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

by Analeigh Ford

  Edgar looks at me like I’ve suddenly grown a third boob. “Of course he did. He was a Dark Witch.”

  I bite my bottom lip. “I know, I just . . .” and here I trail off. I just what? “I didn’t think it was so easy to enchant other witches like that.”

  They said he convinced her to run away with him through the inducement of magic, but I didn’t see her at the trial. Sure, I’ve heard the rumors that it’s been years since the last female Dark Witch was born. If it turns out to be true and things don’t turn around soon, their race will die. But still . . . doesn’t breeding with a Highborne Witch defeat the purpose? What kind of witch would that even be?

  “Don’t be so naïve Wren,” Edgar says, reading my thoughts. “Dark Witches will stop at nothing to get what they want. You mark my word, that witch deserved what he got last night.” He peers down at me with one eyebrow raised. “You do realize that, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” I snap, then stop myself before I go off on him again. I close my eyes and take a deep breath before looking back up into those golden eyes of his. “I’m just on edge, that’s all.”

  His body relaxes and brushes a fleck of dust off my shoulder. “I know,” he says. “We all are.”

  Overhead, the clock strikes noon. The rites will begin any minute.

  Edgar shifts a bit on his feet. “I was going to wait until after the ceremony,” he says, digging one hand into his pocket, “but I think now’s as good a time as any.”

  When he pulls his hand back out, he’s holding a tiny golden locket.

  Any hint of our previous argument vanishes with the breath in my lungs. I reach out to touch it, and the minute my finger presses to the metal, I feel a faint pulse.

  “It’s enchanted to mirror my heartbeat,” Edgar says, unclasping the chain and moving around me to hang it around my neck. I stand still until the locket comes to rest between my collarbones.

  I reach up once more to touch it gingerly, and am full-out grinning by the time Edgar steps back into view. “It’s so perfect.”

  Edgar kisses me once, softly, so as not to make any of the witches hurrying by cast us a disapproving glance. I could stand here forever in the shadow of the old building, but we’ve dawdled too long already.

  Hand in hand, we rush up the steps and into the theater together.

  The place was built to replicate the Odeum, a Greek theater consisting of an indoor semi-circle of seats surrounding a stage at ground level. It might have once housed plays and orchestras, but for the last century or so it’s been home to the initiation rites that bind our Highborne covens together.

  In the middle of the stage is a pool of silver water. Though the air inside is still, it ripples and forms patterns as if moved by some otherworldly breeze. Some say that’s exactly what it is, that it’s the souls of past witches stirring the water from beyond the veil that separates this world from the next. Personally, I just think it’s been enchanted to look like it, but I’m a bit of a skeptic.

  I don’t care for all the pomp and circumstance. I just want to get to the real thing, to the magic. For eighteen years I’ve been surrounded by it, but I’ve never really been a part of it. Now, at long last, that’s all about to change.

  We’re some of the last ones to arrive. Somehow even my mother got here before us—but she can teleport and we can’t yet, so it doesn’t count. Edgar squeezes my hand one last time before we separate to find our designated spots up front with the other initiates.

  Many of the judges from last night’s burning stand on the stage before us. It’s odd to look down at the faces of the council members I saw condemning a man to death last night, only to step up and welcome us to our new lives in practically the same breath.

  There’s a general unease rustling through the crowd today. It’s an excitement, a disturbance of the status-quo. It’s easy to forget in the rhythm of small village life that there’s a whole world out there, just beyond the edges of our cobbled streets.

  I crane my neck a bit to try and get a better look at who’s down below. Everyone from last night is present except for the notable exception of the Dark Witch judge and the white and red caped Crusaders. Not that they’d have any business here in the first place.

  Our judges might begrudgingly accept the witches the Crusaders bring in for trial, but they’re careful not to condone the rather . . . unorthodox . . . methods they’re known for.

