Witch Myth Super Boxset: A Yew Hollow Cozy Mystery

by Alexandria Clarke

  I hiked the rest of the way with the tea tin tucked in the inner pocket of my parka for warmth, using a compass spell to navigate through the forest. Luckily, Windsor Falls’ residential area was bordered by dense trees, so it was easy to slip unnoticed across the land. At last, the familiar outline of my father’s house came into view. My heart jumped into my throat at the sight of the stables and the empty swimming pool. Nora belonged here. This was the first time I’d willingly returned to this house without her here to greet me.

  I canvassed the scene before making a move. On a normal weekday, my father would be at work, Nora would be at school, and Adrienne would be at whatever socialite event promoted her notoriety the most. I couldn’t count on any of those things today, so I snuck around to the front of the house, where the expansive garage sat adjacent to the long driveway. Then I turned a trash can upside down and used it as a boost to look in the garage windows. Nora’s parking space, of course, was empty, but I was relieved to see that both my father and Adrienne’s cars were missing too. There were no signs of the cook, maid, or gardener either. I had the house to myself. All I had to do was get inside.

  I wasn’t stupid enough to try the main doors. Instead, I jogged around to the back side again, where a thick covering of ivy coated the stone walls. I started climbing, hooking my fingers through the vines for a better grip. Near the top, I balanced precariously on the windowsill of my old bedroom and tugged on the pane. It opened easily, and I reveled in the fact that no one had bothered to check if it was locked after I left.

  I pushed my legs through the opening and dropped to the floor of the bedroom. The rest of my things were still here, piled neatly by the door as if awaiting my return, so I shouldered my big duffel bag, which was already packed, and made my way into the hallway.

  With Adrienne and my father gone, the house felt smaller and safer, which was ironic considering the sheer amount of square feet that the floor plan took up. For once, I felt comfortable roaming the corridors. I savored the freedom, pausing to admire the priceless paintings that I’d never had the pleasure of appreciating without Adrienne breathing down my neck. At the opposite end of the mezzanine, something strange caught my eye. The double doors to the master bedroom were ajar.

  To someone unfamiliar with Adrienne’s quirks, the open double doors wouldn’t spark any kind of suspicion, but I knew her too well. She was anally private, as though if anyone saw the unmade king-sized bed or my father’s clothes draped over the vanity or the uncapped bottles of her perfume collection, it would reveal that she was actually human. Tentatively, I coaxed the doors all the way open.

  The lush carpet cushioned my footsteps as I went inside. I breathed deeply, inhaling hints of Dad’s musky aftershave and Adrienne’s fruity body wash. After a couple months in Yew Hollow, it was surreal to return to the real world, where mortals knew nothing of witchcraft or age-old curses or wards. Everything seemed so mundane, from the bland color of the creamy carpet to the mussed silk duvet cover on the bed. The master bedroom, off-limits to me since birth except on rare occasions, was full of secrets. If my father were hiding anything about my past, the evidence would be somewhere in here.

  I wandered over to the dresser, where I absentmindedly trailed my fingers across the bottles that decorated the top. Most of them were Adrienne’s—she had enough perfume and makeup to mask her true self ten times over—but a few belonged to my dad. My attention waned, and I accidentally tipped a flask of cologne over. It was full and heavy. It thudded to the floor and rolled away, knocking up against the wall of the bedroom. A hollow thunk echoed back to me.

  I frowned in consternation, curled my hand into a fist, and rapped my knuckles on the wallpaper. The sound reverberated, and I sucked in an incredulous breath. It was an outer wall, and the house was made of cement block. There should have been nothing on the opposite side other than open air. I ran my fingers over the wallpaper, searching for discrepancies in the decoration but finding nothing. I pressed my ear to the wall and knocked again, closing my eyes when it echoed back to me. Despite reality and the visible architecture of the house, there was something beyond the patterned wallpaper and cinderblocks, and I had no intention of leaving it undiscovered.

