by Jaci Miller
Table of Contents
Dedication
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
Acknowledgments
About the Author
The Scrying: Book One
The Scrying Trilogy
Copyright © 2017 by Jaci Miller
Solitary Pen Press
Cover design and interior formatting by Streetlight Graphics.
All rights reserved. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it or in any form without permission.
Print ISBN: 978-0-9988069-0-7
Ebook ISBN: 978-0-9988069-1-4
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017478856
First Edtition: 2017
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
www.jacimiller.com
www.solitarypenpress.com
Dedication
To Sherry, for always making me believe.
“And thou shalt be the first of the witches known.”
– Charles G. Leland, 1899
Chapter 1
February 9, 1985
He sat at the old walnut desk, the ancient parchments strewn across its worn and scratched surface. Picking up one of the fragile pages he scanned the words written on its yellowed surface, the pitch-black ink highlighting the perfect script of his ancestors. The letters seemed to waver as he read the only line it contained—one world born from another will share an equal fate.
His brow furrowed as he contemplated those words, their meaning still escaping him after all these years. It had been the first parchment he had discovered, hidden between the pages of an old leather-bound book containing his family genealogy. He had found it on his thirteenth birthday, the same day he had experienced the vision.
His green eyes glazed as he thought back to that day in Braemore Woods forty-three years ago. A day, which had begun his obsessive search for answers and fueled an unyielding desire to uncover the truth behind his family’s legacy.
He had seen the Elder Oak in his dreams weeks before he ventured into the forest to find it. It had beckoned to him, a silent shadowy figure in a moon-filled night. He had gone to the tree without hesitation, easily finding it hidden deep in the woods. When he touched the tree’s trunk the vision had been instant. He had found himself immersed in another time and place—lost in the forgotten energy of a distant universe far beyond anything the imagination of a thirteen-year-old boy could construct. Everything about the universe was surreal, its magnitude overwhelming, its realms so dissimilar yet eerily cohesive in their existence. The realms were uninhabited, each blanketed by a haunting silence. The past a faded memory shrouded by the emptiness leaching from their surfaces.
The vision had ended with the image of a young woman, standing atop a magnificent waterfall. Her long dark hair flowing lazily behind her, piercing green eyes staring vacantly. She had held a familiarity, a sense she was somehow a part of him, but he had not known who she would be until now.
He pushed the parchment aside and picked up the birth announcement from where it leaned casually against the desk clock. His hand shook as he held it. “IT’S A GIRL!” was scrawled in white across the cards surface, a message that had a profound meaning to his family. One month ago, the identity of the young woman from his childhood vision had been revealed. With her birth came the realization his family legacy was no longer a myth; bedtime stories handed down through generations. Those words held an undeniable truth. He knew now the reason for his childhood vision. It was his responsibility to guide her, to help her uncover her connection to that mysterious world.
He put down the birth announcement and began to gather up the fragile parchments, sliding them carefully into a slim leather folder. Securing the flap with a thin leather string he wrapped the folder in a black velvet cloth, carefully positioning it at the bottom of the small wooden chest and placing the other items he had collected over the years, on top. Finishing the note, he sealed it in an envelope and taped it to the inside of the chest’s lid.
A glint of light flashed in his peripheral vision and he turned his attention back to the desk. The medallion hung from the desk lamp, its green stone reflecting the artificial light as it gently swung on its long thick chain. He reached for the ancient medallion, removing it and placing it his palm. This medallion was the key and she would need all the help and guidance he and their ancestors could provide as she faced the uncertainty of her future.
He thought about the vision again and the strange shadow he had seen in the young woman’s eyes. Initially, he had not known its meaning but as the years passed and he had revealed the truth behind the family legacy, it had become apparent. It was the shadow of separation; the mark representing a splintering of a person’s identity, a sign of a fractured destiny. The young woman’s future could not yet be written because two different destinies awaited her and only she could choose, which of them would unfold.
Lost in thought, he tightened his grip on the medallion, feeling a slight pinch as the stone embedded in its face dug into the skin of his palm—destiny had been forging a path through time, and it was nearly upon them.
Chapter 2
January 9, 2016
Everyone has a destiny. It isn’t always glamorous, it doesn’t always lead to greatness, but it is a destiny nonetheless—a fate designed specifically for one individual. Unfortunately, Dane Watts-Callan’s destiny was also her biggest secret. It was her thirty-first birthday and like all the others over the past eighteen years, it marked the beginning of another year of deception.
