Shadow Kissed: A Reverse Harem Paranormal Romance (The Witch's Rebels Book 1)

by Sarah Piper

  “Tracked her, most likely. Seemed to know a lot about witch magic. Signatures. I didn’t really get all the details—I was too busy countin’ the cash.”

  “Did you see him again after that?”

  “Not till a few days back. He asked me if I wanted to earn a little more green, make a little blood donation for his cause. Said his current connection was getting cold feet, and he couldn’t complete his plans for the witches without vamp blood. One of the panthers on the west side told me he was after shifter blood, too. Don’t know what that was all about.”

  “And tonight?” Ronan asked.

  Hollis shrugged. “A little more cash in exchange for an ambush—take out everyone but the witch. Should’ve been easy money for me and my crew.”

  Darius nodded toward the pile of vamp bodies behind them. “Next time, get a better crew.”

  “Let’s go back to the blood a minute,” Emilio said. “He wanted your blood for the witches, but did he ever say anything about you taking their blood? Turning them?”

  “Nah. If you ask me, the guy seemed a little unhinged. Ranting about wars and elemental magic and rightful guardians. Real crusader.”

  At his words, a creeping doubt crawled across my skin, slowly worming its way into my mind. I’d been trying so hard to convince myself that the killer wasn’t a Hunter. Other than the end result—dead witches—nothing about the crimes seemed to fit a Hunter’s M.O.

  But this stuff Hollis was talking about? Hunter propaganda at its finest.

  According to the lore, when humans first crawled out of the pond and starting showing survival potential, the Elemental Source had selected the strongest bloodlines to become witches and mages—female and male human guardians of Earth’s magic. They were given equal power and equal responsibility, but over time the mages turned into assholes, stripping the earth of much of her innate magic, hoarding power for themselves. The Source finally revoked the mages’ duties, leaving witches the sole guardians—and wielders—of Earth’s magic.

  The neutered mages could still sense the magic though—a connection that just couldn’t be severed. Eventually it drove them mad, and their once honorable bloodline evolved into a vicious order of men determined to eradicate witches and reclaim the magic they believed was rightfully theirs.

  These days, we called them Hunters.

  “What else can you tell us about this man?” Darius asked. “What did he look like?”

  “Built about like you,” Hollis said. “Guy was a fucking ginger, too. Greenish eyes. Wore some charm around his neck—got real touchy anytime someone asked about it. That’s all I know. I swear.”

  Dark eyes? Ginger? Charm?

  Fear gripped my spine, and I felt the blood drain from my face. My hands and feet began to tingle as panic edged closer.

  I sucked in another deep breath, trying to feel the beat of Ronan’s heart against my back, trying to steady myself.

  It couldn’t be him. It had to be a coincidence.

  You don’t believe in those, remember?

  “What kind of charm?” Emilio asked, and somewhere deep in the brittle bones of my heart where only the blackest memories lived, I knew what was coming next.

  “Some witch bullshit.” Hollis sketched shapes into the air. “Sideways crescent moon on the bottom, an eye made out of shiny shit on top.”

  “Shiny, like silver or gold?” Emilio asked.

  “Nah. More like—”

  “Opal,” I said, my hands completely numb now, my heart jackhammering. Magic tingled in my gut, slithering around my heart. I closed my eyes, every intricate detail of that eye coming into sharp focus in my memory. “With topaz and black onyx in a silver setting, cradled in a silver crescent moon.”

  Hollis snapped his fingers, then pointed at me. “Bingo. Looks like we’ve got our witch killer right here, Beaumont. How else would she know about the—”

  Darius didn’t give him a chance to finish. Just lit another match and tossed it.

  Hollis ignited so quickly, he didn’t even scream.

  It was over in seconds, Emilio dousing the charred mess with a fire extinguisher from under the sink.

  “Gray? What’s going on?” Ronan’s hands gripped my upper arms, but his voice sounded far away, like I was underwater. The room began to dim.

