Hexen's Binding

by J. Kowallis

  HEXEN’S BINDING

  BY

  J. Kowallis

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblances to actual events, places, or persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.

  Copyright ©2019 by Jernae Kowallis.

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Cover design by Lauren Crest Illustration

  ISBN (Hardcover): 978-1-64606-722-0

  ISBN (Paperback): 978-1-64606-721-3

  eISBN: 978-1-64606-720-6

  For my sweet mom whom I love . . .

  and who wouldn’t stop pestering me about when this book would be released.

  CONTENTS

  Pronunciation Guide

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Acknowledgements

  PRONUNCIATION GUIDE

  Phrases and Other Words

  Hexe de at Forgaite

  HEX-uh duh AHT for-GAT

  An-bhlasta

  AHN BLAH-stuh

  Teamliach í uoan

  te-YAHM-lee-ahk ee wahn

  eno mærke.

  EN-oh MAIR-keh.

  Spells

  Arate leigu

  air-RAH-teh LAY-goo

  o rúndhei

  OH ROOND-hay

  Coso o cosyttet

  KAHS-oh OH KAHS-ee-tet

  Bloci agsen

  BLOW-kee AWNK-sen

  seist. Ófra gean-

  SEE-ist. oh-FRAH GAN-

  hacht magintui

  hahkt MAH-jeen-TOY.

  Temporary mind guard

  Tor af jernainn.

  TOHR off yurn-EE-ran

  Boske af steiche.

  BOH-skuh off st-EYE-kyuh

  Tankte stroige gi

  TAHN-ktuh str-OY-guh gee

  núth. Blíde di

  NOO-th. BLEE-duh dee

  aléin.

  ah-LAYN.

  Permanent mind guard

  Áilleacré

  ALL-yeh-AHK-reh

  teaghlien portráitter

  TIE-lun PORT-roh-tare

  - Ravn litriboch

  RAH-ven li-TREE-boak

  Common summons

  Bensigne mi

  BON-SIGH-nuh mee

  anut, mo forsina

  AH-noot, moh for-SEE-nah

  Telroinn de chear mi

  tel-ROYN duh KHEER mi

  Lerai mi ígenem

  lair-EYE mee EEN-yem

  a inag, uns lom

  a EE-nak, OOns lohm

  méde agen di.

  MAY-duh AHN-yen dee.

  Ancestral link

  Fuil til fuil

  FOO-eel teel FOO-eel

  Magie til magie

  MAH-jee teel MAH-jee

  Blood trade

  Teand komce.

  tay-YAND KOME-she

  Teand adlyen.

  tay-YAND AHD-leen

  Element manipulation (water)

  Mide a lytreat

  meed AH lee-TRAY-aht

  Lightning attack

  Svámoie

  svay-MOY-ay

  Hover spell

  Folsadur

  FOLE-suh-dur

  Infliction hex

  Ovátren

  oh-VAY-tren

  Violation hex

  Raeske

  RAY-skuh

  Break

  Vode fom fuil

  FOHD fohm FOO-eel

  Blood vow

  Eíghlase

  eeg-LAH-suh

  Unlock

  Scholat

  SKOH-laht

  Poison alteration

  Toile

  toh-EE-luh

  Silencing

  Techair

  tay-KAIR

  Unsilence

  Fai deu a scaler

  FAY-ee dew ah ska-lair

  fuil

  FOO-eel

  Scrying spell

  Fríosen for

  FREE-oh-sen fore

  Dewig

  DWEE-guh

  Soul capture

  Vúsa a huidich.

  VIEW-suh ah whEE-deek.

  Beslot te di seena

  bay-SLOW tay dee SEE-nuh

  Gleis kotái

  GLASS KOH-tay -

  di si hails

  dee see high-ALES

  Awaken from unconsciousness

  Anjescir fórdens

  ahn-yeh-SKEER for-DANES

  ophdomen. Lieduk a

  ap-DOH-men. LEE-duke ah

  dorie til bosigh

  DOR-ee teel BOH-sigh

  oldyr.

  ohl-DEER.

  Spiritual disconnect

  Fieth ere sagnu a

  FEET air-uh SAN-yoo ah

  ceno ere verdna.

  SEN-oh air-uh faird-NAH.

  Possession ejection

  Nyrke de magie.

  NEAR-kuh dee MAH-jee.

  Cosai dra

  kahs-EYE-ee DRAH

  féinen.

  fay-EYE-nen.

  Dark magic blocking hex

  One

  Coll died again last night.

  At least, he did in my nightmares. The nightmares that won’t go away. The nightmares that make me look like this.

  I stare back at myself through the visor mirror of my CR-V and press down on the twitching muscle underneath my eye. I’m about ready to go insane. The constant twitch, twitch—wait for it, wait for it—twitch, twitch, twitch is like Chinese water torture. Only, there’s no water, and the tormentor is the images in my mind every time I close my eyes, and now I’m dealing with a quivering muscle that I can’t magically vanish, and a pit in my stomach that just seems to grow with each passing day, minute, and second.

