“Once upon a time, there lived three witches….”
As a child, Amarrah loved her grandmother’s stories of three witches who were members of the king’s harem. But they were more than just stories. Amarrah knows she was there with them…and now their legacy, along with an ancient box that once belonged to them, lies in her hands.
Charged with keeping the box safe, Amarrah is heartbroken when it is stolen from her while she moves to America. Years later, she is shocked to see it on TV and is determined to get it back. Tracking the artifact leads her to Sergeant Harrison Brockson, a handsome soldier who stirs memories of a man she knew centuries ago in ancient Babylon. Is Harrison the key to finding the box—or could he be her destiny?
Prequel novella to Maggie Shayne’s exciting trilogy, The Portal.
Legacy of the Witch
The Portal
Maggie Shayne
Dear Reader,
I cannot tell you how excited I am to bring you this brand-new series, The Portal, about two subjects near and dear to my heart: witchcraft and the ancient Near East, in this case Babylon. It’s a series about magic, about reincarnation and about the greatest power of all: the power of love.
The series begins with this special prequel, Legacy of the Witch, the tale of Amarrah, slave girl to the harem. The series then continues with three full-length novels: Mark of the Witch, Indira’s story; Daughter of the Spellcaster, Magdalena’s tale; and Blood of the Sorceress, the saga of Lilia and the cursed Demetrius.
I’m launching a big gorgeous new website focused on this series and the art of magic, at www.theportalbooks.com. There you’ll find videos, music, excerpts and collectible trading cards, as well as lots of information about real magic.
I hope you enjoy these stories. I’ve had an absolutely magical time writing them.
Blessed be!
Maggie Shayne
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Epilogue
Chapter One
1981, Baghdad, Iraq
“Once upon a time, a long time ago, not very far away from here, there lived three witches,” my gidaty said, as she had so many times before. The story she told was an old and familiar one.
The first time my grandmother told me the tale of the three harem slaves of Babylon, I’d replied, “I know this story already.”
Her old eyes—not as old as they were now, of course, for I’d been only five years old then, and I was thirteen now—had widened at my innocent words. “You know the story, Amarrah? How, my little one?”
“I was there.”
Gidaty had been stunned, I could tell. “You were, were you?”
I’d nodded. I remember how clearly I’d been able to see it all in my mind. The glittering city of Babylon and the luxurious harem quarters where I’d been a servant. Slave girl to the slave girls. “I was a palace slave before,” I’d told my increasingly astounded grandmother. “I worked in the kitchens. But the other servants were mean to me. I had to do all the nastiest jobs. But then one day Lilia, the king’s favorite harem slave, asked him to send me to serve her and the others in their quarters. And from then on, I was so much happier.”
Gidaty had cupped my face and stared into my eyes. “I’ve not told you this story before, have I, child?”
“No, Grandma. I knew them. Lilia and Magdalena and Indira. I told you, I was there.”
She blinked and nodded. “Perhaps you were at that.”
Later, as I grew older, I came to believe it had been my imagination, that I was just very good at storytelling even then. That belief had led me to want to be a writer when I grew up. Over time, I’d forgotten which parts of the story my gidaty had told me and which parts I had told her. They had all blended together into a single compelling tapestry. But to me, it was all fiction.
But beloved fiction.
I knew the tales of the three harem slave witches so well I could have told them to my grandmother, instead of the other way around. And on days when her illness was very bad, she asked me to. I never refused. But that night when I was thirteen, when her voice weakened and I held the water glass to her lips, she didn’t ask me to take over. She sipped and swallowed, then fell back against her pillows, closing her eyes so I wouldn’t see her pain.
But I didn’t have to see it. I felt it.
I took the glass away when she’d finished. “They were the most beautiful women in all of Babylon, and beloved by the king, but they were keeping dangerous secrets,” I said, picking up where she’d stopped, even though she hadn’t asked me to. “The practice of magic was the right of the high priest alone. For anyone else to cast and conjure was considered witchcraft, and it was forbidden. And so were their loves.
“Indira had fallen secretly in love with a young priest of Marduk, the sun god. Very bad mojo, that. Magdalena loved the prince—the son of the very king she was bound to serve. That might have worked out all right, if things had been different. The king would have given her to his son had the prince but asked. But time ran out for them because of Lilia, who loved a soldier—the king’s most trusted, his First.”
Gidaty held up a hand to stop me. “We have to skip to the end this time, Amarrah. I don’t have much time.”
Frowning, I looked at the clock beside the bed, as if it would tell me something. It sat ticking softly beside the heavy black telephone. But in a heartbeat I understood. I was thirteen, after all. It wasn’t the ticking of the clock that had my grandmother rushing but the slowing, stuttering beats of her own heart.
“Should I call for help?”
