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The Coven
The Coven Series | Books 1 -5
Jasmine B. Waters
Contents
Book 1: Origins
Book 2: The Ritual
Book 3: The Hunt
Book 4: The Betrayal
Book 5: The Journey
Extras
Exclusive Prequel For You
Book 1: Origins
Chapter One
It may not seem like the truth, but once, long ago – I was a girl. I was a normal child. While I always struggled with my beliefs, I tried my best to remain steadfast and hold strong to my family’s beliefs. My parents were on the fringe of the godly. My father had narrowly escaped death back home, in England, after which my family fled to the New World, seeking salvation and divine inspiration.
The New World was a frightening place. Where we had once lived in a grand home with wooden floors and glass panes in our windows, we now had nothing but a small shack with a muddy floor covered in rushes. My father remained convinced that this was best. “Excessive hedonism turns one away from the Lord,” he always said. “Ligeia, it is your duty to make sure that your heart remains steady and true.”
My mother was more concerned with breeding. She had lost three babes in the New World, and I felt as though nothing could ease her grief. Despite my father’s attempt at comfort, Mother remained isolated and cold. When she fell pregnant once more, her devotion to the Lord and Savior seemingly increased tenfold overnight.
At twelve years old, I was now expected to care for my younger brothers and sisters as my mother’s confinement became imminent. The burden of cooking, cleaning, and childrearing fell on my shoulders. Godly children were always expected to be self-sufficient, and my parents had very high expectations of me.
For the longest time, my biggest regret was not living up to the hopes and expectations of my family. But now…well, it’s unfair to make assumptions.
I’ll just have to let you decide for yourself.
--
Ipswich, Massachusetts – 1681
“Ligeia!” William Arrowsmith stood at the base of the stairs, bellowing loudly. A thunder of footsteps sounded above as William’s four children raced down the stairs, giggling and squealing.
“What cheer, Father?” Ligeia asked, sobering instantly. Her long, dark hair was bound in a knot at the back of her head, and her blue eyes flickered with intelligence.
William frowned. He was a man in early middle age, the dark hair on his head shot through with white and grey.
“Daughter,” he said sternly. “Prithee, tell me, have you finished your lessons for the day?”
Ligeia shook her head. “No, Father,” she said. She turned to her younger sisters. “Drusilla and Abigail have been fighting. It makes my head ache!”
William glared. “Daughter, you will soon be a woman,” he said. “You must learn to shoulder the responsibilities of a family.”
Ligeia hung her head. “Yes, Father,” she said softly. “I am sorry.”
“Do not apologize to me,” William said sharply.
Ligeia nodded. She turned to Abigail. “Sister, take the others outside,” she said softly. “I must pray with Mother.”
At age twelve, Ligeia was a serious young girl on the cusp of womanhood. She’d inherited her mother’s slender figure and her father’s intensity.
Ten-year-old Abigail was as different from Ligeia as night from day. She cocked her head to the side and licked her lower lip, looking impudent.
“Heed my words,” Ligeia said sternly. “Do not disobey me!”
Abigail rolled her eyes before taking the three remaining siblings by the hand and guiding them outside. Left alone with her father, Ligeia once again looked him in the eye.
“Father, tell me,” she said softly, “how is Mother today?”
“Pray for the soul of the babe,” William barked. “I have a meeting with the minister. He is coming to visit. Ligeia, prepare some libations.”
Ligeia nodded. She crossed the dirt floor of the small, wooden home, pausing as she walked past her parents’ chamber to gaze inside at her mother. Constance Arrowsmith’s belly was swollen huge with child, and she lay on a bed of straw, whimpering. Her face was bloodless and pale.
Ligeia knew it was wrong to disobey her father. Still, she couldn’t help but sneak inside the chamber and kneel at her mother’s side.
“Mother,” Ligeia whispered. She put a hand to her mother’s forehead; it came away warm and sticky with perspiration. “Is your time coming close?”
“It shouldn’t be more than another fortnight,” Constance said. Her features screwed tightly in pain. “I am getting older, that is all, child.”
Feeling helpless, Ligeia stroked her mother’s sweaty hair. The roots were dark with oil as Ligeia brushed the hair away from her forehead.
“Father has yet another meeting with Minister Boggust,” Ligeia whispered.
“Hush, child,” Constance said. She whimpered again. “Your father’s affairs are not for you to dwell upon.”
“It’s the third time he’s come to the house,” Ligeia said. She leaned back on her haunches, wondering what her father could possibly be doing with the minister. Minister Boggust was an intimidating man – elderly and stern, with closely-cropped white hair and bright grey eyes. Ligeia always felt as if the minister could peer directly into her soul. She was perpetually waiting for the day the minister would point a finger at her chest and call her evil.