  Every night, I watch Garrit hit Coll with the same spell that took his memory. Only, instead of the hex erasing everything he knew about me, Coll dies. And when his corpse sits up in the pouring rain, with the mud slick and slimy underneath him, there’s no spark of life in his eyes.

  I shove the visor back up again with a snap and brace myself, gripping the steering wheel. Maybe if I took the first step and just opened the door, my heart would stop pounding. Or maybe it would simply explode into a bloody mess like something out of Alien. At least that way I’d be dead instead of doing this.

  Directly behind me, nestled in darkness, a canopy of ancient Engelmann oak trees, and climbing English Ivy to match our old family home in Jessen is 333 Rio del Sol—my father’s home. The man who shoved me in a cupboard as I watched a stranger enter our home and kill him with a single spell. The man whom I’ve apparently been communicating with over the last few months.

  England, and this mission of mine to find a magic stick (and jumping back and forth between the last three thousand years) changed some things. And to say I’m nervous to face my somewhat undead father, is an understatement.

  Wind rustles the fallen foliage on the ground and beats into the windows of my car. Little taps and prickling noises of du
st and small rocks hitting the glass and siding of my car whispers to me like a push. A nudge. My magic reminding me why I came.

  I swallow and my fingers shake violently before gripping the handle and popping it back. The lunch I ate earlier sits in the pit of my stomach, still churning and rolling uncomfortably. The clouds above me swirl into darker shades and I glare up at them—knowing they’re responding to the emotions swirling within me. Luckily, no rain yet.

  Just intense anxiety and debilitating fear. Great.

  After shutting and locking the doors, I fold my arms and stare up at the house. It’s not as old as our cottage in Jessen, but this house possesses its own age and story. It has to be from the late 1800s, possibly haunted, featuring blown-glass windows on all three floors. While old, the well-preserved, white-washed porch wraps all around the main floor of the house. Reminiscent of old Addam’s Family movies, the Victorian home features red shingles, a main center tower complete with a decorative “gate” around the top edge of the roof, and a small balcony off the second-floor room where two French doors wait to be opened. The lace-like corbels that decorate the porch patio echo the corbel designs of the main windows.

  Clearing my throat, I take my first step, feel my legs shake, and attempt to take another. Somehow, maybe on auto-pilot—I don’t know—I make it to the front door and hesitate.

  It would be so easy to turn around, go back, start the car, and speed back to my apartment. I could email him and tell him I came, and he never answered the door. I could even say Lotte, my youngest sister, needed me to help her with some “far more important” school issue.

  Before I run, I lift my hand and press the intricate doorbell. A delicate chime echoes through the house and within moments, I see a shadow appear behind the foggy stained glass of the front door.

  It’s too late now.

  The doorknob jiggles and I feel like vomiting.

  Then, the door opens.

  The man that greets me is so much older than I remember. His hair isn’t black anymore—well, not all black. Mostly a silvery gray with streaks of black woven throughout. His violet eyes have become a darker plum shade, and the goatee I remember him sporting as a younger man has become a prickly blanket of pure white scruff, except for the sprinkled pepper flecks around his mustache and lips. Despite that, his skin, while still young, shows wrinkles in the corners of his eyes and along his forehead.

  To be completely honest, if Evie saw him on the street, she’d probably make some inappropriate comment about him being a “silver fox” and needing to put him on her “list.”

  He’s my dad.

  And he’s alive.

  “Taran,” he says, a tentative smile spreading across his face. “You made it.”

  “Hi,” I simply say. Nothing else forms in my thoughts. Just that one word.

  “Come in,” he breathes, stepping back with a welcoming gesture while he clears his throat.

  My body seizes for a few short moments before I finally step inside. My feet almost sink into the plush Persian rug that covers the length of the wood floor hallway.

  The weirdest part about all of this is that I only remember what my life was like when he died—and I have no idea what my life has been like since he left the family by choice. The Alaric from this reality. I asked Mom about it a couple days ago. Hinting around to see if she’d tell me the full story without tipping her off that something was wrong with my memory. Although, from what I gather, after Alaric took off, Mom took a job in Boise as a receptionist at a dentist’s office to pay for the bills, leaving us with Móraí most of the day. It seems that Móraí was just as pissed off at him as Mom was and so they both found a partner in pain. Because of this, instead of refusing her kind offer to shelter us after the first few years, Mom held tight to Móraí and her own anger. Mom never broke out on her own, getting her degree or becoming self-sufficient. We simply “got by” because her resentment was so much more powerful.

  And here I stand, in an opulent Victorian home with the man who apparently left us destitute.

  Alaric shuts the door behind me and claps his hands loudly, rubbing them together. “Well! Can I interest you in some coffee?”

  “I don’t drink coffee,” I say languidly, looking at the painting in the entry. An image of a woman writing at a desk. I think 1940s. Her features are remarkably familiar.

  “That’s right. Um, Earl Grey? Rooibos, if I remember.”

  My eyes flick to him, wide and skittish. “How do you know that?”

  “That’s what you had the last time you came to see me. Actually, all I had was black Earl Grey, but since then, I got in some rooibos and made my own blend.”