“There’s no one to call. It’s my time, child, and you mustn’t be sad. All will be well, you’ll see. And we’ll be together again. Just like those poor cursed harem witches in our story.” She closed her hand more tightly around mine and whispered, “There’s so much I must tell you. Above all else this. It’s not a story at all, my girl. It’s true. All of it. But I think you already know that.”
My eyes widened, and I wondered if the drugs she took for pain were making her talk crazy. “Don’t be silly, Grandmother. Of course it’s a story.”
“You know it’s not. You knew the story before I’d ever told it to you. You were there.”
“That was just my overactive imagina—”
“You knew their names. Before I ever spoke them to you, you knew their names. Indira, Magdalena, Lilia. You knew, child.”
I lowered my eyes.
“We’ve kept the legacy of the three witches alive, kept their story alive, down through generations of our family. And something else, too, though I don’t know yet how it all fits, I think it will reach its culmination with you, my precious Amarrah. So you must listen to me now and swear to do as I say, or you will fail all those generations of your ancestors and the long-suffering spirits of those three women you once loved.”
I blinked back tears and told myself to just humor her, even while part of my mind was hungrily absorbing all she said. And believing, because part of me did believe. Part of me, perhaps, knew.
“Go to the painting, child.” Gidaty lifted a weak hand, pointing beyond the foot of her bed at the portrait on the wall. It was of the three women from our beloved story, three harem girls standing on a cliff, watching the sun rise over the desert. I’d always thought my grandmother’s story had been inspired by the painting. But now she said it had been painted by her grandmother, who had handed the tales down to her mother, who in turn had handed them down to her.
“Behind it,” she told me.
Frowning, I tried to lift the bottom of the painting away
from the wall so I could peek behind, but instead it opened like a door, and there was a wall safe behind it. I was shocked. I’d had no idea it was there in all the years I had lived with my grandmother. I had gone to live with her in 1973, when I was five and my parents had vanished, as so many did in Iraq in those times.
“Gidaty, what is this?”
“Turn the dial, Amarrah. One to the left, then all the way around sunwise, stopping at the nine the second time around. Back then to the six, and right once again, stopping at the two.”
I followed her instructions, then tried the lever, and the safe opened. I peered inside, wondering what secrets my grandmother had been keeping from me all this time.
There, inside, was a box. It looked like a miniature treasure chest, an ancient one. It was a couple of feet long, maybe half that deep, with a top that curved and was banded in black iron. It was locked with a hasp and antique padlock. I took it out of the safe with great care and brought it to the bed. “What is it, Gidaty?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never known. That box has been handed down through our family, from mother to daughter, for longer than I have ever known. You must take it now.”
I frowned. “And do what with it?”
“Keep it safe.”
“But—”
“Hush, now. Listen and I’ll tell you all I know, though it’s very little. That box belongs to the witches of our story. They will come to claim it one day. I know not when nor how. But I do know there are others, dark forces, who do not want them to have it, and who will try to take it from you.”
“So I have to hide it?”
“Yes. Hide it, and tell no one you have it. Keep it safe.”
“But how will they find it? When are they coming? How will I know them?”
She smiled softly. “You sound just like me when my own mother gave me the box. I didn’t know the answers then. I don’t know them now. I only know that you will know exactly what to do when the time is right.”
I nodded, wrapping the box in my arms, holding it against my chest. “All right, Gidaty. I don’t understand it, but I’ll do it.”
“Promise me, child. Promise me you will keep the witches’ box safe.”
“I promise, Tata.”
“Good,” she said softly. “Good.” She relaxed back on her pillows, closed her eyes and exhaled the words “I love you, Amarrah. You’re a very special girl.”
She didn’t breathe in again.
*
I was all packed and ready, the box hidden—as well as something that size could be—in my largest suitcase. I’d spent hours alone, trying to get it open in between long sessions of crying my heart out for my beloved grandmother, who’d gone and left me all alone, and full of fear over what would become of me now. The box had a padlock without a keyhole, and odd images painted in a grid pattern on the underside. Short of destroying the witches’ box, there was no way to get inside it. And part of me thought opening it would be a bad idea anyway.
My gidaty’s burial had been arranged before her death, and my airline ticket pre-purchased. Now that she was at rest, I was going to a world I knew nothing about, to live with cousins I had never met.
Part of me wanted to run away.
Later, when the rifle-toting security officer at the airport crooked his finger at me, calling me closer, I thought I should have listened to that part. “I need to see what’s inside this bag,” he said. He had eyes like black marbles, a moustache that covered his lips. He didn’t look like an honest man to me.
“It’s only my personal things,” I said.
“All the same.” He opened my case while I stood there, helpless to argue. Then his eyes fell upon the box and lit with greed. “What is this?”
“A family heirloom. It was my grandmother’s.”
He picked up the precious box, and I lunged for him, reaching out, but his arm—the one holding his rifle—shot out, and the cold metal barrel pressed across my chest.
“Open it,” he said.
I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “I can’t. I’ve tried and tried, but there’s just no way. It feels empty, though.”
