The Witch's Heart (One Part Witch Book 1)

by Iris Kincaid

  Table of Contents

  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: EPILOGUE

  THE WITCH’S HEART

  Book One of the One Part Witch Series

  IRIS KINCAID

  THE WITCH’S HEART

  Copyright 2017 by Iris Kincaid

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Cover design by Kerri Knutson

  Editing by Valorie Clifton

  ISBN - 13: 978-154-7227044

  ISBN: - 10: 1547227044

  CHAPTER ONE

  Witches aren't invincible. And despite their legendary longevity, nor are they immortal. That said, there was no earthly reason for Lilith Hazelwood, the most powerful witch in Oyster Cove, to meet her doom at the tender age of ninety-two. Her natural lifespan should have guaranteed another thirty years.

  Admittedly, Lilith had been struck by a bolt of lightning. And to the naïve eye, she simply seemed like the random victim of cruel chance. The coroner would later rule it to be an accident, and why not? Why couldn't it simply be an accident, or bad luck?

  Because accidents and bad luck were things that Lilith Hazelwood created for others. Someone being capable of sending Lilith to her grave was so inconceivable, it had never even crossed her mind. It's a very humbling thing to know that someone has defeated you. All right, maybe not so much humbling as enraging. Humility was not really an emotion in Lilith's wheelhouse.

  Like most creatures at the top of the food chain, she feared no one. It would be easier to sneak up on a grizzly bear than to get within striking range of Lilith. The breadth of her innate talent was unfathomable, the full range of her mastery of all witchcraft powers unmatched in her corner of the world.

  She could read minds, manipulate emotions, transform matter, converse with the dead, compel the unwilling to bend to her whim, and generally wreak havoc to her heart's content. Her supremacy was well-known among the local witches, and no one dared challenge it. All members of the local witch population had considerable strengths, but no one came close to Lilith’s staggering range of abilities.

  And she never hesitated to use those talents. She flexed her power for much the same reason that bodybuilders flex their muscles—because she could. She was also quite happy for others to witness her supremacy, including humans. Most of the witches in Oyster Cove preferred to live under the radar. But a small handful wanted to be acknowledged and feared.

  There was good reason to fear Lilith. She was one of the small number of local witches who regularly engaged in the dark arts, meaning that every few years or so, someone met their demise at her hands. There was nothing capricious about it. She only killed people who had offended her moral code—yes, even Lilith Hazelwood had a moral code—child molesters, wife beaters, and murderers. She had done Oyster Cove a service in getting rid of people who were a public menace, a blight on society. In fact, so many evildoers in Oyster Cove had died under mysterious circumstances that the local saying had arisen, “Anyone who dies in Oyster Cove deserves it.”

  She was unappointed and all-powerful judge, jury, and executioner. Some might have argued that Lilith herself could be classified as a menace. Not to her face. She was understandably blind to her own misconduct and keenly aware of that of others. In that way, she was more humanly flawed than she would ever have acknowledged.

  No wonder, then, that she was barely cognizant of the moment of her own demise. Yes, she did sense that she had entered an otherworldly realm, but it was not the first time that Lilith’s spirit had parted from her body. It was a high-level ability that she had practiced on countless occasions. Her previous excursions into the astral plane had involved witnessing her own lovely and youthful body slumbering peacefully below. But her body did not look peaceful—it was decidedly lifeless and charred!

  The shock of being dead was all but overshadowed by Lilith’s rage at the immediate understanding that she'd been the target of foul play. Someone had actually gotten the best of her. Who? Why? And most importantly, by what means was she going to get her vengeance?

  *****

  Dr. Harold Svenson was not an unkind or ghoulish man. But he had to admit, if only to himself, how excited he was at the prospect of a fresh dead body. He was a transplant specialist, after all. He had a multitude of patients in debilitating or life or death situations awaiting suitable organs for transplant. But his excitement was clouded by a long moment of paralyzed uncertainty upon hearing the name of the dead victim—Lilith Hazelwood.

  Dr. Svenson was born and raised in Oyster Cove. He'd left for some thirty-odd years for medical school and a long and distinguished career in Boston. He returned to the lively artsy tourist town some five years ago, determined to cut his workload in half but still fiercely committed to his remaining patients. Lilith’s name and face were very familiar to him. He had known of her when he was a child, and she was a hypnotic and mysterious older woman. Now that he had become a frequent patron of the local theater’s classic movie nights, he would most aptly describe Lilith as a ringer for Ava Gardner. She was about twenty years his senior, as near as he could figure.

  But the corpse that lay before him, and indeed, the woman herself whom he'd seen from a distance around town these past few years since his return, was no older than forty years of age. Closer to late thirties, in fact. In other words, a woman who had once been twenty years his senior was now more than twenty years his junior. The passage of time had added a headful of white hair and a moderately lined brow to his own appearance, but Lilith Hazelwood had seemed downright resistant to the concept of aging. He hadn't really been aware of whether she was a witch before he left Oyster Cove, but now that he was back, there was little doubt.

