The Awakening: A Witch-Vampire Romance: Feel the Heat.

by Anastasha Renee

  The Awakening

  Anastasha Renee

  This Book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, duplicated, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  ©Text Copyright 2014 Tasha Gwartney

  Cover By Tasha Gwartney

  All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious and are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual events, or locales or persons, living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  This book is dedicated first and foremost to GOD who always picks me up when I fall, and to my wonderful husband and gorgeous little man, who have always supported me in any crazy scheme that I have wanted to get into. I also want to dedicate this book to the readers that will take this long journey down an uncertain path with me. I have created this world, picked it out of my imagination and brought it to life on paper for you to enjoy, but with each page you turn, you are the breath that keeps this world alive. That keeps this journey everlasting. So thank you. Without readers, stories lay stagnant collecting dust.

  Prologue

  “How could you have let that fanged louse get you with child,” Morgana asks her sister with seething anger lacing her voice. “How is it even possible for you to get pregnant? Goddesses don’t have spawn…We have to get rid of it. We have to fling this thing inside of you to the wind and hope that it doesn’t come back to haunt us later in life,” Morgana orders her sister who is crying tears of pain and despair.

  Laying beyond the veil, mourning the loss of her lover, her potential mate. Hekate realizes that her sister is right. She can’t give birth to an abomination. A crossbreed. But she realizes that she can store the light. Store it until the right time, implant it into a loyal mortal, then guide it…Make it into something that will seek revenge upon the one that spurned her and the gifts that she bestowed upon him. Hekate lays her hand upon her stomach and feels the light there, it is a tiny thing. But it burns oh so bright. Like a star trapped within a darkened shroud.

  “You will become my own, then I will turn you into my ultimate weapon little one,” Hekate tells the light glowing within.

  Morgana smiles a wicked smile once she sees the malicious intent written upon her sister Goddess’s face.

  Let the games begin…

  Chapter 1.

  I am sitting in the back of our tiny white church, in a pew all to myself, as usual. Being the preacher’s kid doesn’t exactly make you Miss Popularity. I have listened to my father go on and on about the sins of the flesh so many times that it all sounds like static white noise anymore. But just then, smack in the middle of the climax of his sermon, the back doors of the chapel swing open with a huge bang. The noise fairly vibrates throughout the whole congregation. The look on my father’s face is comical. I bet he wishes he could catch everyone’s attention that well. Everyone swivels in their seats to get an eyeful of the late comer. I’m not the only one with my chin hitting my knees. He is a beauty, the purest form of male beauty that I have ever looked upon. I nickname him the Nordic god for posterity’s sake.

  There he stands with the sun shining behind him, looking around our gloomy existence. I’m gaping in utter shock at what I am seeing in front of me. He is the man from my dreams. I have been dreaming about him since I was a small child. The dreams always carry me within different worlds or different times, but there is always one constant. Him. I don’t know his name, but his face is as familiar to me as my own. And now he is standing there looking around as if he is searching someone or something out.

  I am sure I can picture what he is seeing. Sardines. Mediocre Sardines. That’s what our congregation reminds me of, so why not him? He continues to look from right to left as if he is really searching someone out. Then his eyes meet mine. I swear I was struck by lightning. Hair standing on end. Electro shock. That’s what that first glance feels like.

  When his eyes meet mine, his facial features don’t change. He just simply stops looking for anyone else. He just pauses, lifts a brow, in that really annoying way that only hot people can pull off, and he actually smirks at me. Like there is something on my face. I lift my hand, searching for whatever it is about my face that he finds so amusing. I find nothing. So I guess it is just me. Yay! So my luck.

  So I do what every self-respecting eighteen year old girl should (notice I don’t say would) do. I flip him the bird, smirk right back at him, and turn my apparently humorous ass around in my pew. Yup, I am quite proud of myself at this moment. I hid my shock at finally seeing this man in the flesh quite well, if I do say so myself. And I didn’t fall to the floor like a simpering fool. The man is that gorgeous. Judging by the other gaping sardines surrounding us, I am not the only one to think so.

  My reaction elicits a booming belly laugh from the Nordic god. It sounds kind of rusty, so he probably isn’t used to laughing. Or maybe he just isn’t used to a member of the female race not simpering. I give myself an inner shrug and struggle not to turn around and watch what he might do next. Like I said, nothing interesting ever happens here. So it is almost painful to make myself refrain.

  About two minutes into my staring at my father’s flabbergasted face, I hear another slam. One I assume is due to the doors closing. I wonder what would make someone want to announce their arrival in such a way. Interrupting a conversation was one thing, but a closed assembly? The boy has stiff biscuits, I’ll give him that. It takes my father all of three seconds after the interloper’s departure to call the attention, once again, upon himself. Pffffft. And he calls me an attention whore. And I’d wondered where I got it from.

  My mother moves to my pew and hisses something in my ear that I’m not quite paying attention to.

