The Witching Elm (A Memento Mori Witch Novel, Book 1)

by C. N. Crawford

  The Witching Elm

  Book 1 of the Memento Mori Series

  C.N. Crawford

  Contents

  Description

  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

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Epilogue

  Stay in Touch

  About the Authors

  Sources

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Description

  Seventeen-year-old sorcerer Tobias Corvin tumbles through a blizzard and arrives--half frozen and half dead--in another world. Trapped in Boston, he tries to blend in at an old boarding school while secretly plotting to save his home.

  But if anything can distract him from his mission, it's the wild-haired and intriguing Fiona. She is determined to learn the dangerous truths about his magic.

  When a spectral army from Toby's world begins slaughtering Bostonians, he and Fiona must stop the carnage. They face unspeakable dangers while unearthing the dark secrets of New England's past--a past that holds the key to saving both worlds from destruction.

  * * *

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  The Witching Elm

  Book 1 of the Memento Mori Series.

  Published by Gothic Imprints.

  Copyright © 2014 by C.N. Crawford.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  1

  Fiona - Mather Academy

  The way Fiona saw it, there were two options: either magic was real, which meant she could one day become a powerful sorceress with a legion of sexy demons at her fingertips, or it wasn’t—and she would end up working in an office with fluorescent lighting, having to smell her coworkers’ lunches.

  Of course, the first scenario was considerably more appealing. Each time she and her friends gathered for a séance, she felt a spark of hope at magic’s possibility. But she wanted something definitive. She wanted a translucent crone to emerge from the closet, clad in a black woolen dress and gripping a spell book. Or at the very least, a cup of tea could fly across the room. So far, she’d seen nothing more than a vague fluttering of the curtains to suggest magic’s existence.

  She sat on her floor, her back against her bed. The acrid smell of burning sage filled the tiny dorm room. She watched as her roommate, Celia, lit white candles and incense on a tidy desk, blonde hair cascading over her school uniform. Celia was unwavering in her enthusiasm for communion with the spirits. To her, every flickering candle or shift in temperature heralded a ghost’s arrival.

  Probably every school had a girl like Celia—the classic beauty who turned all the guys into gibbering idiots. Fiona twisted a brown curl around her finger. No, that wasn’t right—every school had a girl who looked like Celia. There couldn't be that many Grace Kelly clones who spent their free time trawling through websites about obscure occult practices.

  She cast a glance out the large window above Celia’s desk. Iron-gray storm clouds gathered in the late afternoon sky. The weather forecast had predicted at least a foot of snow for Boston. She shivered in her thin sweater. They never seemed to get these rooms warm in the winter.

  “Where's Mariana? We’re supposed to start soon.” Celia lowered herself to the floor, sitting cross-legged against her bed.

  “The last time I saw her, she was stuck in a goth music video loop on her laptop. Every time one video ends, another one pops up, and she has to watch it.”

  Celia raised her eyes to the ceiling in resignation. “The goth thing is so ridiculous. She’s so pretty without all the black eye makeup.” Her scrutinizing gaze turned on her friend. “I think it’s quite brave that you never wear any makeup.”

  Fiona narrowed her amber eyes. “Brave?” That has to be an insult.

  “I mean you don’t need it. Your skin is tan and perfect. And your hair is attention-getting enough, with all the—” She waved a hand at Fiona’s head. “It’s just that most girls our age aren’t confident enough to go au naturel.” She cocked her head. “But you would look really good in a plum lipstick.”

  The door swung open, and Mariana held up a hand in a greeting. “Hi guys. Sorry I’m late.” She had dressed up her uniform with black and white striped leggings and a silver pentagram pendant. She dropped down to join them on the floor, her black hair hanging in her eyes.

  “That’s fine.” Celia straightened. “We haven’t started.”

  Mariana blew her bangs out of her eyes. “Who are we calling up this time? Can we do Ian Curtis?”

  Celia scowled. “Who?” She shook her head. “Never mind. I know he’s some depressing musician. And I have another plan.”

  Mariana arched an eyebrow. “Another dead witch?”

  Celia smiled. “Yes, as a matter of fact. Goody Glover. She was killed just over there.” She pointed to the window. “In Boston Common. I have a good feeling about this one.”

  “Fine. Whatever you want.” Mariana opened her palms to the ceiling. The three girls clasped hands, closing their eyes.

  “Goody Glover.” There was a note of hope in Celia's voice. “We call on you in the spirit plane.” She gripped harder, her nails digging into Fiona’s palm. “Goody Glover. Speak to us and move among us.”

  “Goody Glover,” they chanted together. “Speak to us and move among us.”

  Fiona strained her ears. Was someone whispering?

  Celia raised her voice, a slight tremble in her tone. “Goody Glover. Answer our questions and tell us our fates.”