  I called on my craft, though I wasn’t sure exactly what to do with it. I needed a spell that would expose whatever it was that lay behind the false wall. The problem was that I’d never learned anything like that from the Summerses, so I needed an alternate plan.

  I started with a ward. After all, Gwenlyn considered them my specialty. I pushed it toward the wall, letting it spread to all four corners. It stretched thin, covering the wallpaper with a shimmery orange layer. If anyone happened to walk in, they might have thought I’d somehow set just one section of the room on fire. As I struggled to focus, the wallpaper began to smolder. I recalled my lessons with Laurel, when she taught me about the mutual respect between a witch and her craft. I pulled back on the ward and extinguished the flare. Then I remembered a particularly difficult lesson with Gwenlyn during which she grilled me to conjugate Latin verbs commonly used for verbal spells.

  “Reveal your secrets,” I rumbled in the dead language, unable to stop myself from feeling stupid as I generated the corny request.

  But to my great shock, the wall of fire replied in turn. For a split second, it became transparent. I caught a quick glimpse of a small room with a trunk and an armchair before the image disappeared again. I tried once more, repeating my made-up spell in a loud, determined voice as I concentrated all of my willpower on forcing the ward through the wall. It pressed up against something else, another ward meant to keep visitors out. I heaved against it, planting my hands on the wall to push physically as well as mentally against the blockage. With another surge of energy and an unexpected jolt, the barrier gave way. I fell forward, stumbling into a space that wasn’t supposed to exist.

  It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. Breathing heavily, I blinked and looked around. The tiny room was illuminated by a lonely oil lamp that looked as though it had been plucked out of biblical times. There were no windows or doors, no decorations on the black walls, and no indication that the room existed in the same dimension as my father’s house. The armchair looked familiar, but I couldn’t place it. It was black as well and patterned with gold embroidery in the shape of dozens of flowers. The enormous trunk sat at the foot of the chair like a bizarre makeshift ottoman. I knelt in front of it, burning with curiosity. It wasn’t locked. Whoever had left it here hadn’t expected any visitors. I hefted the lid. To my immense disappointment, it was empty except for one item. A single photo album rested in the far corner of the trunk. I picked it up, closed the trunk, and settled into the dusty armchair. When I nudged the album open—tenderly lifting the weathered cover flap—the first faded photograph caused my throat to close up.

  It was Yew Hollow. Specifically, it was the tree in Yew Hollow, but this picture was taken long before it had burned down. The yew tree was enormous. It towered over the town, and its branches cast a shadow that encompassed half of the square. Gingerly, I flipped to the next photo. This one cut me deeper. It was of a man holding a baby. I barely recognized my father. His hair was longer, tightly curled against his scalp, and he smiled at the camera with a warmth that actually reached his eyes. For once, he wasn’t wearing a suit and tie, opting instead for a casual T-shirt and running shorts. At first, I thought the baby on his knee was Nora, but there was no mistaking my bright blue eyes and auburn hair, even if the color had somewhat dropped out of the faded picture. From the looks of it, I was around eight or nine months old at the time. Of course I wouldn’t remember the day, but I also didn’t remember any other moment during my childhood where my father looked so happy to be with me. His unfamiliar smile overwhelmed me, so I turned another page in the album.

  Another jolt of shock shuddered along my spine. Because here was a picture of someone I would have never expected to see in this album in a million years. It was Alana Summers, straddling one of t
he branches of the yew tree and waving cheerily to whomever was taking the photo. She was young, happy, and healthy, but it wasn’t her lively spirit that drew my eye. It was the necklace that sparkled in the sunshine of that day so many years ago, the same necklace that now rested against my own collarbones, the gold tree pendant cool against my skin.