  “Why can’t you just pay attention for once Ella? It shouldn’t be that hard. You have been listening to your father lead his flock since you were in diapers.”

  I turn to her and stare blankly, thinking that maybe if I wasn’t subjected to the same wonk, wonk, wonk of my dad’s voice day in and out, I wouldn’t have a problem hearing or at least pretending to be interested in what he had to say.

  “Mom, I wasn’t the only one distracted by the commotion. I think you might have a bit of drool on your chin.” I point. “Just there.”

  She gives an offended huff, straightens in her seat, and pretends, just like the rest of us, that my father is God’s gift to seminary.

  Once the droning on and on is finished, we all file out of our seats and down the aisle like the good little Chiclets that we are. We shake hands at the front doors and half heartily invite various other sardines over for Sunday brunch. In a small town like ours, you always attend church on Sundays. It doesn’t matter if you are a true believer or if you are pretending to believe. You show up. If you don’t, you get blackballed. No one wants to be the person that gets sneered at for actually being honest about what they believe. I wish I was that brave.

  The next morning I wake up to my mother’s screeching. This isn’t the first time that I have woken up to her screaming like that. I am sure it won’t be the last.

  .

  “Ella!”

  It is my mom yelling for me to get my lazy bum out of bed and not my alarm making the annoying sounds. The alarm clock doesn’t give me headaches in the mornings. She does. I turn over and try to squeeze fifteen more minutes out of my sleepy time, or at
least wait for my alarm to go off at the time I set it for. Nope, isn’t going to happen this morning.

  “Ella! Get out of bed before I get the ice water,” she screeches.

  Yes, she really would dump ice water on me. What a loving maternal figure.

  I roll my ‘lazy’ ass out of bed, reaching for the alarm. It starts to buzz right before I touch it, then sizzles to a stop as soon as I touch it.

  Well another one bites the dust, I think to myself.

  I wish I knew why I have this static electric thing stuck inside me. I fry or shock myself on pretty much anything metal that I touch. Thank goodness I have learned to hide it well. Sometimes I don’t even notice it anymore.

  I stumble for my shower, hoping against hope that I won’t bang my toe against something on the way. This is the first day of my senior year at the high school here in town. I wish I could be more excited, but I am just expecting the same bullshit, the same clichés, the same who is wearing what and what great stupendous things they try to play off that they’d done over break. There is one bright spot, I think. Maybe the Nordic god will be attending, or maybe I need to stop with the wishful thinking already. I laugh at myself and roll my eyes. I just am not that lucky.

  I stay in the shower until the water starts to run cold, then jump out and towel off, wondering what I am going to throw on to wear that will actually pass muster. My parentals won’t let me leave the house unless I look like something from an Amish settlement. Well they can try at least. I am technically an adult, being eighteen, so they can’t say much as of my last birthday. They can hem and haw about whatever they want, but I can also move out of this hell hole that has everyone fooled into thinking that we are the perfect fifties sitcom family. We have to keep up appearances after all.

  I stand in front of my mirror and really look at myself. It isn’t the first time I have noticed that I don’t look anything like my parents, who are both short with mousey brown hair and simply boring features. I, on the other hand, topped off at 5’11” last year, have long, stick-straight black hair that falls to the middle of my back, and a slender body with curves in all the right places. But the feature that stands out the most are my eyes. They look green even from a distance, but up close they are a startling jade, and when I am angry, they fairly glow.

  When I was three and decided to throw a fit because my mother wouldn’t let me go out and play with the other kids at the playground outside the church, she shrieked as if Satan had just poked her in the ass with his giant fork. My eyes had glowed like I was possessed by a demon; at least, that was Mother’s account of what had happened. She and my father tried to have a Catholic Priest perform an exorcism on me. That didn’t quite work out like they had hoped, considering the priest had laughed until he was crying after he met me. Such loving parents I got saddled with. I have always wondered if I was adopted. Hoped really, but they always clam up and deny it.

  What really draws attention, aside from my eyes, is my face, although I don’t really see what the big deal is. To me it is just a normal face, just simply me, but my best friend, Jessa, says otherwise.

  “Wench, you have a face that could launch a thousand hard-ons. And you don’t even see it. It just makes the masses of jock-strap swinging boys at our old school want you even more,” she always says.

  Speaking of Jessa, I hear her blaring the horn from the front drive of our two-story craftsman-style home. She refuses to step foot in my home. Not that I blame her. Not in the least.

  I stop scrutinizing myself, run for my closet and pull out the first thing I find. I throw on a short, light-washed denim skirt that is frayed around the edges and a gray fitted tee. I start searching the mound of shoes in the bottom of my closet for my red chucks, and once I put them on I slap on some deodorant, grab my Coach Messenger bag, spray on some Tommy Girl, and run out the door. I’ll just have to braid my hair and spackle on some make-up in Jessa’s car. I hope she drives decently or I am going to lose an eye trying to apply my eyeliner. I have always loved Mondays and this is the perfect start to one.

  My mother stops me on my way out the door.

