White Witch Read online

  Table of Contents

  White Witch

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Next Exciting Book in the Coven Series:

  Author Biography

  Blurb

  “Fresh, fun, and dangerous! I can’t wait for the next one!”

  —Sherrilyn Kenyon, #1 NYT bestselling author of the Dark-Hunter series

  The Coven Series

  By Trish Milburn

  Book One: WHITE WITCH

  Book Two: BANE

  Book Three: MAGICK

  Witchcraft Is Her Family’s Business.

  No One Quits The Family And Lives To Tell About It.

  The guy makes his way down the side of the road, near my hiding spot. My frantic heartbeat increases. He retrieves something from his truck. When he turns back toward the woods, he’s holding a gun in one hand. But when he opens his other hand, it’s the small, dark object lying in his palm, the one with the slight red glow, that really concerns me.

  I hold my breath, not moving a muscle, and hope that’s not what I think it is. But deep down, I know it’s a bloodstone. If he were supernatural, he wouldn’t be able to hold it. My heart rate skids to a halt. Supernatural beings don’t tote bloodstones around. Humans do. Humans who hunt my kind.

  He’s not some goon my family hired. He’s a hunter, the real deal.

  I lean my forehead, warm from the burst of magic I used, against the cool bark of the tree hiding me from my hunter. Why, oh why, did I use my power to zip into these woods? Why couldn’t I have simply run in here like a normal person instead of using inhuman speed that leaves a trail?

  Because what were the odds the person driving by was a hunter? The crunch of gravel makes me look up. With a final questioning glance in my direction, he slides the gun, no doubt loaded with spirit-killing rock salt, into the truck’s cab then climbs in. Only when he starts the engine and drives away do I let out the breath I’ve been holding for fear he’d hear the slight sound of air escaping my lungs.

  The ground catches me as I slide down to sit at the base of the tree. In the darkness surrounding me, I spot the night animals scurrying across the forest floor. The occasional pair of raccoon or opossum eyes turns my direction before hurrying away. They sense my power, the darkness from which it was born, and don’t want to be anywhere near me.

  I lean my head back against the tree’s rough bark, stare at the sky filled to bursting with stars, and let the tears trickle down my cheeks, down my neck to soak into the normal T-shirt of a not-so-normal girl.

  White Witch

  Book One of the COVEN series

  by

  Trish Milburn

  Bell Bridge Books

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead,) events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  Bell Bridge Books

  PO BOX 300921

  Memphis, TN 38130

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-111-1

  Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-083-1

  Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

  Copyright © 2012 by Trish Milburn

  Printed and bound in the United States of America.

  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 permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  We at BelleBooks enjoy hearing from readers.

  Visit our websites – www.BelleBooks.com and www.BellBridgeBooks.com.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Cover design: Debra Dixon

  Interior design: Hank Smith

  Photo credits:

  Cover Art © Christine Griffin

  :Eww:01:

  Dedication

  To my husband, Shane; my agent, Michelle Grajkowski; and my BFF, Mary Fechter, who all believed in this book as much as I did.

  Chapter One

  Hot tears burn my eyes as I watch the last of the black coloring disappear from the tips of my long, blond hair, draining away into nothingness. I swipe at the tears as I curse my image. Fate seems determined to smack me at every turn. Not only does my witch DNA evidently make my hair resistant to dye, but soon I’m going to have to use the inhuman power I want so desperately to leave behind.

  Who would have thought when I fled my family’s compound in Miami that my biggest obstacles would be disguising myself and getting enrolled in school? Fleeing a coven of deadly witches, buying a used car and purchasing an RV? No problem. Going brunette and getting your average high school education? Monumental tasks. I’d swear that I hear Fate laughing with evil glee each time I try to enroll in school without a parent, and during every failed attempt to alter my appearance.

  In my opinion, Fate needs a good, solid bitch slap.

  The now empty box of Miss Clairol Silken Black stares back at me from the edge of the tiny RV’s sink. What would the company think if I asked for a refund because their hair color disappeared from my hair in, oh, about thirty seconds? I knock the box into the trash with enough force to make the trash can dance.

  The walls of the RV close in, suddenly too small to contain all the worries and frustrations clanging about inside my head like pots and pans in a clothes dryer. I grab my jacket on the way to the door then step out into the cool, dark night. I shiver. How long before my body acclimates to the temperatures here in the North Carolina mountains? Back in Miami, I’d still be wearing shorts, tanks and flip-flops in September. Here, fall is in full swing—at least to my Florida-thin blood.

  Muted conversations and the sounds of televisions float out of the other RVs tucked along the creek running through the Rocky Creek Campground. New forest smells tickle my nose. Pine, damp earth, the dustiness of a few fallen leaves—nothing like the familiar scents of sunshine-baked pavement and salty ocean breezes that have been a part of the first sixteen years of my life.