  “What’s wrong, querida?” Emilio asked, reaching for my hands. To Ronan, he said, “She’s cold as ice.”

  Tossing away the bloody blade, Darius turned to me, concern pinching the space between his dark brows.

  “Your heart rate is too high, love,” he said softly. “You need to calm down. Do you understand?”

  I tried to nod, tried to tell him that I heard him, but a searing pain split my skull. Brick by agonizing brick, the wall I’d spent nearly a decade constructing crumbled into dust. A tsunami of my most horrific, traumatic memories rushed through my body, slamming into me with wave after wave of pure, white-hot pain.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, but still the images came, a horror movie I could never truly escape.

  “What happened?” Darius asked Ronan.

  “I don’t know. Hollis was describing the charm, and she just freaked.”

  I finally managed a nod.

  “Gray?” Darius cupped my face, tilting it up toward him, his eyes frantic with worry. “What was Hollis talking about? What is this amulet?”

  My legs gave out, and Ronan caught me, holding me tight against his chest.

  When I finally managed to speak the words, I barely recognized the sound of my own paper-thin voice.

  “It’s a death sentence.”

  Forty-Seven

  Gray

  Phonecia, New York

  9 Years Earlier…

  Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.

  A fist pounded on the front door like a drum beat, rattling the cinnamon broom that hung inside.

  It was Thanksgiving, but weren't expecting company. We lived in a heavily wooded area on several acres of land at least a mile from the closest neighbor, and we never had people over to the house—something that had allowed Calla to continue practicing her solitary witchcraft in relative peace.

  Still, Calla didn't seem all that surprised by the visitor.

  She didn't seem happy about it, either.

  Across the table littered with remnants of the feast we had just finished, she watched me for a long moment. Neither of us moved to answer the door; food coma had already set in, and we hadn’t even started on dessert.

  The knock came again. Four times, just like before.

  I pushed out my chair. "I'll get it. Probably just—"

  “Listen to me very carefully, Rayanne.” Calla removed the napkin from her lap and folded on the table in front of her, her eyes never leaving mine. Though she spoke calmly, there was an edge in her voice I’d never heard before. "I want you to get your book of shadows and the money from the tea canister on my dresser. Take it and go into the basement. No questions. Do it now."

  I rose from my chair, panic spreading throughout my limbs like fire ants crawling on my skin. There was only one reason she'd send me to the root cellar with my book of shadows, but… no. It couldn't have been them.

  Hunters never knocked.

  “What about you?” Some part of me still hoped it was a drill, some weird new ritual she wanted to try out on me. “Should I get your book?"

  “No, that’s not necessary. I’ll be right behind you."

  I darted up the stairs to my bedroom and grabbed the book of shadows from my altar, then the money from her tea canister—a wad of bills and some loose change.

  When I got back downstairs, the front door was open, and Calla was speaking in hushed tones to a man I couldn’t see.

  I crept closer to the door, straining to hear.

  “—have 10 minutes," the man was saying. “Do what you can to protect her.”

  Calla thanked him and closed the door, turning to look at me as if she’d known I was there the entire time. Eavesdropping was against the rules
in our house, but she didn’t look angry.

  Terror clouded her light brown eyes.

  “Aren't you going to invite him in?" I asked, still hoping for a logical explanation. “It’s Thanksgiving. There’s still tons of food.”

  A warm smile spread across her face, and for a minute, I thought everything would be okay. But then she pulled me to her chest, and my last hope shattered.

  She hugged me like she knew it was going to be the last time.

  “You are going to be okay." She smoothed a hand over my braid, an intricate style I’d mastered for the holidays with the help of a dozen YouTube tutorials. “You're strong, you’ve got a beautiful soul, and there are many things you’ll accomplish in your lifetime, magical and mundane.”

  I opened my mouth to ask her why she was being so morbid, but a chunk of ice cracked off from the gutter out front and startled her into action. Without another word she ushered me down the stairs into the damp basement, straight to the root cellar—no more than a musty, glorified closet beneath the kitchen. The only light came through a half inch gap in the kitchen floor boards directly over my head.