  Fiona’s skin tingled, and she opened her eyes. The sky grew darker, now the color of a blackened cauldron. She was used to Boston's blizzards, but something about the unnatural pulsing of these storm clouds raised the hair on her arms.

  “Goody Glover.” Celia chanted. “Answer our questions and tell us our fates.”

  Fiona swallowed, staring out the window. The clouds seemed to writhe, sick and angry. Her heart beat faster. She glanced at Celia, whose eyes snapped open. Her voice changed, now low and soft, and her blue eyes were unfocused. “Another Boston. Another Common. A panicked mob. He’s coming for them over the cobblestones—through the alleys in Crutched Square. He wants philosopher blood. He wants us.”

 
Fiona’s pulse quickened. What is she talking about? Something rattled behind them, metal against wood, and then a creaking noise, like a—door. Her head whipped around.

  The dorm mother, Ms. Bouchard, stood in the entrance to their room. She crinkled her delicate nose. “What is that smell? Are you—smoking something?”

  Fiona loosed a breath, unsure if she was relieved or disappointed. “It’s sage, Ms. Bouchard.”

  Celia withdrew her shaking fingers from Fiona's grasp.

  Mariana’s hand flew to her chest. “I have asthma. I’d read it would help open up the lungs.”

  Ms. Bouchard’s jaw tightened, and she nodded at Mariana. “We need to get you an inhaler. This—” She pointed to the desk. “Is a fire hazard. Put it out, and get back to your room.”

  While Mariana blew out the candles and incense, Fiona ran the back of her hand across her forehead. Maybe they had been close this time. Her roommate's face had paled, and there was a sadness in her eyes.

  She bit her lower lip. Or maybe Celia had just been putting on a show.

  2

  Tobias - Maremount

  Tobias approached the darkening Common with a growing sense of dread. Panicked shouts echoed off the stone temples surrounding the park as a small mob swarmed toward him. He searched for a familiar face, nearly falling onto the snowy cobblestones when the crowd surged past.

  Spotting his neighbor’s grizzled jowls, Tobias stepped forward and gripped the pie-man’s arm. “Anequs, what’s going on?”

  Anequs’s eyes held a terrified look that he’d only seen on horses—strained open to show the whites. There was no sign of the cheerful man who used to bring Father corn pudding.

  Trembling, Anequs whispered a single name: Rawhed.

  At the two blunt syllables, Tobias’s stomach dropped. Rawhed—the monster—was hunting outlaw philosophers like him.

  And I left home without a weapon.

  Racing with the crowd, he sprinted through northwestern Maremount’s winding alleys, desperate to bring home the news and grab his pike. Tonight, there were no foxfire orbs to illuminate the streets, nor candles flickering in bedroom windows. Rawhed’s approach had left the neighborhood shrouded in profound darkness. Still, Tobias could navigate these streets blindfolded if needed. He had grown up in this labyrinth of alleys and passages, hawking fresh cornbread alongside the steep-peaked timber houses.

  As he climbed the steep incline of Curtzan Hill, silver moonlight briefly illuminated the edges of the ramshackle, top-heavy buildings. Outside a tavern, iron birdcages clanged fretfully in the wind.

  Is Eden safe? Tobias increased his speed, his locket thudding against his chest as he raced up the hill. Frigid air pierced his lungs and stung his arms through his wool sweater. The temperature had plummeted in the last hour.

  Close to the top, glass shards gleamed in the snow. Above him, shutters slapped against weather-beaten walls. Just as he reached the summit, a woman’s agonized scream rang out. He turned, his hands on his knees as his lungs heaved. Rawhed was interrogating someone back near the Common.

  It was his duty to aid those in danger. But he was also supposed to have a plan before taking action, and running unarmed into Rawhed’s army wasn’t much of a plan.

  A thinning crowd fought its way up the hill, the women hoisting their skirts as they fled alongside the men. Crooked rooftops and chimneys were silhouetted against the glow of a spreading fire. Just as he caught his breath, the woman’s screams cut out. His throat tightened. There was no point trying to help her now. The decision had been made for him.

  He turned north again, sprinting toward his home. His arms whirled as he slid downhill over the slick paving stones, hurtling toward the frozen sludge of Crutched Square. The smell of smoke thickened.

  Despite the cold, sweat soaked his brow by the time he reached the top of Black Bread Lane. A trail of blood spread across the fallen snow. Some of Rawhed’s army must have been through here already, in search of underground covens. Arriving at his own doorstep, he slipped on the cobbles. Sprawled in the snow, his face lay inches from a child’s blood-spattered hat.

  He pushed himself up and banged on the door. “It’s Tobias. Let me in!”

  The door edged open, and his father’s strong hand plunged into the winter air to yank him in. A single candle lit the cramped wooden room, guttering and wavering where it stood on a cast-iron stove. Its light flickered over shelves of baking tins and a long table, dusty with flour.

