The Witch's Spark

by Melania Tolan

  The Witch’s Spark

  The Silver Witch Chronicles 1

  Melania Tolan

  Copyright © 2019 by Melania Tolan

  Editor: Jenn McDonnell

  Cover Artist: Andrew Dobell www.creativeedgestudios.co.uk

  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.

  Created with Vellum

  For my Mamaie

  Contents

  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

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Melania Tolan

  Chapter 1

  I’m getting fired.

  I stared down at the ugly combination of roses. Carol, my boss, would be pissed when she saw what I had come up with, but whatever. No matter how I assorted white, red, pink, yellow, orange, and black, I would get nothing display case worthy, the way Mindy and Carol did. I sighed.

  “It’s done,” I said over my shoulder, then added, “I’m sorry.”

  Please don’t fire me.

  Carol glanced at my workbench from the register. “Looks better than last year’s, so I wouldn’t be sorry.” She pulled out a fifty-dollar bill from the cash drawer and held it out. “Your tip upon completion. Now go set the arrangement on the cart so Mindy can get it delivered.”

  I pocketed the bill. “That’s generous.”

  “Everly, I don’t argue with a customer’s orders,” Carol said and turned her attention back to the computer.

  I set the vase down on the cart by the back door in the storage room. The arrangement looked so out of place compared to the other beautiful flowers awaiting delivery.

  Mindy walked in. Her warm presence brought in rays of sunshine.

  “Hi.” I smiled at my best friend, who was infinitely cooler than me.

  “Wow, you made that?” Mindy’s green eyes widened.

  “Ugh, I know,” I moaned. “It’s so ugly. Whoever’s grave this is going to must not have been well-liked.”

  “No, it looks like the photo I saw.” She touched the tips of the roses with her caramel-toned fingers. “It’s beautiful, really.”

  “Oh, I know you are being nice.” I paused. “Wait? There’s a picture?”

  “Yeah, didn’t Carol give it to you before you worked on the arrangement? This has been a long-standing repeat order for years. The guy was specific.”

  “No.” I tried not to sound too annoyed.

  “Girls, we have ten more orders to fill,” Carol called from the front room of the shop.

  “I have to get these out. Taco Tuesday between closing and your class?” Mindy suggested as she opened the swiveling door with her butt and pulled the cart out with her. The draft blew her black curls around her tanned face.

  “Heck, yeah!” I pumped my fist into the air and skipped back to my workstation to tackle the next ten orders. With fifty bucks in my back pocket, I could splurge and get two tacos and a side of guacamole, and still have money left over for a fresh box of Mrs. Fox’s Lavender Tea.

  I spent the next hour assembling the remaining orders. Two birthdays, one thank you, and two condolences. The rest of the arrangements were partners trying to get out of the dog-house, or just a plain ‘I love you’. The birthday orders had tulips, daffodils, and hyacinths, in celebration of Spring. The festive colors always made me smile.

  Since starting work here two months ago, I’d never had a bad day. How could I when surrounded by beauty?

  When I finished handling the flowers, I removed my gloves. Mindy picked up the last of the arrangements, taking them for delivery, and I closed the shop. Carol left at four-thirty for an appointment, which left me alone. I turned the radio from the oldies station to an alternative Seattle station, jumping for joy when my favorite indie rock band exploded through the speakers.

  I swept the floor while singing along at the top of my lungs into the handle of the broom, ignoring the pale, scrawny, red-headed girl reflecting back at me from the mirrored display cases.

  “Darkness is my friend /

  At night I come alive /

  When it rains my heart sighs /

  In the cold I thrive /

  Because Darkness is my friend.”

  For a few blissful moments, I lost myself, surrounded by hundreds of flowers, a haunting melody, and finally alone.

  Closing was my favorite time of day—the one opportunity to completely let loose and just be me. No neurotic mother to tell me to take it easy so my heart doesn’t wig out on me. No boss to tell me to work. No nosy sister to butt into every corner of my life. No well-meaning friends to tell me they “have my back.” No crazy professors to pick on me.

  This glorious half-hour belonged to me.

  Rrrrrring.

  “No!” I shouted. Nobody calls this late. I groaned and turned the stereo off before answering the phone. “Capitol Hill Floral, this is Everly speaking.”

  “Yes, I need to put in an order and have it delivered right away, please,” the woman on the other end said.

  “Where do you need it delivered?”

  “Lake View Cemetery.”

  Instead of hanging up on her like I wanted to, I took the order. It was a simple lily arrangement, and the delivery would give me an excuse to visit Grandma.

  Another half-hour later, I flipped off the light switch, set the alarm, and locked the shop’s front door behind me. A huge bouquet of white and yellow lilies filled my arms. The aroma from the blooms nearly overpowered all other scents.