  Fear pooled in my gut, making my knees wobbly. I wanted her to hug me again. To bury my face in her wild, curly gray hair. I wanted to follow her back up to the table, serve up a piece of pecan pie with too much ice cream, and laugh about how sick we would feel tomorrow morning.

  She handed me a bottle of water and a hastily assembled bag of leftovers. Then, she pressed her hand against the eye-and-moon amulet at her throat—a charm she’d worn for as long as I could remember—and whispered incantations I didn’t understand. My skin heated, a gentle pressure squeezing my chest. At first it felt like a hug, like strong but gentle arms encircling me and holding me close. But too quickly the arms tightened. It was hard to breathe. My heart hammered behind my ribs, but still Calla didn't stop.

  Just when I thought I would suffocate, she released me. Gasping for air, I stumbled backward, landing on the floor with a soft thud. When I looked up at Calla, her eyes were filled with tears.

  "I have loved you as my own. I hope one day you’ll forgive me for my secrets.”

  She slammed the door shut and bolted it. I heard her run up the main stairwell to the bedrooms upstairs at the same time the front door crashed open. I was powerless on the floor, winded and paralyzed with fear. I closed my eyes and forced my heart rate to slow, taking deep breaths of dank air that smelled of rotten apples and wet earth. I willed myself to go to my source, knowing that magic was the only way I could help Calla face whatever had just crashed through that door.

  But for the first time since I could remember, I couldn't get there.

  Overhead, the house shook with the boots of at least half dozen men, each set louder and more powerful than the last. They crashed into our home, destroying everything in their path—framed photos, flowers, Calla’s goddess statues, all the things I’d grown up believing would always be there. Would always be part of my home.

  It didn't take them long to find Calla. She'd been upstairs—I could picture her, kneeling before her altar, lighting white tea lights and praying to her goddesses to keep us safe. When they found her, they dragged her down the stairs and into the kitchen. Through the gap in the kitchen floor boards I watched her lips move silently, but whatever spell she was attempting to cast failed.

  The men tormented her, kicking and prodding, beating her with homemade clubs and fists and elbows until she finally dropped to her knees.

  “Beg, witch.” A short, broad man with a dirty blond beard fisted Calla’s hair, jerking her head back to expose her throat. “Beg for your life."

  Calla didn't beg. She laughed.

  “Filthy hunters,” she spat. “All this hatred, all this violence. Thousands of years spilling blood, and you're still as impotent as kittens.”

  Dirty Beard pressed the blade of his knife to her throat.

  In the movies, the bad guys always give long speeches, detailing their diabolical plans, giving the good guys plenty of time to plot their escape.

  But real life didn't work that way. There were no long speeches, no last-minute chances. There was only the hunter and his cruel blade.

  “You and your kind will burn, witch,” he said.

  At that, I found my voice.

  “Calla!” I screamed. “Mom!” I’d never called her that before, but I knew in my heart that she was my mother—biological or not. I called to her, over and over and over until my throat felt hot and raw, every breath like fire. The men didn't seem to hear me, but she did.

  Calla met my gaze through the gap, her eyes unwavering as I watched in horror, unable to move or reach my magic. Unable to do anything but look on, utterly helpless.

  “Survive,” she ordered.

  I watched them slit her throat, watched them shove her face to the ground, watched the wood of our kitchen floor run red with her blood. I watched them yank the amulet from her neck. I watched the light go out of her eyes, knowing that I should have been able to save her.

  My magic failed her.

  I failed her.

  My only hope was that when our souls met in death—soon, judging from the heavy footsteps clamping down the basement stairs—she wouldn't be too disappointed in me.

  “Find the kid." Dirty Beard shouted from the kitchen. “She’s in here somewhere.”

  The root cellar door rattled on its hinges as the men on the other side—two? Five?—pounded it with fists and boots, a crowbar, an axe. The door was made of flimsy wood held together with rusted metal brackets; I had no idea how it was still standing.