  Equally telling was the fact that when her body was received, the assault from the lightning bolt had left her skin burned and smoldering. Now, some four hours later, although she was indisputably dead, her skin had undergone a remarkable repair. Not unlike human hair and nails that continue to grow after death, some regenerative force was still at work in her otherwise lifeless body. His mind started spinning at the transplant possibilities.

  His twenty-three-year-old assistant, Ruby Townsend, raced into the exam room.

  “Is she a donor?” she asked breathlessly.

  The doctor took a deep breath. “Indeed she is, Ruby. She's the perfect donor.”

  “So we need a copy of her license. Or did she sign the donor thing? Has her family signed off on this? And you've probably checked the donor registries already. Do any of our patients have priority? Oh please, please, please tell me that we’re going to get something.”

  “We’re going to get everything, Ruby. Heart, lungs, corneas, thyroid, brain, skin graft, eardrums, windpipe, thyroid, bone marrow . . . I’m going to drain her of every drop of blood. Everything, you hear me? Everything! And there's no donor registry to consult. Not with this body. Not with this donor.”

  Ruby looked as if she was about to hyperventilate. She sank into the nearest chair. “What do you mean no registry? That's what we always do. That's what we have to do. By law.”

  The doctor knelt in front of her. He needed to look her in the eyes and he also needed to pl
ead. “Listen to me very carefully, Ruby. This woman is a witch. You know about the witches in Oyster Cove, yes?”

  Ruby nodded with wide, frightened eyes. “That Fiona Skretting is a witch. At least that's what I've heard. And there are more. But it's just so hard to tell. Most of the witches are older, aren't they? This woman is really, really young. What makes you so sure that she is a witch?”

  “Because she was an adult when I was a child. She has to be in her early nineties at the youngest. And look at these photographs that I took of her wounds from when she arrived three hours ago. And look at the skin now. There’s something highly regenerative about her body. I don't know anything for certain, but this could be the miracle I've been praying for.”

  “But . . . the hospital won't allow it. We don't have the papers. We don't have permission.”

  The doctor put his hands gently on top of Ruby's “We don’t have papers. But I tell you what we do have. We have at least half a dozen patients who have a chance to be saved from miserable disability and even death. You know Margo Bailey? I've known her for ten years. She’s a sweet girl, so resigned to the fact that she won’t have a future. None of the happiness and security that I have known in my own life. None of the wondrous anticipation that should lie before every young person. I have spent many a night thinking of Margo Bailey and wondering what I would do if I ever obtained a heart that would save her life and there was no donor permission. What would I do? What would I be willing to do to give that girl a future? Would I break the law? Falsify documents? Would I risk my career and reputation? Risk the possibility of jail?”

  His mouth hardened in a grimly determined line. “In a heartbeat. I will not let Margo Bailey die. Now I need your help. And I would be making you an accomplice. For that, I am very sorry.”

  Ruby was shaking her head in disbelief.

  The doctor nodded understandingly. “Maybe after the operation, you will need to report my actions to the authorities. I will understand. I will absolutely understand if you feel that is what you need to do. But I beg of you, let me save this girl’s life. Let me save Margo Bailey and then do as you must.”

  Though bewildered, Ruby’s loyalty was destined to win out. This was her first job out of college, and she was a bit dazzled by the medical genius of her boss and the extraordinary life-saving miracles he performed. She sucked in a deep breath and nodded slowly.

  “I'll be ready to operate by ten p.m. There’s not a moment to waste. Go get her.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  At some point, all responsible adults have to tackle the morbid challenge of writing their last will and testament. It was a practice that Margo Bailey was an old pro at by her early adult years, having written her first will at the tender age of eight and having revised it yearly ever since.

  She had inherited her mother's congenital heart disease, the same condition that caused her mother to die during childbirth at the age of twenty-seven. Margo knew from a young age that she had suffered the same genetic defect, one that would almost certainly cut her life short. There was no guarantee as to when, but in the back of her mind, it felt reasonable to assume that she would die around the same age that her mother had.

  As a young child, there was something about the age of twenty-seven that had struck Margo as so comfortingly far away. It was older than sixteen. It was older than twenty! It was an abstract day of reckoning that she convinced herself was so far away, it might never arrive. Her twelfth year took away those comforting assumptions.

  There are things that just slip one’s mind. Who knew her weak heart could ever be one of them? And yet, Margo was racing alongside her sister, Bette, for the bus - the one that would take them up the coast to a carnival where there was a guarantee of a Ferris wheel, mouth-watering kettle corn, pre-historic turkey legs, and a loud, intoxicating arcade. But it was a long race for the bus, and they were determined to catch it, or they’d be waiting another hour for the next one.

  But Margo fell behind, and the painful pounding of her heart brought the memory of its weakness back with full force. She sank to the ground, and noted with dread panic, that it showed no sign of slowing down. Not when Bette came back to retrieve her; nor as the two waited for the ambulance together.