  I swung my backpack over my shoulder and headed down the road. Grey clouds gathered overhead, typical of Seattle in late February. I didn’t mind it… heat and my weak heart didn’t get along.

  As I walked up the wet sidewalk of Fifteenth Avenue, my free hand found the cross my grandmother had given me. I kept the silver pendant next to my heart where the memory of her would live forever.

  At the top of the hill, I turned onto the drive that wound around the grassy slope peppered with tombstones. The layout of the cemetery felt like home. I could probably find my grandmother’s grave with my eyes closed. If I could, I would sleep here. Eventually I would be buried next to my grandmother’s plot. That day was coming faster than I wanted, but I didn’t have much choice. Either my heart would finally stop on its own, or I’d bleed out from a small cut.

  Regardless of my impending demise, I loved this place.

  The dead didn’t judge. The late didn’t talk. The departed didn’t care. The silence provided by the deceased was my lifeline to sanity. This cemetery was my church—the place where I could go to charge my batteries so I could face the harsh world of the living—and the reason I took the job at the floral shop… It put me only five blocks from my grandmother.

  I placed the lily arrangement on grave plot two-ninety-one before locating Grandmother’s grave at the top of the hill, five rows to the right of the roa
d, under a massive aspen tree. I knelt in front of her stone, moisture seeping through my black slacks. The distant sounds of the city and the pitter-patter of the gentle rain faded into the silence I always found here.

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. My throat relaxed. The stress in my shoulders melted away. Here, I felt like I was home.

  After a few minutes, I opened my eyes and touched the engraved words on the smooth marble stone.

  Grace Greene

  July 1, 1945- October 31, 1998

  “Hi, Grandma. I made a fifty-dollar tip today,” I began. “And I’m going to catch happy hour with Mindy before my microbiology class. It will give me something to look forward to before dealing with Mr. Royal-Pain-in-the-Ass.” I sucked in my breath as the image of my microbiology professor flashed in my mind. “I swear that man’s only mission in life is to make sure I fail his class. But on a bright note, I also got an A on my biochem test last week. So far, my first quarter at the university is going pretty good. Stella and I might go to Whidbey Island this weekend.”

  I blabbered on and on until I ran out of things to talk about. Then I sat back on my heels and again traced my grandmother’s name on the marble. My heart felt lighter.

  I kissed the stone and stood. “I’ll try to come back tomorrow. Love you.”

  Funny how close I could feel to someone I’d never met. Grandma Grace had died the day I was born—she’d been holding me as she took her last breath—yet I felt like her presence had been guiding me from day one, as if she’d exchanged her earthly body for a pair of wings to become my guardian angel.

  I hated to leave now, but I didn’t want to keep Mindy waiting. I allowed myself to wander through the cemetery for a few more minutes. Right before I stepped onto the road, I spotted a red, yellow, pink, white, orange, and black rose arrangement at the base of a tombstone at the far end of the row, just across the driveway from where I stood. Curious, I headed over to see the lucky recipient of the horrid arrangement. I crouched down to read the name on the stone.

  Eva Constantine

  Died October 31, 1998

  I touched the stone, and an arc of light shocked me.

  What the heck? I glanced around. There shouldn’t be any static electricity, with the rain and wet grass. I focused once more on the gravestone.

  Eva. She died the same day as my grandmother, the day I was born. Odd.

  “Well, Eva,” I said in a low voice, rubbing the tingling sensation from my hand. “Somebody must not like you. Sorry.”

  That’s when I noticed the design carved above her name. I reached out again to trace the etching: a cross layered over an upside-down triangle—the base formed by the arms of the cross, a halo-like circle encompassing the triangle. Four flames shot out from the center.

  Electric energy gripped my hand the moment my finger touched the tombstone. Images and objects flashed through my mind. A glowing sword, a large silver orb, and finally, a white fireball erupting from my hand, where the same symbol had been seared into my skin.

  I fell back onto the wet grass, gasping for air. My lungs burned, and I coughed. Rolling to the left, I dug into my coat pocket for the inhaler I carried at all times.

  Two puffs and a few minutes later, I could sit up without coughing. My pants were now soaked from laying in the grass, and I could barely see the symbol in the eerie twilight, but I knew I’d seen it before.

  Where? And why have I never noticed this grave? I had certainly spent enough time here. I glanced at my palm; there was no symbol seared into my skin.

  I glanced over my shoulders as an uneasy feeling knotted up in my stomach.

  For the first time since I’d been coming to this haven, this was the last place I wanted to be.

  In the semi-darkness, I hurried down the hill to Fifteenth Avenue to catch the bus to the train station. The hair on my neck prickled with each step as if I was being watched. Every few paces, I scanned the surrounding landscape, but all I saw were trees and tombstones in the dusk-light.