Her mood had darkened over the past few days as it always did around her birthday. With the weekend festivities, her friends had planned about to commence, her mood had progressed to sullen.
Stevie had insisted they do something special this year since it was Dane’s thirty-first and thirteen years since the six of them had become friends; a numeric inversion Stevie could not ignore. She had reluctantly agreed because she didn’t want to disappoint everyone but truthfully, she would just as soon ignore this birthday like she attempted to do every year.
Sitting at the kitchen counter, the morning cup of tea still warm in her hands, she stared at the pictures on the wall. Twelve beautifully framed images of six women, one for every ye
ar of their friendship, taken at each of their annual get-togethers. They had met through a random set of circumstances, a strange link of occurrences happening in a very short time-period. Essentially, a domino effect—one girl meeting another and then that girl meeting the next until six strangers connected and ultimately became lifelong friends. Recounting those odd circumstances always made for good fodder at their annual girl’s weekend, but Stevie liked to sum up their chance encounters with one word—destiny.
She glanced back at the twelve photos. Soon number thirteen would hang beside them, another painful reminder that her best friendships were based on secrets and lies.
The ring of her cell phone startled her out of her thoughts, looking down she saw it was her mother calling. “Good morning mom.”
“Morning honey. Your dad and I thought we should give you a quick call, it’s not too early, is it?”
Dane laughed, “No, Tyson, and I have been up for a while now.”
Upon hearing his name, the bullmastiff at her feet lifted his head, big brown eyes widening in curiosity.
“Ok good. We know how you feel about this time of year, but your dad and I still wanted to wish you a happy birthday.”
“Hi sweetie,” her father chimed in from another line. “How’s my birthday girl? Looking forward to your girl’s weekend?”
“Yes. But keeping who I am from them is more difficult under these circumstances and you know I hate to have to lie to them.” She sniffed, unwanted tears stinging her eyes. Silently, she cursed herself for getting so emotional.
“We know honey and we are sorry,” her dad soothed. “It’s a difficult price to pay because of your family legacy, but you know it’s a necessary one. Don’t look at it as lying, instead consider it, not oversharing.”
She could hear her mother whisper a scolding at her father’s failed attempt to joke.
“You know it’s how it has to be Dane, discretion is how our kind has been able to survive for centuries without detection,” her mother reminded her.
“I know mom, I just can’t help feeling maybe it could be different with them. That they would understand.”
“Maybe they would, but revealing your identity as a witch to anyone, not like us, is forbidden. You know this.”
Witches, Dane mused. She had known she was a witch since her “awakening” at thirteen; the time when a person born with magic gains their powers. Unfortunately, she had never grown comfortable with her identity as a magical being, especially when she was constantly having to hide her active powers from mortals. “I know, but it would be easier if I could just be me for a change.”
“We wish things were different, and they were like us, but your father and I have met them plenty of times, and although Stevie would make a brilliant witch, none of them have the aura. You know the rules,” her mother said, carefully reiterating what she had told her daughter on numerous occasions over the years.
The aura, Dane thought, the specific light and scent a witch gives off, her magical calling card and something only other witches can detect.
“I’m sorry Dane, I know this secret is a heavy burden, but your destiny was written long ago,” her father interjected, his calm voice showing the deep affection he had for his only child. “You come from two of the oldest families of witches in Europe. It’s your birthright.”
“Thanks for the reminder Dad,” she huffed.
Her mom sighed, “We love you, Dane.” She was used to the stubbornness her daughter exhibited on a regular basis but seeing her only child in pain because of her heritage was never easy. The Watts and Callan families had, for centuries, readily accepted their magic and the ensuing responsibility but Dane had always been more apprehensive. It was like she carried the burden of that responsibility for everyone and was afraid to disappoint.
“Have a happy birthday honey and enjoy the weekend with the girls, we will see you all next week.”
“Thanks, mom, dad, see you Wednesday,” she said hanging up the phone and wiping away the stray tears clinging to her cheek.
Glancing up at the wall of images she noticed year five was hanging slightly crooked. Lifting her hand, she gently flicked her fingers watching as the frame righted itself into a level position.
“I suppose being a witch has its advantages,” she said looking down at Tyson and winking, the bullmastiff’s tail smacking against the floor in agreement.