  A door slammed somewhere. It sounded a long way off, but it stirred me from my reverie. Anger took over. I slammed the album shut and kicked the empty trunk aside. Then I stood and crossed through the invisible barrier back into my father’s house without the slightest bit of trouble. The sunny daylight hit me like a punch in the face, but I barreled across the room with the photo album in hand and stormed onto the mezzanine.

  My father had returned early from work. He wearily hung his hat on the coat rack, unaware of my hawk-eyed position at the top of the stairs. My temper flared, and I threw the photo album over the edge of the banister, where it landed on the marble floor below with a sharp smack. My father jumped, and his eyes flickered up to where I stood on the mezzanine.

  “Kennedy?” he gasped.

  “You told me she was dead,” I growled.

  “What are you—I told you who was dead?”

  I thundered down the steps at an alarming rate, picked up the album, and flipped it open. When my father saw Alana’s smiling face, his eyes went wide. That was all the confirmation I needed.

  “You said she died in childbirth,” I said to him.

  My father stammered. “I—you—she did!”

  “Then explain to me why there are photographs of you two gamboling happily about Yew Hollow with a one-year-old version of me?”

  I picked up the album and rustled violently through the rest of the pictures. There were a few of my first steps, tripping into Alana’s arms. Another showed the three of us cuddled up together on the swinging bench on the front porch of the Summers house. Yet another showed Cassandra, Morgan’s mother, conjuring light spells over my crib to stop me from crying. There was an entire record of my infancy in Yew Hollow, and yet no one had ever bothered to fill me in on my time there, not even my own father.

  “She’s been alive this whole time!” I yelled. “I had no idea who she was or what she was. Why would you do this to me? You let me think that my mother was dead, and I don’t think I can ever forgive you for that.”

  My father gazed up at me, a look of complete and utter shock etched into his expression. “Alana’s alive?”

  I already knew in my gut that Alana was my mother, but hearing him say her name was more validation than I could handle. “I—you don’t know?”

  “About what? Where is this place? What did you call it again?”

  “Yew Hollow?”

  “I’ve never even heard of it.”

  “You were there!” I shook the picture album at him. “Seriously, Dad? You cannot convince me that you somehow didn’t know about this. You were there.”

  Dad looked directly into my eyes. “Kennedy, I swear to you. I don’t even remember having taken those pictures. What I do remember is holding you in my arms on the day you were born and crying because your mother was already gone.”

  His voice cracked, and he hid his face behind his hands. Despite the evidence in my grasp, I believed him. After all, when there was witchcraft involved, you couldn’t always trust what was right in front of your face.

  “Where did you find that?” he managed, pointing at the album.

  I tucked it against my chest. “Hidden away so that I wouldn’t find it.”

  Dad held out a palm. “Can I see it?”

  I clutched the album tighter. “No, I don’t think so.”

  His face fell. “Ken, I’d like to know the truth about my—”

  “Your what?” I challenged him. “She’s my mother.”

  “And I had no idea she was still breathing.”

  I backed toward the door. “We’re not fighting over this. Not until I can figure out what’s really going on.”

  Dad stood up and followed me into the corridor. “Where are you going? You can’t just leave. Kennedy! I need an explanation for all of this!”

  I whirled around to face him. “I don’t have one! Not yet, anyway.”

  “Ken,” he pleaded. “If your mother’s alive, I need to know. Where is she? Where have you been? Where’s Nora? We’ve been worried sick.”

  I looked up at him. He begged silently for my confidence. It was the first time he had ever asked me for anything. It was the first he had ever needed anything from me. And yet I still couldn’t give him what he was asking for.

  “I’m sorry, Dad.”

  8

  Gwenlyn

  I fled from Sage’s house before anything else could go wrong. The vacant eyes of Camryn’s followers trailed after me, although Camryn herself made no move to follow. She had me on the ropes, and she knew it. The mark’s release of power was involuntary—I hadn’t knowingly employed its power—but that wasn’t something I could explain to Camryn. Morgan would be even less understanding, and worse, she would feel completely and utterly betrayed by my actions. I couldn’t let that happen.