He held the box up near his ear and shook it. “No, there’s something. Light, but still…. I’m going to have to confiscate this.”
“But it’s mine!”
“You’ll get it back,” he said. “Once I’ve cleared it with the Department of Antiquities. People are constantly smuggling treasures from our ancient sites, selling them on the black market.” He set the box down. My gaze remained pinned to it as I searched my brain for a solution.
Pulling a pad and pen from his uniform pocket, he handed them to me. “Write down the address of the place where you are going in the U.S. I will see to it that this is shipped to you once it has been cleared.”
I obediently jotted the address, and then a symbol, one my grandmother had taught me, because I wasn’t entirely powerless. It was a minor hex of sorts—for along with the history of the witches, a few of their skills had been handed down through the generations of my family. It was part of our legacy, and my grandmother had taught me all the bits and pieces of magic that had come down to her with the tales. So I drew the sign that would ensure he would know no peace until he returned the box to my hands.
I eyed the box, and while my head was down, muttered in a whisper, “I bind you now, oh box, to me, by the power of three times three, return return return to me.”
“What was that?”
“I was praying,” I said, straightening and handing him the paper. “That you would take mercy on an innocent orphan girl and not steal from her the last thing her dead grandmother gave to her.”
His eyes held mine for a long moment.
“I promise you will regret it if you don’t,” I added, letting my fury show in my face.
His marble eyes narrowed angrily. “It will be shipped to you when it clears the Department of Antiquities. Now go, before you miss your flight.”
I kept on staring. He thrust out an arm. “Go!” he shouted.
I knew I would be arrested if I stayed, so I went, feeling I had failed my grandmother utterly.
I didn’t see the box again for ten years.
Chapter Two
1992, Cortland, NY
I wasn’t much for television. At twenty-four, I was more concerned with finishing my final semester of university and doing freelance editing for a small publishing house on the side. It kept my writing skills honed, and it paid decently. And since I intended to be a successful author one day, it was nice to be working in what I considered my field.
Thoughts of Babylonian witches and curses and such rarely entered my busy brain anymore. And though the memory of that treasure chest haunted me, I’d pretty much written off the story—the mission—that had been given to me along with it. My grandmother had been only a few breaths away from her last, and heavily medicated. The stories she’d been telling and retelling to me, the ones her own mother had told to her and that went all the way back to the roots of our family tree, had probably seemed real to her, just as they had to me in my childhood. But it was easy to confuse a story that old, that much a part of the family, for something true, especially in a dying, morphine-muddled mind. And easy for a child of four—or one of thirteen—to get swept up in the delusion.
So I tried not to think too much about how I’d lost the box or how I’d failed to keep my vow to my dying grandmother, and I told myself it didn’t matter so much.
Until I saw the box again.
As I said, I wasn’t much for television, but I shared a house with seven other students, so the thing was always on. And as I walked through the living room one evening on my way to the library, feeling stylish in my black leggings with a long sweater over them and my backpack slung over my shoulder, I stopped in my tracks, fixated on the TV screen, where my gidaty’s prize possession was being handled by a TV show host.
“It’s a reproduction,” the man said, turning the box this way and that, exam
ining it as if he were a doctor and my grandmother’s treasure chest his patient. “But a very good one.”
“How can you be sure?” asked the gorgeous blonde who’d handed it to him. She had big hair. I wondered how she got it so high. In the nineties women in the U.S. had become like male lions, the bigger the mane, the more status they had. And hers was massive. Or she was from Texas. One or the other. My own hair was perpetually flat, sleek and black. There was nothing I could do about that.
“See these paintings on the bottom?” the man said as he turned the box over. “Someone added these after the box was made, so it’s not in its original condition. I believe they’re the images of various Tarot cards—except this one, which looks Egyptian. And the locking mechanism is…something I’ve never seen before. This padlock here—” he jiggled the black iron lock in his hand “—it’s got no keyhole. I have no idea how this box would open, or if it even does.”
The blonde blinked like a cartoon kitten. I could almost hear the plink-plunk of strings that went along with the motion. “Why would anyone make a lock that doesn’t open?”
“I have no idea. As a joke, perhaps?” The man set the box on the table. “You say you’ve never opened it?”
“No. But we haven’t had it that long.”
“It’s a fascinating piece,” he said. “Where did you ever find it?”
“My fiancé brought it back from the Gulf War.”
I shivered.
The host nodded. “Please thank him for his service for us. I think this box’s true value is something other than monetary.” He slid it across the table toward her.
“Are you saying it’s not worth anything?”
Wide eyes now. And kind of empty. Like her head, I thought.
“Two hundred dollars, perhaps. But I think your husband should keep it.”
“Fiancé,” she corrected.
One of the roommates had been saying my name over and over, but I was ignoring her because the lettering on the bottom of the screen had the woman’s name: Glenda Montgomery from Akron, Ohio. I burned it into my mind as the show went to a commercial.
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