  How could it be happening so soon? She was only twelve, and she was about to die. She would never learn how to drive. Never have a job like a real adult. Never travel out of the state. Never be kissed. (that one made her cry.) Not to mention, she had just purchased some lovely bead earrings that had yet to be assigned to a formal bequest. Bette was in such hysterics that Margo had to ask for pen and paper at the hospital to make the impromptu adjustment to her will, since Bette was hardly in a state where she would remember this final directive.

  As luck would have it, Margo’s time had not come. She got a few unpleasant injections, underwent a battery of tests, and spent one night at the hospital before being given the okay to go home. But not before the doctor sat down and gave her a long, stern lecture on the stupidity of taking such foolish chances with her heart. Their examinations revealed problems that qualified her for a heart transplant! But her condition wasn’t as urgent as about five hundred other people on the transplant list. In other words, don’t hold your breath. And stop engaging in risky behaviors.

  She did remember thinking at the time, if running is too risky, then what else was too dangerous for her to do. It was a question that hung over all the future days ahead, right to the present moment.

  And so the last fifteen years had passed, and never wanting to stare death so abruptly in the face again, Margo became a paragon of cautious living. Excessively so, most people would say. But the reality she lived with was hard for others to comprehend. Easy for them to be cavalier with her fragile existence. Well, Margo knew better. And she was determined to shield her heart from any dangers, shocks, anxieties, demands that could send her hurtling toward an early grave.

  That meant no driving. No junk food. No tall ladders. No running. No venturing into the ocean higher than her knees. No bare feet on the beach – jellyfish were too much of a risk. No roller coasters. No scary movies. In short, nothing that would send her heart racing. Fear and caution were the twin foundations of her continued existence. Her protectors. Her bodyguards.

  The most unfortunate of her self-imposed restrictions was not allowing herself to become too excited during—well, what for most people would be the throes of passion. But it’s not all that passionate if one is simultaneously performing relaxation techniques in order to avoid an excessively fast heartbeat. In fact, it’s a cold bucket of water in that moment of passion. At least, Margo’s only two boyfriends thought so.

  “Are you doing breathing exercises?” she was asked incredulously.

  “I just felt my heart beating a little too fast. But I think I can keep it calm. No, no. It’s not a problem. I got this.”

  In all fairness, she couldn’t blame either of them for breaking up with her. Now, at the age of twenty-six, she was relieved that she’d never formed any lasting romantic attachment. How sad it would have been for him to suffer through her recent decline.

  For the past year, there was an undeniable feeling that her heart was getting weaker. The tiredness that she just couldn’t shake off. A checkup with Dr. Svenson six months ago had confirmed her worst fears.

  “Your heart valves are deteriorating at an accelerated pace,” Dr. Svenson had informed Margo reluctantly. “Which will qualify you for the very top of the transplant list. That’s the good news.”

  “And the bad news?”

  “We’re going to be needing that transplant soon. Very, very soon.”

  There was no need for him to elaborate on the consequences. Margo’s mother had died at the age of twenty-seven. And likely, so would she.

  *****

  Consequently, every new purchase and acquisition had to be weighed against the probability that Margo’s days were numbered and that her sister, Bette, her perennial beneficiary, would spend far more year
s with these items than she would. As they stood before a window display with an exquisite rose quartz pendant, Margo knew she could only think about buying it if it was something that Bette would love for herself.

  “I bet it would look great on you,” she told her sister.

  “Don’t you dare buy that unless you think that it’s going to look great on you,” Bette scolded. “And of course it’s going to look great on you. You should absolutely get it.”

  Margo looked longingly back at the necklace. Then at her sister and herself reflected in the store’s window. Even though they had different fathers, there was a strong family resemblance. As a die-hard movie buff, Margo was forever describing people’s looks by way of their celebrity doppelgangers. Her own wavy dark hair and heart-shaped face had prompted comparisons to Maggie Gyllenhaal—admittedly, a much paler, less vibrant version, particularly these past few months. Bette was a bit more reminiscent of Marisa Tomei.

  Bette was much more fashionably attired—with a bit more savoir faire, as she would have put it. Bette studied French wardrobe websites and had taught herself to speak a dozen different languages, maybe only twenty phrases in each, but one day, she intended to travel and wanted to be prepared.

  The proprietor, Delphine Sykes, appeared at the entrance. Delphine was an auburn-haired Olympia Dukakis, circa Moonstruck. In her late fifties, she was wonderfully sociable and unnervingly observant.

  “Are you girls gonna stand out here forever?” Delphine scolded “Come on in. I don’t bite.”

  “Hi. Oh, we were just . . .” Margo fumbled.

  With Delphine’s watchful eyes upon her, Margo remembered that Delphine had a certain reputation around town. Like a multitude of women over the age of fifty in Oyster Cove, she was thought by some to be a witch. Not that Margo bought into such nonsense. And she certainly didn’t want Delphine to think that she did.

  “Sure. I’m Margo, by the way.”