  Drops of rain fell steadily from the sky by the time I reached my stop.

  Hurry up. I checked my watch and saw that the bus wouldn’t get there for another five minutes. Five minutes too long.

  Somehow, I’d spent an entire hour in the cemetery, but that didn’t matter. The urge to get far away from the graveyard felt as strong as the need to get my next transfusion to avoid passing out.

  My only options now were to wait or to keep walking. I chose the latter. The next bus stop was two blocks down, at the edge of a residential area. The thought of being around other living people had never appealed more.

  I practically ran down the street, ignoring the burn inside my lungs. Streetlights came on one by one as I passed beneath them. Their glow pushed away the primal fear that had taken ahold of every cell in my body.

  As I neared the next stop, I heard the distant roar of an engine coming from behind me. Breathless, I waited for the bus to pull up to the curb. Right before it arrived, I spotted him. Black trench coat, silver sunglasses, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail.

  He stood across the street, almost hidden by the shadow of a tree. I felt his eyes burning through my flesh and into the center of my soul, the scalding energy scanning over my body. I gripped Grandma Grace’s cross.

  The bus pulled up, and two people got off as I caught my breath. Then I hopped on, tapped my transport card to the reader, and found an empty seat, halfway down the aisle. I peered out across the street but saw nothing.

  He was gone.

  Chapter 2

  On the bus, I thought about the symbol and the images, but mostly of the man standing across the street. How long had he been watching me?

  It’s probably nothing, Ev.

  I was acting paranoid like my mother. Speaking of Mom. I pulled out my phone. Sure enough, four unread text messages.

  Don’t forget your appointment tomorrow. I’m picking you up at 8 AM.

  You also have your next infusion on Thursday at 11 AM.

  I dropped off soup. It’s in your fridge for you to eat tonight.

  Text me when you get home. I love you.

  Ah, my mother. She worried about me too much. Even though I’d only been living on my own since Christmas, she constantly drove up from Tukwila to bring food and take me to appointments. The whole reason I’d moved to Seattle was to get independence—prove that I was perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Apparently, she didn’t get the memo.

  Maybe she has a point. I glanced around the bus just to make sure the guy hadn’t snuck on.

  I got off at Broadway and hurried across the street to take the escalator underground to the train platform. While I waited, I scanned the station looking for any signs of the man. I didn’t see him, but I still felt watched. The Link train arrived, and I hopped on. I kept glancing over my shoulder. No one was paying attention to me, but I still felt watched.

  The train line ended at the University of Washington, where I jumped off and took the elevator up to street level I stayed with a group of other students and health care workers as I made my way to the Hitchcock building, the location of my microbiology class. I found a seat at the back of the class next to Jen, my only ‘friend’ at school, and pulled out my notebook.

  “Hi,” she whispered as I sat down.

  “Hi.”

  The warmth faded from her voice. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “You look like you’ve just walked out of a haunted house.” Jen’s brows crunched together.

  “Oh, just a little frazzled. I’m fine,” I lied and turned to face the front of the room.

  Tonight, the professor would give us a brief mid-quarter review to prep us for midterms next week. I needed to pay attention. I needed to pass this class.

  My phone buzzed in my coat pocket, but I ignored it. Class was about to start. And then I realized I was at school and I’d never met up with Mindy for tacos.

  Shit.

  I pulled out my phone and qui
ckly typed a text to Mindy apologizing for standing her up and then turned it off.

  “Please refrain from using your cell phones in class,” Mr. Rick Perry bellowed from the front of the classroom, glaring at me.

  I rolled my eyes and slipped the device into my purse. I had to deal with him for one more quarter after this one to meet the prerequisites for my degree. I can survive one more class, right? I opened my notebook and clicked my pen, ready to write.

  “What an ass,” Jen mumbled under her breath. “But he’s sure easy on the eyes.”

  Yes, Mr. Perry took first place when it came to jackasses, but if I wanted to graduate with a Bachelor’s in Biology and a Minor in Botany, I’d have to take his classes and pass them. I ignored the rest of Jen’s comment.

  Unfortunately, I also didn’t hear a single word my professor said during class, as my mind wandered right back to the cemetery and the man by the bus stop.

  We had a practice quiz at some point. I answered the questions, but later, I couldn’t remember what any of them were about. Nor could I recall the ride home. I kept seeing the symbol everywhere I looked. Even when I walked into my loft apartment, I swore all the leaves of the one hundred and six plants growing inside my living room had the design etched in their foliage.

  When I slept, I saw it on my hand, on the handle of the sword I wielded, and etched on the scales of the dragon I rode. Something called to me. A disembodied voice I couldn’t tell was male or female. Then I woke up and tried to figure out what the hell it meant.

  Dragons? I’d never dreamt of dragons before.