  I’ve always seen them as a sort of band of over-zealous vigilantes. They’re fighting for the peace of our kind just like everyone else, if in a slightly more aggressive way. Last night was the first time I saw firsthand the bloodthirst that drives them, and it left me unsettled. That sort of rage and hatred is blinding, even to the most well-meaning of witches.

  My hands fidget at the new locket around my neck as Warlock Wright is the first to finally step up. As if sensing the disturbance, the pool of water in front of him ripples even more violently. It reflects shimmering flashes of the lights floating overhead—little glowing orbs that hang in the air in the shape of chandeliers.

  “Welcome, witches,” he begins, his voice amplified across the theater’s seats. “Today we celebrate the most important of moments in a young witch’s life.”

  He motions for one of the other judges to step forward and they do, carrying with them a long curved blade on an ornate pillow.

  Whispers break out along the edges of the room, and even I have to lean in closer to give it a better look. I’ve seen this knife many times before, but it doesn’t fascinate me any less.

  There’re a handful of objects imbued with power from the old magic, and this blade’s one of them. Said to possess the power of both light and dark magic, the Elder Blade has been used in Highborne ceremonies as long as anyone can remember.

  Suddenly, my palms are inexplicably sweaty and my heartbeat has quickened to the pace of a galloping racehorse.

  “Once again you’ve honored us with your commitment to the path of light, and so we honor you with the most ancient of magic.”

  Warlock Wright’s wand materializes in his hand and he reaches for the knife, moving in careful, methodical movements. The blade catches the light with a razor-sharp edge. Though it’s been used for centuries, it’s never needed to be sharpened. Like the pool of water before it, it’s supposed to carry with it preternatural abilities. But unlike the pool, this I actually believe.

  With everyone’s eyes glued to the blade, I lean forward a bit and try to catch Edgar’s eye. He too, along with everyone else, is focused on the relic. I quickly sit back and look down on Warlock Wright as the judge carrying the pillow steps back into line.

  As I’ve witnessed every year since I can remember, Wright begins a series of Latin incantations to officially begin the ceremony. With each word he speaks, the pool of water in the center of the stage swirls a little faster. Faster, faster, faster—until the water moves like a spinning galaxy of tiny, twinkling lights.

  And then, just as quickly as it begins, the water stills. Warlock Wright’s incantation is over, and the ceremony has begun.

  “Edgar Evergreen.”

  My boyfriend steps forward down to the stage, his shoulders pulled back and his head held high. I can’t see his face from where I’m sitting, but I imagine it’s as stoic as his posture.

  But even Edgar’s hands shake when he holds out his palm.

  In one clean movement, the Elder Blade pierces his skin and sends a trickle of blood cascading down into the pool. The moment his blood touches the water, it glows a golden yellow color.

  Edgar’s eyes are fixed to the pool for a moment, his hair matched with the glow emanating from within.

  Some witches see premonitions in the pool, a brief glimpse into the future that can await—fate willing. I wonder what Edgar sees, if anything.

  After a moment, the glow shrinks and compacts along the surface of the water. It gathers together like tiny pinpricks of glowing dust until a shape begins to take form. A long, slender wand appears in
the center of the glow.

  Edgar’s wand.

  I’m close enough to see it’s straight and smooth, but very slender. When he picks it up, it bends just a little; probably made of willow. It’s not as common as oak or birch, but I can tell he’s just the littlest bit crestfallen. He’d hoped, like all witches secretly do, for an ash wand. All the greatest Highborne witches have them.

  Edgar bows to Warlock Wright and moves to stand in front of the row of judges. If I stare at him just right, I can still see that golden glow from the pool forming a faint outline around his person. His aura will remain that bright golden color until, over time, it fades into something more uniquely . . . Edgar . . . as his magic develops and his true inclination takes form.

  The next witch is called. And then the next. We’re called according to birth order, and since I was a last-second birth on this very night eighteen years ago, I have to wait until all the other witches are initiated before I get to hear my own name called. With each passing rite, I feel my pulse race faster.