  Gravel crunches under my sneakers as I follow the winding drive through the campground. My mouth waters at the scent of grilling meat. It smells so delicious it’s all I can do to keep from introducing myself to the neighbors in hopes of being offered a burger. But I’ve got to be low-profile girl, and using a fake ID to procure a long-term campsite was pushing my luck more than enough.

  My stomach doesn’t get the message, however, and rumbles. It certainly doesn’t help that I’m an abysmal cook. For just a moment, I actually miss Hiram, the coven’s chef. A chill races along my skin. I don’t want to miss anything even remotely related to my coven—not even the food.

  I turn my back on temptation and keep walking. At the main road, I go right and head into the even thicker night. These mountains are darker than I’ve ever imagined night could be. Miami was never truly dark. Ironic how the darkness that is my family, my coven, can live in such a bright, vibrant city.

  The road starts sloping upward, stretching my calf muscles as I climb. All these rolling mountains, cloaked with an endless sea of trees, will take some getting used to. The high country of North Carolina is as different from flat, coastal south
Florida as Mars is from Venus. Still, something about this place calls to me, and the landscape lends itself to my disappearance. I hope that this time I’ll be able to stay. Twice I’ve tried to enroll in schools in other towns, but the officials always insist on a parent being present. Since my mother died when I was a child and my father will likely kill me on sight for desertion if given the chance, that leaves one really unattractive option.

  I have to use my power of mind control to hijack some innocent tourist into playing my mother for a couple of hours. Tension and nausea well up inside me, replacing the hunger.

  An opening in the trees reveals the twinkling lights of Baker Gap below, at the foot of the mountain bearing the same name. I stop and try to make peace with the inevitable. I’ll do it quickly, only stealing as much of the woman’s life as absolutely necessary. As soon as I’m enrolled in Baker Gap High School and my unaware accomplice is safely back where she’s supposed to be, I’ll give up magic forever, renounce my ancestry and all the horrible things witchkind has done in the past three hundred years.

  I, Jaxina Pherson, a.k.a. Jax Taylor, am going to grab a normal life with normal friends at a normal school with both hands. And I’m not letting go.

  No matter how far I walk, I can’t escape a feeling of restlessness. It’s almost like I can sense a disturbance in the air around me. It tastes and feels like impending . . . something. Doom? Trouble? Merely a complication? I’m so wrapped up in the potentially supernatural that I neglect to notice the perfectly normal sound of a vehicle’s engine until it rounds the curve behind me. Despite the winding mountain road, the driver is speeding. As I turn my head, everything seems to happen at once.

  The driver swerves into the opposite lane, tires squealing. Before I can think to do otherwise, I engage my inhumanly fast speed and leap into the forest lining the highway.

  Crap!

  Engaging magic is so not a good idea if I don’t want to get caught and sacrificed. But it’s too late. I’ve done it, and the guy is already out of his truck. I can’t go back now.

  He looks toward the spot where I’d been walking. Bewilderment wafts off him like steam. Some emotion seems to stir the air again. I swear it feels as if all the hairs are standing up on the guy’s neck, like he’s aware that something isn’t right. Little does he know.

  He reaches inside the truck’s cab and pulls out a pistol. Great, just what I need—redneck Rambo.

  The guy makes his way down the side of the road. He stops and scans the night. It’s like he knows I’m out here, watching him. My frantic heartbeat increases. He searches the ditch and the embankment. I really hope he’s not going to come crashing into the woods.

  When he appears about to turn and retrace his steps to the truck, I let out a sigh of relief. But it’s premature. Instead of leaving, he opens the passenger door and retrieves something from inside. When he turns back toward the woods, he’s still holding a gun in one hand. But when he opens his other hand, it’s the small, dark object lying in his palm, the one with the slight red glow, that really concerns me.

  I hold my breath, not moving a muscle, and hope that’s not what I think it is. But deep down, I know it’s a bloodstone.

  Why does he have a stone that detects the energy emitted by all manner of supernatural beings—including me? Is he working for my family to find me? They can’t find me, not this soon. I’ve worked too long and planned too carefully for this to happen. They should be following meticulously planted false leads to Anchorage, not scanning the North Carolina woods.

  He turns his head as if to listen for any hint of unusual sound.

  Another car rounds the curve below where he is standing, its headlights illuminating his face. He’s tall, lean, with unruly dark hair and a face that, even at this distance, makes my heart thump harder against my ribs. And he’s near my age.

  Would a mortal make my witch blood surge through my veins so fast it’s almost impossible to stand still? But he can’t be a member of one of the other witch families looking to improve his position among the covens by capturing and returning me to my coven for punishment. I’d have felt him the moment he got within a mile of me. And I haven’t felt anything other than the unnamed disturbances and a burst of strange, dangerous attraction.

  I watch as he examines the night around him. Could he be some other type of supernatural creature, something that for some reason I can’t detect? Wouldn’t that just be freakin’ awesome?

  No, that doesn’t make sense either.

