I’d be offended if this was my first experience with wounding a man’s fragile masculinity. But it isn’t.

  I just give Edgar a quick—if slightly condescending—kiss on the forehead and slip out into the night.

  My feet easily find footholds in the old cottage walls that have carried me out this window dozens, if not hundreds, of times before. The vines concealing those worn-down patches beneath Edgar’s window rustle in the dark, my hands snaking between their leaves to grab hold of the drainpipe until I’ve shimmied my way back down to solid ground.

  I have to stop for a second at the bottom, not just to gather my cloak from the damp grass, but to take in the garden around me. It’s strange to think I’ve spent the better part of the last four years sneaking in and out of here. Stranger still to think that tonight might be my last.

  The grass in the Evergreen’s garden is damp with dew, but I don’t mind. It muffles my footsteps as I slip out through the creaky garden gate and out into the narrow alley heading towards my own house across town.

  I shouldn’t be out this late, especially on a burning night. I can feel the riotous energy racing through the streets alongside me. There aren’t many humans out—they can usually sense these things too and are driven indoors, not really understanding why—but there are witches. Lots of them.

  I’d planned on sticking to back alleyways, staying out of trouble and away from any wandering eyes that might think it’s a good idea to let my mother know I’ve been out after curfew again . . . but the further I go, the more witches I see. They’re restless, anxious. They draw their cloaks and jackets around them, keeping their voices low and their heads ducked conspiratorially.

  And then I hear snatches of their conversation, and two words in particular pique my curiosity. They’re whispered over and over, down every alley, on the lips of every figure I sneak past.

  Dark Witch.

  I shiver again, but this time, I know why.

  I’ve never officially met a Dark Witch, but I’ve heard of them. Like Krampus or the boogeyman, Dark Witches were the villains of my childhood. They’re different though, because unlike those inventions of the imagination, Dark Witches are very, very real. And very, very dangerous.

  Just dangerous enough to make me check once over my shoulder to make sure I’m not being followed, and then slip down an alley to follow after a particularly chatty pair of witches headed towards the burning.

  I stick close to the walls, trying to stay out of the light of the streetlamps. Our local coven is small enough that if anyone looks at me too close, they’re almost guaranteed to recognize me. I’m supposed to be home preparing for tomorrow, but I was too restless. I had to see Edgar one more time.

  Now as we draw closer to the town square, where blue flickering light is reflecting off the walls and windows of the surrounding buildings, I’m t
oo curious.

  The crowd that’s gathered is the largest one I’ve ever witnessed for a burning. Nearly the entire coven must be out tonight. I recognize many faces; my teachers, the local healer, my next door much-too-nosy-for-her-own-business neighbor.

  Then there are other faces I don’t recognize. We don’t get many outside visitors from other villages, but the roman-cross emblem on their cloaks is all-too familiar.

  Crusaders.

  The faces of these self-proclaimed witch hunters stand out among the crowd for one reason; I’ve never seen so much hatred on a witch’s face. That same hatred is mirrored among the Crusaders, those witches who’ve taken it upon themselves to find and prosecute the most heinous of broken witch laws.

  That being, of course, witches who dare blur the lines between the two classes.

  Whether it be a Highborne Witch experimenting with curses or a Dark Witch simply setting foot on sacred Highborne ground, all those who break the law are in danger of finding a Crusader in their doorway. They do not discriminate, though more often than not, it does tend to be a Dark Witch burned at the end of their proverbial stake.

  As far as I know, they’ve existed as long as Witch Law. They answer to no one but themselves, which makes them less than popular with the local councils. No one likes a group that takes it upon themselves to play both judge, jury, and executioner—but for whatever reason, they’ve been allowed to continue.

  Probably because every attempt to quell them has only ever ended badly.

  If a Dark Witch showed up on my door, I’d be afraid they’d put a curse on me. If a Crusader showed up instead . . . I’d probably be dead before I had the chance to feel fear.

  It’s for that reason that I move a little further away in the crowd.

  Fortunately, these faces—familiar or not—don’t pay any attention to me. Their collective gaze is glued forward towards the figure standing center stage.

  At first glance he doesn’t appear any different from the rest of us, in fact, he could even be human. But the longer I stare, the more I can sense that magic washing off of him. I might not have my own magic yet, but I can still see the dark aura emanating off of him if I stare long enough.

  Even here in the black of night, it radiates ever darker.

  It moves like a second shadow, a darkness that glimmers and hugs the edges of his body.

  But what really strikes me are his eyes.

  He stares out at the crowd with determination. No remorse, no sorrow, not even fear. Whatever he’s here on trial for tonight, he’s ready to face it. I wonder if I’d react the same way, if I’d be ready to die so stoically for something I believed in.

  He’s not alone on stage. A small semi-circle of judges in white robes stand behind him. I recognize most of them, but at least one I’m certain I’ve never seen before in my life.

  The figure is decidedly male. He’s taller than anyone else on the stage, and his hood is up so I can’t get a good look at his face, but that doesn’t matter. I know the minute I lay eyes on him that I’ve never seen him before either, because it turns out the man on trial isn’t the only Dark Witch in the crowd. This man on stage, this judge, he’s a Dark Witch too.

  One Dark Witch here, in a Highborne village, is highly unusual. But two . . . and one of them a member on the judge’s council . . . that’s basically unheard of.