  “What on God’s sacred earth are you wearing, Ella?” She is practically screeching again.

  Omgosh does she always have to make her voice so shrill? I think.

  “Listen, I’m running out of time. I’m well and truly late! I can and will wear what I want and how I want to wear it. If you don’t like it Mother, then please make a scene. I’m sure your cronies down at the quilting circle would love to hear all about it!”

  “You are truly a child of sin,” she accuses.

  “And what does that make you, Barbra? I’m your child after all. Aren’t I,” I reply.

  I am pretty sure by this point that my mom is going to blow chunks. She looks sweaty and grayish. This is definitely my cue to leave. I book it out the door as fast as my chucks will carry me and jump in Jessa’s clunker, banging the door closed. I sit in the passenger seat panting, wondering what the next thing to jump out at me this morning will be. Jessa is looking at me like I’m crazy.

  “Drive dill hole, she’s in a mood this morning. You should have seen her face when I tried to leave just now. She looked like she wanted to claw my eyes out for not wearing the Amish clothes she bought me over the summer. Ugh,” I explain in exasperation.

  “We are seniors now…Why is she still trying to buy your clothes for you? I swear that woman gets more controlling every day,” Jessa tells me in an exasperated voice.

  She guns it out of our drive and squeals her tires as she shoots down my quiet little street. I am sure our neighbors are probably on the phone with everyone they know, exaggerating everything they saw out their windows this gosh awful morning.

  Jessa nods to herself.

  “Your momma is seriously cray, cray,” she says, explaining it as only Jessa can.

  I can’t help but laugh. This is why she is my best friend. Like me, she doesn’t come from the best home either. Her mom almost died of cancer when Jessa was ten and her father works all the time. Sure, he buys her whatever she wants, but what she really and truly wants is a parent that gives his time, not one who writes a check and calls it a day.

  I met Jessa when we first started junior high. We had lockers next to one another and I had been blocking her way. She called me a wench and told me to move my Amazonian ass so she wouldn’t be late to her next class. And I have loved her blunt, brash ass ever since that day.

  In the looks department we’re basically polar opposites. I’m tall and mostly slender, but she’s short with banging curves, topping off barely over five feet. And while my hair’s coal black and stick straight, hers is short, curly and golden blonde. When you see her, you see a Monroe look alike, until she opens her mouth. Then you have to wonder what trucker crawled up her ass and took control of her speaking functions. Some of the most outrageous things can slip out of her mouth at the most inconvenient times. The girl truly doesn’t have a filter. It’s one of the many things I love about her.

  We pull into the student lot, careening around like we are on a race circuit. Didn’t I tell you the bitch can’t drive? Well she can’t. Every time I ride with her, I make good use of the ‘oh shit’ handle. Trust me; it could make the least religious person start to pray with her behind the wheel. We swerve into the only open space near the front of the lot with smoking, squealing breaks. I look over at Jessa and give her the stink eye.

  “What? You know I know what I’m doing, girly. Stop being such a priss and just go with it.”

  Yeah like that is going to happen.

  “Have you ever heard of Driver’s Ed? Yeah, well your mini me ass needs to enroll ASAP!”

  “Don’t call me short, glamazon. You know you wish you looked like this.”

  She looks herself up and down. She is wearing black leather leggings, an off one shoulder sparkly yellow top, and the highest black booties I have ever seen. They have to be at least six inches high. I just roll my eyes, step out of her death
trap, shrug my bag across my body and wait for her while she gathers her things from the front of the car. I seriously don’t have a clue how she can saunter in those shoes. They would trip me up with every step. When she finally makes it over to where I am standing, strutting her shit the entire way, she pulls her new schedule out of her Gucci bag.

  “So, how many classes do we have together for this semester,” she asks as we start walking through the hordes of other students toward the front doors of our tiny in town, local high school.

  Pinewood High School has an amazing student body count of only twelve hundred. Everyone knows everything and everyone’s business. Again, the joys of living in a small town. Nothing changes. Everything stands still. Stagnant. I reach into the back pocket of my skirt, take out my schedule that I had gotten at orientation, and hand it to her. She had gotten hers at the same time. But my guess is that she forgot to ask to compare them then because she was too busy checking out the local male specimens.

  “Squeeee,” she suddenly bounces like a little kid at Christmas.

  ”We have five out of seven classes together and we both break at the same time for lunch. GO US,” she shouts. “I’m so glad we’re going to be here together, Ella. Seniors!! Can you believe it? I wonder if we have any fresh meat that I haven’t seen yet. The buffet around this town can use some new sumthin, sumthin. Ya know?”

  That’s when I see him, the Nordic god, standing off to the side almost directly in our path. I look quickly down at my feet, trying but failing to fight the full body blush that I can feel coming on. Keeping my head down isn’t going to work, so I peek up through my eyelashes to check that he hasn’t caught me blushing.

  That would seriously be cringe worthy. To be caught fawning over him like some simpering, stuttering school girl, I think.