  Until finally, at long last, my own name is called.

  “Wren Davies.”

  I stand, hands shaking, and for one moment I’m unable to move. My hands clench and unclench at my sides, and though the moment is so short it barely lasts a single breath, it feels like an absolute eternity.

  I look for my mother in the crowd, but I don’t spot her right away. Then we lock eyes and once again, I see a curious emotion there. Her face is pale, her hands clasped in front of her as if in silent prayer. And there, behind those green eyes I inherited from her, is that inexplicable fear.

  Warlock Wright clears his throat. “Wren?”

  My feet stumble over themselves as I clamber down to the stage floor. Up close, Wright looks older than he did last night. The corners of his mouth are turned down in a permanent scowl now directed at me.

  I stand there awkwardly for a moment, just peering at the great magic caster until he impatiently reaches over and snatches my hand out—holding it palm-up over the pool.

  The blade catches the light, reflecting that scowl back up at me as it slices across my palm. I wince in pain and blood pools in my hand, gathering for a moment before dripping down to the still water below.

  I prepare for the golden glow, for the sweep of power through my body as the magic locked within finally rises to the surface.

  But it doesn’t come.

  Instead, I am slammed with a wall of power so strong it knocks me flying back. My feet leave the stage, my body propelled several feet backward until I crash into the front row of onlookers.

  It isn’t whispers that break out this time, but full-blown uproar. The entire stadium around me gets to their feet, their voices growing louder as I struggle to disentangle myself from the knees and elbows I’ve been blasted into. I stumble forward onto my hands and knees, my breath returning to me in ragged gasps. When I lift my head again I see why the faces around me are glaring back like I’m the devil incarnate.

  The pool, once still and silver, has turned into a bubbling black pit. No premonition reflects back at me, but still, I see my future.

  And it’s Dark.

  Chapter Four

  “Dark Witch!”

  The accusation echoes in my ears, it ricochets off my thoughts, it steeps into the parts of my mind that are supposed to be only my own. There’s no escaping them. Nowhere to hide, not even inside myself.

  I glance up into the crowd, looking for my mother—but I don’t find her. I think, for a second, that she must just be lost among the people shifting unsteadily on their feet. But my eyes search their faces, my glance growing ever more frantic, and I can’t see her anywhere.

  She’s gone—vanished in the panic that ensued moments earlier.

  Warlock Wright is the only witch who hasn’t cowered back. He, like me, was thrown in the blast as whatever dark magic that now resides inside me overflowed. He stands at the ready, his knees bent, his arm outstretched, and his wand pointed directly at my heart.

  I start to straighten, but I do so slowly so no one tries to blast my head in just yet. It’s a surprisingly difficult task, as both my knees are knocking like an unwanted salesman at the door.

  I try to keep my eyes on Warlock Wright, but something in the middle of that mass of roiling black tar that was once the silvery pool catches my eye.

  A hard crust has begun to form in the very middle, not unlike the crackling surface of cooling lava. As I stare, the eyes all around the room start to follow my gaze.

  Before I can try to reach it myself, Warlock Wright has sprung into action.

  First, he flicks his wand and calls out, “Veni!”

  He repeats it several times but nothing happens, so he lunges forward and reaches into the pool with his bare hands. He doesn’t even come close to the center before he has to stumble back, howling, clutching his hand as blisters form on the surface of his skin.

  The rest of the judges stop closing in and take a step back. They raise their wands, but they’re pointed at the pool, not me.

  “Stop!” Warlock Wright calls, and they pause. “It’s cursed. There’s no telling what will happen if you try to destroy it.”

  It. Though I cannot fully make it out through the rising steam, I know exactly what it is.

  And I can’t take my eyes away from it. Warlock Wright takes another step away, his injured hand cradled in his good one. I take a hesitant step forward, glancing up at him and the others. When no one tries to kill me, I take another step, and then another.