  The worse part was that it felt good. With the extra energy coursing through me, I was stronger than I’d ever been before. My leg didn’t hurt anymore. In fact, all of my muscles felt invigorated. As I sprinted away from the Summers’ cul-de-sac, my strides lengthened until I was practically flying across the ground at top speed. The wind ripped through my hair, and though my eyes watered, the chill didn’t affect me. I laughed, remembering the look on Camryn’s face as she had flown across the room with wicked satisfaction.

  I made it across the Summers’ property and through the woods to the barn in record time. To my relief, the miniature ward I’d constructed to keep Nora safe while I was away bore no signs of attack. I snapped my fingers to release it and approached the front door. Nora sat on the couch with a mug of hot chocolate and a bowl of soup.

  “Remind me to challenge Kennedy to a race when she gets back,” I said, exhilarated from my impromptu workout. I brushed sweaty hair away from the nape of my neck.

  Nora wrinkled her nose as I kicked my muddy sneakers off near the door. “Should I be worried about where you’re sneaking off to when you promised Morgan that you’d watch after me at all hours of the day?”

  I plopped down in the armchair across from her. “Give me a minute to catch my breath.”

  “You’re deflecting.”

  “I’m breathing,” I quipped.

  “You know, I need you,” Nora said, setting down the bowl of soup to give me her full attention. “Don’t get me wrong, you seem like a cool person. I like you. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you, and you shouldn’t be taking unnecessary risks. I need you. No one else is going to save Kennedy.”

  As my breath regulated itself, I looked over at the younger girl. She stared intently back, and I realized how unfair her position was in all of this. She deserved what she asked of me. After all, I was the one who had literally kidnapped her from her family.

  “Okay,” I said.

  Nora shrank in surprise. “Oh. That’s it? No argument?”

  “No argument.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why are you helping us?”

  I threw up my hands in frustration. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  Nora set her feet on the floor, leaning over the arm of the couch to get a better look at me. “Yes, but I can’t figure out why you agreed to do it in the first place. There has to be something in it for you. You’re Morgan’s second. You wouldn’t disobey her unless you had good reason to.”

  The witch’s mark tingled, and I wiggled my leg to settle it. “Did I ever tell you that I had a sister?”

  “No. I thought you were a foster kid.”

  “I was,” I confirmed. “We both were, but she was adopted by another witch family. I never knew about her, and then all of a sudden my twin shows up in my bedroom a
t the Summers house one day.”

  “Your twin?” Nora said in disbelief. “You mean, there’s another one of you?”

  I shook my head, smiling. “Definitely not. Winnie was everything that I’m not. Beautiful, caring, positive. I’ll probably never understand how identical we were in physicality and how different we were when it came to everything else.”

  Nora’s lips tilted downward. “You’re speaking about her in past tense.”

  I took a deep breath. “Yeah. By the time I met her, she was already dead.”

  Nora climbed into the armchair with me, wrapping her arms around me and leaning her head against mine despite my sheen of sweat. Not for the first time, I realized how much more compassion and empathy Nora stored in comparison to other teenagers. For a sixteen-year-old, she was unusually in tune with other people’s feelings, whether they wore them on their sleeve or not.

  “You remind me of her,” I said. “She was a healer too. Not quite like you. She eased pain and suffering.”

  “I’m so sorry you lost her.”

  “Me too,” I mumbled. “She helped me find you, you know? She was there that night in the courtyard. That was the last time I saw her.” Nora used her sleeve to wipe a lonely tear from my cheek. I hadn’t even realized I was crying. “The point is that I never got the chance to know my own twin. We only spent a few months together when we should have had our whole lives. You and Kennedy don’t realize how lucky you are to have each other. Sisters are like built-in best friends. I’ve seen it with Morgan, Malia, Karma, and Laurel. No matter what happens, no matter how much they argue or disagree with each other, they always have each other’s backs.”