  “Damn thing’s warded,” one of the men shouted. “We can't get in."

  I heard them rummage through the rest of the basement. Shelving crashed to the floor, glass jars of peaches and tomatoes and rhubarb from the garden shattering. I wanted to scream, to roar like a lioness, to crash through the door and tear them limb from limb.

  But I couldn't move. I opened my mouth, and no sound came.

  Whatever the men were looking for, they must've found it. Cruel laughter filled the basement like water from a broken pipe.

  “Problem solved." Another bout of laughter sent a chill to my bones. Seconds later, I smelled the gasoline. Heard the metallic flick of a Zippo lighter, and knew with utter certainty that—wards or not—this was the end.

  My pants were warm with piss. I didn't even have the strength to close my eyes.

  The man tossed the lighter, then bolted up the stairs with the others. A wall of bright orange light rose up on the other side of the door, crackling as it took its first taste of the old, damp wood.

  Curls of smoke licked along the bottom and sides of the door, but the flames didn't penetrate. The root cellar remained cool.

  Footsteps thumped overhead again, and a guy not much older than me crouched down, suddenly noticing the gap in the floor.

  “I can see her!” He shouted, leaning close to glare at me. His eyes were the color of spring grass, set off by a mop of dark red hair.

  The sight shattered the last beating part of my heart.

  “The fire isn’t working,” he snapped. “She must be protected.” Something like remorse flickered in his eyes, but when his father spoke again, that look was quickly replaced with anger. With rage.

  “Handle it,” Dirty Beard said.

  The boy shoved his fingers through the gap—fingers that had once touched me so sweetly, so tenderly—but he couldn’t get any closer.

  Tears tracked my cheeks, but I didn't move, didn't back away. They couldn't kill me with fire, couldn't break down the door, but now I wanted to die. I couldn't imagine a life without Calla. Where ever she was going, I wanted to follow. I stretched up on my tiptoes, willing those desperate fingers to reach in, close around my throat, and crush my wind pipe.

  But no matter how hard I stretched, no matter how badly he wanted to hurt me, the boy couldn't get to me.

  "I can’t,” he told the man.

  Boots stomped across the k
itchen. Through the gap in the floor, Dirty Beard glared at me, his eyes full of a deep hatred I didn't think was possible for one human being to feel toward another.

  I’d never met him before.

  I wished I had. Maybe I could’ve changed his mind.

  "Last time I expect a boy to do a man's job.” He cuffed his son on the back of his head. By now smoke had clawed its way up the basement stairs, chased by the angry fire, and the man coughed. “Leave her, fool boy. Unless you want to burn."

  For a moment the rage in the kid’s face turned to fear, then sadness. But when he caught me staring, pleading, the mask of rage reappeared.

  He hissed at me through gritted teeth. ”I know your face, witch.”

  He spit at me through the gap, his warm saliva hitting the corner of my mouth, not far from the very spot he’d once told me was his favorite place to kiss.

  The green-eyed, ginger-haired boy I once loved, the boy who’d promised me the stars and taken everything I had to offer in return, rose to his feet.

  “Her magic protects you now,” he said, “but that’ll fade. When it does, I’ll find you.” Then, in a rabid voice that would haunt my nightmares for the rest of my life, he peered down one last time and made his final promise. “And when I find you, I will burn you.”

  Forty-Eight

  Asher

  She was only a kid. How the fuck had she survived?

  The more Gray told us about her mother’s murder—about the horrors that had brought her to the Bay and into our lives all those years ago—the deeper her words clawed into my chest, igniting a rage that damn near tore me in two.

  One side was desperate to hunt down the filthy beasts that had destroyed her life and brutally torment them for eternity.

  The other part of me just wanted to wrap her in my arms and erase every bit of that pain she still carried.

  Despite all the animosity between us, despite how I’d treated her, despite all the doubts I’d had about her place in Ronan’s life, she’d saved me tonight. And that kiss? Hell, she hadn’t just given me a hit of energy. She’d riled me up, gotten under my fucking skin.