  Father pushed his straight, dark hair off his face. He clutched a spell book and a brown envelope. “Do you have any idea what’s happening?”

  “Rawhed is coming from the south.”

  His friends Oswald and Eden rushed down the stairs, and Tobias let out a shaky breath. They’re safe—she’s safe. Eden’s blond hair trailed behind her tiny frame as she hurried toward Tobias, stumbling over the ragged hem of her skirt. She hugged him, burying her head in his shoulder before pulling away.

  Across the room, Tobias’s crow squawked near the ceiling. Oswald swatted at the bird with a lanky arm, his sandy blond hair hanging in front of his face.

  Tobias looked between Father and his friends. “They were interrogating people. We need to gather the Ragmen—”

  Father shook his head, a worry line etched between his thick, black brows. “Not now. We’re evacuating the youngest philosophers. You three are going to Boston for safety, to Mather Academy.” He pulled a few papers from the envelope and stared at Tobias. “Do you remember what to do?”

  Tobias’s jaw tightened. “Of course we know what to do, but I don’t see the point.” He and his friends were to fly through the schism that divided Maremount and Boston—sister cities split through powerful magic long ago. Tobias hated the idea of leaving his home. The Ragmen needed him here. No one could wield a pike like he could. “We should stay.”

  Smoke from the streets seeped through chinks in the wall as Father paged through the spell book, ignoring him. The fire was spreading fast, and fumes stung Tobias’s eyes.

  Father pointed to a page before pausing to give Tobias a hard look. “The Ragmen have voted on this. It’s not up for discussion now. You must go to Boston. If Rawhed sacks Maremount and hangs the outlaw philosophers, you will need to carry on our work. We need you three alive.” He returned to the book. “I’ll chant the traveling spell while each of you transform. Tobias, you’ll go first. You know what to do when you get there.”

  Tobias scowled, the floor growing hot beneath his ragged leather shoes as Father intoned the traveling spell. The magical aura rippled over Tobias’s skin before black feathers sprouted from his body, and wings burst from his elongated fingers as he compressed.

  A blast of frigid air rushed in when Father pushed open the door, holding out the papers. Tobias grasped them in his talons before taking flight into the smoky Maremount sky. For a moment, he could see an orange blaze across Crutched Square before darkness enveloped him.

  3

  Tobias

  Tobias had soared into the biting winds of a nor’easter, and then even higher above the storm. While black clouds convulsed like an unquiet spirit below, the Milky Way arched majestically above him. As he’d flown, the winter air had crept into his flesh, overtaking one body part at a time—numbing his head, his feet, then his wings.

  The traveling spell had better work, or my final transformation will be from crow to corpse.

  When he could see the Great Bear’s three starry hunters pierce the horizon, he plunged back through the churning clouds. As he did, a magical charge sparked and sizzled over his feathers, singeing the tip of his tail. It had worked; the spell had sent him through the schism.

  And yet a dark sea seethed beneath the storm, no land in sight. Tears streamed from his eyes in the glacial winds. For a moment he considered giving up and gliding to a watery grave, until he caught a glimpse of a narrow island dusted in white. The panic in his chest unclenched a little, and he dived lower toward the harbor islands. Before hi
m, a jagged coastline came into view—the legendary city of Boston, with its electric lights and towering buildings.

  Gliding over the city, he recognized the flat, white expanse of Boston Common. Its pentagonal shape was unmistakable, so similar to Maremount’s central park. He could almost feel the warmth of a fireplace on his skin as he arced over the yellow pinpricks of light around the park.

  He angled his pinions toward a wooden building surrounded by a brick wall. The school stood across from the Common. Connected to its gabled main building, two long wings faced each other across an open courtyard.

  Tobias swooped over the wall toward a stand of yew trees shielding a snowless patch of ground. Dropping the papers, he pointed his feet, landing with an undignified thump on the frozen earth. He shook with fatigue.

  He puffed his feathers, scanning the stormy sky for Oswald and Eden. They must not be far behind, though he hadn’t seen them on the journey. He shivered and glanced at his gray talons. He should wait in the courtyard, but his feet were flirting with frostbite.

  In the shadows, he began the transformation from crow to young man. In a matter of seconds, his stomach descended, his lungs ballooned, and his heart lurched upward. As feathers retracted his skin stretched over swelling muscle and bone. For a brief instant, he felt as if his muscles might rupture out of his body, until the transformation completed with a throbbing and buzzing in his skull. Overcome by nausea, he bent over and retched, one hand pressed on the frozen ground for support.

  His tattered shoes, soaked through with melted snow, still covered his feet. When he touched his throat, he found the locket of Eden’s hair. With shivering hands, he reached down for the papers scattered on the earth. Snow smudged some of the words, but they were still legible. He rose, brushing off a few remaining feathers, and crossed the schoolyard. As he did, he double-checked the name above the oak door: Mather Academy.