Making herself another cup of tea, she headed into the bedroom. Sitting on the floor by her bed she reached underneath and pulled out a wooden box. The lid was carved with an elaborate pentacle, a gift from her grandfather on her eighteen birthday. Opening it, she removed a small scroll from its contents, unrolling the fragile parchment she read the lines out loud.
A witch shall practice their craft, unseen by the eyes of mortals.
A witch shall devote their life, to accepting the anonymity of their gifts.
A witch shall never divulge their true identity to any mortal being but stay solely visible only to those who possess equivalent powers.
A witch must remain equal to mortals as understood by mortal law, practicing their craft only in secrecy.
A witch must never use their powers against mortals even in their own peril or that of others.
A witch must be guided by the Rule of Three, never succumbing to the lure of dark magic and the negative energy associated with it.
A witch must always live by the ethics of the Wiccan Rede so that their gifts never provide them with an advantage over the mortal world.
This is the burden, the destiny, and the oath a witch must uphold under the sanctity of the Protection of the Coven.
The Protection of the Coven were ‘the rules’ her mother had referred too. A sacred doctrine, which those who possess magic are bound by. Enabling witches to remain undetected when practicing their craft. An oath that is recited by every new witch during their circle ceremony; a ritual where the coven elders welcome them into the family coven.
Reading the oath had become a ritual for her and one she ceremoniously repeated every year right before her birthday. It was a way to remind herself to never get too close to anyone, for she was never going to have a normal life always having to keep a part of herself secret.
In the beginning, Dane had no idea how much of a burden being a witch would be or how much her life would need to change because of it, but as her powers grew, so did the responsibility to protect her secret. As a result, Dane’s life as a witch became a constant deterrent to her relationship with mortals. Although she quickly found a balance between her two lives, the walls she had built up to guard her family secret had formed an impenetrable barrier around her heart. A change, which resulted in an independent and private individual who found it difficult to show weakness but easy to keep people at arms-length.
She put the scroll back in the box and pulled out her family grimoire; a book containing pages of spells, potion recipes, family anecdotes, stories, and legends, all from and about her ancestors. The large leather-bound book was thick and heavy, its surface worn and slightly tattered, and it constantly smelled like herbs and burnt incense, but it was her most-prized possession.
Passed down through generations of Watts women, each had added their own insights into the craft before passing it on. As a healer, her mother had filled pages with healing potions and spells, before giving it to Dane on her eighteenth birthday. By that time, she was already a highly intuitive empath, had developed telekinesis, the ability to move objects with both her mind and her hands, and possessed an innate ability for spell writing and incantations, so she was able to both learn from and contribute to the grimoire.
Her hands caressed the soft leather, careful to open the aged book gently. The spine cracked slightly in protest as she flipped past the pages containing her family history and genealogy, stopping when she rea
ched the myth from her dad’s side of the family. A story which had been a bedtime staple when she was a child and one that she herself had documented in these pages.
It is said, the Callan Clan were an ancient family of powerful warlocks who possessed archaic Celtic magic. Descendants of a primordial mythical tribe of sorcerers known as Warlicians. The Warlicians, the legend holds, were an elite group of magical warriors existing in a time long before mankind. Their heroic feats passed down through generations of Callan sons were legendary—magical knights protecting the ancient realms from evil. It was said, they possessed powerful warrior magic and were dominant in battle, having the ability of foresight, which made them almost unbeatable.
When Dane was younger she had longed for the power her father’s ancient ancestors possessed, mesmerized by the romance of their quest. Unfortunately, as her father pointed out many times, the Warlician legend was founded in ancient Celtic myth, not reality. Putting the grimoire back in the wooden box, she replaced the lid and pushed it under the bed, thinking about the myth and how much she wished it to be true.
Tyson had followed her into the bedroom and was now curled up on the rug beside her, his large brown eyes watching her intently. She stroked his head absently as she thought about the coming weekend.
The girls were all gathering at Stevie’s house tonight, to hang out, hike, and relax for the next two days. This girl’s weekend was shorter this year as Stevie’s job as a make-up artist had taken her out of town for the past two weeks and she wouldn’t be back until today. In hindsight, staying in town instead of traveling, like they normally did for their annual girl’s weekend, was a good idea especially since a winter storm was due to hit the area by early evening.
She loved these weekends with her friends, but they were always a little more difficult as the years passed. As the relationships became more important, she found it increasingly problematic to maintain a comfortable distance. It was at these times when being a witch was more of a curse than a blessing.