  If he were supernatural, he wouldn’t be able to hold that bloodstone. Legend claims that the first bloodstone was formed by the blood of Christ dripping onto the ground below the cross. If a witch or other dark supernatural being attempts to hold a bloodstone, it will burn a hole like those made by the nails in Jesus’s hands. My heart rate skids to a halt. Supernatural beings don’t tote bloodstones around. Humans do. Humans who hunt my kind.

  He’s not some goon my family hired. He’s a hunter, the real deal. And not one of those goofy supernatural hunters on TV who uses useless EMF meters. TV and movies tend to get the big ideas right—that the supernatural exists—but not the details. This guy, he’s exhibiting the right details.

  I lean my forehead, warm from the burst of magic I used, against the cool bark of the tree hiding me from my hunter. Why, oh why, did I use my power to zip into these woods? Why couldn’t I have simply run in here like a normal person instead of using inhuman speed that leaves a trail?

  Because what were the odds the person driving by was a hunter? Like a bazillion to one. Was that Fate cackling again? Forget the slap. That old crone deserves a well-placed fist to the nose.

  The crunch of gravel makes me look up. The hunter scans the forest as he walks back to his dark-colored truck. With a final questioning glance in my direction, he slides the gun, no doubt loaded with spirit-killing rock salt, into the truck’s cab then climbs in. Only when he starts the engine and drives away do I let out the breath I’ve been holding for fear he’d hear the slight sound of air escaping my lungs.

  The ground catches me as I slide down to sit at the base of the tree. In the darkness surrounding me, I spot the night animals scurrying across the forest floor. The occasional pair of raccoon or opossum eyes turns my direction before hurrying away. They sense my power, the darkness from which it was born, and don’t want to be anywhere near me.

  I lean my head back against the tree’s rough bark, stare at the sky filled to bursting with stars, and let the tears trickle down my cheeks, down my neck to soak into the normal T-shirt of a not-so-normal girl.

  Through the dissipating morning fog, I eye the RV at the far end of the Jasper Ridge Campground. Unlike the Rocky Creek Campground where I’ve parked my little metal box of a home, Jasper Ridge is more popular with short-term vacationers. The perfect spot to acquire a temporary “mom,” someone the locals won’t recognize.

  Deciding to err on the side of caution, I’ve spent the past three days watching the comings and goings of the campers, determining which one will afford me the best opportunity to finally get enrolled in school. Going to a normal high school with normal classmates has always been a part of my grand plan to disappear into averagedom. My father would never think that was my heart’s desire, but he has no idea that the very ideas of crowded school hallways, sitting in the bleachers at football games, and the possibility of going to prom call to me more than the high-end boutiques of South Beach.

  I wait for the usual morning routine to bring the man out the front door of the RV, leaving his wife behind for the day. A quick glance at my watch reveals the man is running a few minutes behind this morning. Great, today of all days. I bite my lip, hoping I don’t have to start over in my search for a likely candidate. The tourist is perfect to pose as my mother—she’s alone much of the day, has no connections to the locals and will be gone from the area soon. I just need the woman’s husband to go off for his daily fishing excursion as he has the previous three days. I love predictable people, h
ate it when they become unpredictable.

  Come on. Surely you didn’t catch every fish to be had.

  The RV door finally opens. I watch from my perch on a concrete picnic table as the man kisses his wife goodbye, tosses his fishing gear into the back of his little pickup truck, then heads down the road to some crystal-clear mountain stream. Hallelujah! I hope the fish are biting so he doesn’t come back too soon. Not willing to waste time, I head for the RV and knock on the door.

  The door opens to reveal the familiar blond woman. “Yes?”

  Okay, here goes.

  I stare into the woman’s eyes, past them into her mind, concentrate as I navigate my way through the flitting thoughts and empty, unused areas, then finally plant the necessary information.

  “Okay, I’ll just get my purse,” the woman says, oblivious to what I’ve just done to her.

  No more than two minutes after the woman’s husband headed for his daily limit of trout, she slides into her car behind my cranberry Volkswagen Beetle, vintage 1969. She follows me down the mountain like a lemming, unaware of how she’s being used. I try not to think about my abuse of power as we roll into Baker Gap. A couple of turns bring us into the high school parking lot. I stare at the school, at the other students filtering inside from busses and cars.

  This is it, Day One of my normal life.

  My stomach performs an uncomfortable roll, spreading uncertainty in its wake. Do I have any chance of fitting in? A month after the beginning of school, cliques will already be in place, resistant to newcomers—even if a newcomer was your average Suzy Student. And that I’m not.

  Deep breath, Jax, deep breath.

  As I get out of my car, my temporary mom moves up next to me and walks beside me toward the entryway to the school. A few feet from the door, I once again use my power to navigate my way through the woman’s brain then give her a little zap of energy to activate the implanted memories and storyline. Her new persona kicks in as we step into the school office.