  I feel myself moving unconsciously further into the mob. The quiet chatter of the crowd dies down as one of the council members shuffles slowly to the very front of the stage.

  “It’s time.”

  Her voice crackles out, as thick with age as her shoulders are stooped. She’s raised her hand to point her wand, a bleached-white thing that looks as ancient as she is, to her throat in order to amplify her voice.

  “We, the council, have found this Dark Witch guilty of crimes against a Highborne Witch.” Even as she speaks, her hands begin to shake. “For the crime of bewitching and kidnapping a female witch, we condemn you to the only death appropriate. Death by fire.”

  As if sensing her words, the flames in the lanterns flash even brighter.

  Whispers break out in the crowd again—husky, angry voices.

  I catch the flash of another familiar face in the crowd beside me and have to duck back a step to hide. It’s the same neighbor, the one that’s always trying to catch me sneaking out my window just so she has something to complain about.

  She’s leaning in close to the man beside her, not even bothering to lower her voice. “I heard they took another back in Reeves. They’re getting desperate.”

  A thickness settles in the back of my throat. Bewitching and kidnapping. I’ve heard of this, heard of Dark Witches trying to steal away the women from other covens, but I thought it was just another story made up to frighten children.

  The man she’s speaking to doesn’t look away from the stage, but his whispered reply makes it back to where I’m hidden, listening. “That’s the fourth one this year. It must mean the rumors are true.”

  The rumors. There are hundreds of rumors, but I know which one he means.

  Dark Witches are dying out. We’ve all heard it, I just didn’t believe it.

  Those closest to the front of the stage step back as the rest of the council prepares to execute their judgment. The head of our local council, Warlock Wright, has stepped up to take center place on the stage. He raises his right hand, a polished wand pinched between his fingers. He opens his mouth to command the fire, but before he can, the other Dark Witch in judge’s robes steps up to his side.

  I can barely make out his face from beneath the shadow of the hood, but I catch a glint of bared teeth beneath.

  “Carlisle,” he says, his voice booming out above the crowd. “I think it only right I be the one to make the command.”

  Wright stops and glances his way, clearly annoyed. But whatever he sees there under the hood makes him stumble back, waving for this Dark Witch to take his place.

  The newcomer stands on the edge of the stage a moment, observing all of us. I notice that he doesn’t look at the accused.

  He raises his wand, his mouth poised to speak the word that will cause the blue flames to leap from their lanterns to engulf the kidnapper. I lean closer. It may be morbid, but I can’t tear my eyes away.

  There’s a shift in the crowd behind me, but I don’t notice until a hand clamps down on my shoulder, yanking me back and causing me to look away at the precise moment that those flames do leap into place.

  “Incantatrix ignis!”

  Rather than looking up at the burning corpse of the wayward witch, I look up into the golden-flecked eyes of Edgar Evergreen. The anger that welled up in me, readying me to strike out at the neighbor I’m sure is responsible, quells in favor of confusion.

  “Wren,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  I let him drag me further away from the crowd while the rest of the witches are distracted by the flaming form of the witch burning for his crimes. It’s fast. Within seconds, he’s turned to nothing—obliterated completely, not even ash left in his place.

  There isn’t even time to hear his screams. But there is just enough time for me to glance back once in time to see his face.

  “Wren?” Edgar’s voice drags me back down into an alley here, with him. My eyes keep flickering towards the now emptying stage until he pulls me further into the darkness behind a stack of crates. His hands clutch the upper part of my arms. “Wren, are you listening to me?”

  “Sorry,” I whisper back, my voice a little shaky. “I got distracted on my way home. I wanted to see . . .”

  I trail off.

  I didn’t think the burning would affect me so. It’s not the first I’ve seen—but something about his face won’t let me shake it off. His haunted, silent scream and wide, fearful eyes are burned behind mine every time I blink.

  I glance back once more, and I think he finally understands the look on my face.

  Edgar’
s own eyes soften as he reaches to brush a strand of dark hair away from my forehead. “Come on,” he says, tugging me further away from the square. “Let’s get out of here before someone spots us. I got worried when you didn’t write that you were safe. You know we’re not supposed to be out this late.”

  I know he’s right, and so I let him lead me away. My feet stumble a bit on the uneven cobble, and as I catch myself, I shoot a glance down another adjoining alley. For just a second I think I see another figure darting away. I only have a moment to watch, but it’s enough to make out his shadowy aura.

  Exactly how many Dark Witches are out here tonight?

  “What is it?” Edgar asks, his footsteps slowing.

  “I thought I saw . . .” I stop, spotting movement again, this time further on. I shake my hand free of Edgar’s, and before he can stop me, I’m in pursuit.

  The crowd has started dispersing from the square, so I’m quickly lost in the throng. I keep catching glimpses of the witch retreating, but I never quite get close enough to get a good look at him. Edgar, meanwhile, keeps calling after me—his face appearing and disappearing between the heads in the crowd.

  I’m about to give up when, several blocks later, I find myself completely alone. The crowd must have headed in another direction. It’s just me in the silence, standing beneath the light of a flickering yellow streetlamp.

  I double over, resting my hands on my knees. Witches were not made for running, or at least, this witch wasn’t.

  There’s no sign of the fleeing witch, but I refuse to believe I was just seeing things.