  The room’s started to quiet. I can still hear murmurs—some desperate, others angry—but at least they’ve stopped shouting. I can feel their eyes on me as I crouch down at the edge of the steaming pool and reach into the center for the object that’s formed inside.

  The black substance sticks to the wand like taffy—pulling in long strings as I lift it from the pool. It’s warm to the touch, the steam itself hot enough to burn, but it doesn’t so much as turn the skin of my arms red.

  I raise my wand up and try turning it in the light, trying to get a better look at it. It’s so black that it doesn’t look real. It absorbs all the light around it, making it look like a wand-shaped hole torn in my vision. I’ve never seen anything like it. As far as I know, it isn’t even made of wood.

  But my examination is cut short as suddenly, everyone around me springs into action.

  This whole time the judges must have been communicating silently, using some spell to plan out their attack, because they move as one unified body.

  First, all the new initiates disappear from the stage. I don’t even have time to try to lock eyes with Edgar before he too has vanished in that blue crackle of electricity common to the unspoken iter spell. Then, before I can even think of attempting some escape of my own, a dark hood is tugged over my head and I am thrown into utter, senseless silence.

  I can’t see. I can’t hear. I can’t even feel.

  The enchanted hood not only blocks my sight, but blocks all my other senses as well. I can’t even feel the floor that is, I can only hope, still beneath my feet. I try to reach up and rip the hood from my head, but I’m not sure I can move my arms.

  And then, just as quickly as I was thrown into darkness, I’m suddenly blinded by a rush of light and cool air as the hood is removed.

  It’s only after a second that I realize the overwhelming, terrorized scream that fills my ears is coming from my own throat.

  “Please, Miss Davies, compose yourself!”

  My scream ends in a strangled note as I clamp my jaw shut and blink up into the lights bearing down on me. It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust from the sudden darkness, but it’s immediately clear that we’re not in the theater anymore.

  The judges stand in a circle around me, with me sitting on a chair at their center. My arms and legs aren’t bound, and I’m surprised to find the pitch-black wand still clutched between my fingers. I guess that after Warlock Wright’s encounter, none of them dared try to pry it fr
om me.

  A persistent itch begs to be scratched where the hood tightened around my throat, but the minute I raise my hand, a dozen wands lift to threaten me. I stop and hold up both my arms in surrender, my own wand dangling uselessly between my thumb and forefinger.

  “Stop,” I say, trying to keep the panic from my voice. “I couldn’t cast a spell even if I wanted to. But if it’ll make you feel better, here.”

  Slowly, ever so slowly, I lean forward and place the wand on the ground in front of my feet. As soon as it leaves my hand, I feel a strange emptiness fill its place. The tips of my fingers prickle to grasp it again, but I force myself to sit back in the chair and survey the scene around me.

  Warlock Wright steps forward into the light. “How’d you do it?” he snaps, his own temper left unchecked. “How did you hide it all these years?”

  I blink back up at him, annoyance pressing my tongue to lash out at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say through gritted teeth. “I have no clue what the hell just happened.” I nod down at the wand by my feet, my mind flashing back to the pool turning black and oily. “Don’t even get me started on what that is.”

  All eyes return to stare at the black wand in front of me on the floor.

  “It’s the mark of a Dark Witch, that’s what,” Wright spits.

  A woman steps out of the shadows to stand beside him, reaching out a steadying hand to rest on his shoulder. I’ve seen her before. I think her name is Cressida. She’s the one who announced last night’s judgment in front of the crowd.

  “If I may, Wright,” Cressida says. She steps a little closer, crouching slightly to look me in the eyes. “There’s only one right way to do this.”

  She pulls a tiny vial from her pocket. The amber liquid shimmers inside, swirling of its own accord.

  “Wren, if you wouldn’t mind?” She holds it out to me. “It’s the only way they’ll believe you.”

  I survey her warily. I’ve seen this witch at town hall meetings and past initiation rites. Though we’ve never interacted personally, I trust her more than I do Wright . . . so I reach out and take the vial of truth serum.