  “I don’t remember any of that,” I reply softly, shaking my head.

  Twitch, twitch. I take a deep, annoyed breath.

  Alaric . . . or the man I’m not yet comfortable enough to call “Dad,” sighs.

  “I figured. From your email. It seems we have a lot to go over. I’ll get us some tea and we’ll talk about what happened in Bryden.”

  Twitch. Twitch. I put my finger under my eye and hold the nerve down against my bone.

  “Dad?” The word feels awkward and heavy on my tongue. I’d even go so far as to say that it feels foreign. Wrong.

  He pauses, mid-turn, and lifts his thick eyebrows in question.

  Feeling uncomfortable, I drop my hand and change how I address him. “Alaric,” even that sounds inappropriate, “maybe I already asked you this. Or maybe I didn’t. But, why did you leave? Why did you leave us alone?”

  I don’t know why I felt now was the right time to ask it, or even what compelled me to ask at all. After all, Ruhmactír killed the only father I ever knew, and who was to say that this man was really anything like my father in the first place? Environment shapes a lot of who we are, even to our core, and my environment (and especially his) has changed significantly.

  He blows out slowly through his mouth in a harsh whistle. “I thought you’d ask that sooner or later. Actually, I was, uh,” he swallows, “surprised you didn’t ask the last time you came.” My dad folds his arms nervously for a moment before changing his mind and sticking his hands gently into his pockets. “To be perfectly frank, Bug, it’s a long story.”

  Bug. He always used to call me Bug. It’s been decades since I’ve actually heard someone call me that. Well, aside from his letter that I found in that safety deposit box in London. It settles the thumping of my heart just a bit and allows me to breathe.

  Twitch.

  “I have time.” I shrug.

  He nods and purses his lips. “I guess now is as good a time as any. At least now that you’ve seen things, I think you’ll understand better. Come.” He motions with a tilt of his head. “Let’s get some tea and have a seat. I’ll tell you what you want to know. At least, everything I can tell you.”

  I cautiously follow him through the large sitting room, decorated with dark furniture, plants, and Murano glass. Back through the arched doorway he leads me into a bright parlor adjacent to the atrium on the south side of the house where the sun shines through.

  My eye twitches again. I press my fingers against the nerve and grit my teeth. “You mean there are things you can’t tell me?”

  Alaric snaps his fingers and a full tea service appears on the wooden table in the middle of the atrium. Two cups of red rooibos tea, a pot, and small tea snacks rest on a stacked, 3-tier serving tray.

  “I can’t tell you what I don’t know. Here, take a seat.” Alaric motions. One of the chairs magically pulls out for me while he sits in his own.

  I take my cellphone out of my back pocket and place it on the table before sitting down and pulling the chair up behind me.

  A solid five seconds pass where the two of us simply stare at each other before he clears his throat gruffly and forces a smile. “You want to know why I left you girls.”

  I nod.

  “After your time in Bryden, I thought that would have been quite obvious.”

 
“Why would that be obvious? I thought you loved Mom. I thought you loved us.”

  He presses his lips together and looks at the cup and saucer that just slid across the table toward him. “Of course, I did. But life is a bit more complicated, and you know you that. Taran, I was researching Craniarann. By the spirits, from the moment you were born, from the second I saw that birthmark on your hand, I knew you would be part of the prophecy. I knew your very existence put you at risk. So, I wanted to do everything possible to keep you safe. I thought that if I found the staff, it would be enough. Enough, at least, to give you time to grow up. But I made a mistake. Someone found out what I was looking for.”

  “Radolf Wolf?”

  “Who?” he frowns.

  “You never worked with him?”

  “I’ve never even heard of him.” He lifts his left eyebrow. “No, the man who found out what I was researching was a man by the name of Michael Donovan.”

  My pulse elevates and Coll’s face flashes behind my eyes.

  “Michael?”

  Alaric nods. “Only because he was looking for it too. Apparently, his son had the mark of the line.”

  “Coll.”

  This time, he’s is the one who looks shocked. “You know him?”

  I consider how much I’m going to tell him. For now, I simply say, “Yes.”

  He looks at me carefully, his rich, plum-colored eyes scrutinizing me. “How?”

  “I’ll tell you as soon as you finish answering my question.”

  Alaric considers this and then seems to accept it. “Shortly after Donovan and I crossed paths, I received a phone call from him. It’s a call I’ll never forget. The screams of his wife, the panicked breathing from him, and one warning: ‘It’s here. It’s my fault. Hide yourself.’ Then, the line went dead, and I hung up. That night, I packed up and left. I knew that whomever or,” he pauses, mulling his own thoughts, “whatever found and attacked the Donovans must be coming for me as well. In order to keep you girls and your mother safe, I got out without leaving a trace of where I went. The attacker got to the Donovans and would soon start looking for me. The further away I was from you, the safer you were. It wasn’t long after that when I heard from an associate of mine in England that the Donovans had been murdered the night of that phone call and their children were adopted out to a Ravn by the name of Angelica Crowther.”