“Ligeia, leave,” Constance said. She sighed and sat up in bed. “Tend to your brothers and sisters. The devil makes use of idle girls,” she added in a warning tone.
Ligeia clambered to her feet and wiped her palms on her homespun apron. “Yes, Mother,” she said. She dipped her head. “Fare thee well.”
Constance was silent as Ligeia closed the wooden door to the bedroom, but Ligeia’s heart was twisted with anxiety all the same. Since the terrifying journey to the New World, Constance had suffered three miscarriages – each more bloody and horrifying than the last. It was enough to make Ligeia swear off the idea of ever having children herself, although she knew it was unavoidable when it would come time for her to wed.
I’m only two and ten years, she thought as she reached into the pantry for a hunk of dark bread. Father and Mother will keep me at home until I’m at least six and ten. Ligeia stood on her tiptoes and felt for the earthenware jug, then filled it with ale from the larder. She set the ale and the bread down on the crudely hewn wooden table, then walked out into the fresh, crisp sunshine of the spring day.
Abigail and Drusilla were seated on the grass, playing with dandelions and weeds. John and Thomas were roughhousing, tumbling around, and shoving one another into the dirt.
Ligeia crossed her arms over her chest. “Thomas! John!”
The boys didn’t stop. Anger surged inside of Ligeia, and she walked over, grabbing her younger brother, Thomas, by the scruff of the neck.
“Father and the minister are having a meeting,” Ligeia hissed. “Do you want us all to l
ook like heathens? Do you?”
Thomas cowered. He shook with fear as Ligeia released him. “No,” he whispered. “I am sorry, sister.”
The sound of a horse trotting up to the small, wooden home made the children fall silent. Ligeia watched as the minister dismounted, then leashed his reins to a fencepost. His grey eyes glittered with anger as he stormed inside the house.
“Prithee, be silent,” Ligeia hissed to her younger siblings.
Abigail glared at Ligeia. “I know what thou are doing,” she said slowly.
Ligeia’s blue eyes blazed with anger. “You also know that I am your elder,” she said, walking closer and staring down at her younger sister.
“It is a sin to eavesdrop,” Abigail said. She bit her lip.
Ignoring her, Ligeia crossed the yard and crept back inside the house. She closed her eyes, creeping along the dirt floor. The rushes crackled under her feet as she moved, but she didn’t turn or slow down.
Snippets of voices from the other room filtered through the dusty air and straight to Ligeia’s ears. She silently crept closer, pressing her ear to the thin wall.
“The sins of the people of Ipswich,” William said heavily. “I fear they are too much to bear. I fear my family will fall to the devil; that the whole town will fall to the devil if we do not act!”
“William, you need not concern yourself with these matters,” Minister Boggust replied. There was a pause, and Ligeia heard the unmistakable sound of chewing. “I advise you to let me and the other godly ministers address this.”
“Forgive me for saying so, but I believe you are not doing everything in your power to seek and destroy the evil among us.”
“William, are you implying that we are idle?”
“I am implying the evil is too great to be handled by a single man.”
Minister Boggust laughed, but the sound sent a shiver down Ligeia’s spine.
“I assure you, William that is not the case.”
“There is evil everywhere!” William hissed loudly. “I see it every morn, every night with the rise of the moon. God is nowhere to be found in this village, Minister.”
Ligeia heard the creak of a wooden chair as Minister Boggust stood.
“William, I will not argue with a man who refuses to listen to God’s truth,” the minister said. “I cannot call on you again, not until you defer to me as the true minister of God’s beliefs.”
Ligeia dashed outside, forgetting to be quiet as she ran. Abigail and Drusilla were still seated on the grass, quietly singing a rhyme. John was sitting with his back against the trunk of a tree, his eyes closed against the late-morning sun. And Thomas was nowhere in sight.
“Thomas!” Ligeia yelled. “Thomas!”
Abigail gave her sister a smug look. “If you had not been sinning, sister, you would have seen that he has gone.”
Ligeia slapped her sister across the face, hard enough for Abigail’s head to whip backward.
“Hateful,” Ligeia spat under her breath. She gathered her petticoats in one hand and ran across the yard, screaming her brother’s name. As the panic and fear mounted in her belly, she felt her skin grow cold and chilled. ‘Abigail was right,’ she thought as she ran faster and faster. ‘I have begun to sin, and I do not know how to stop!’
A boyish giggle halted Ligeia dead in her tracks. Gasping, she saw that Thomas had wandered into the vacant lot by the edge of the Arrowsmith’s property. There was a huge pile of wood and a few tools for clearing away grass and bushes.
Ligeia gasped. Thomas was walking steadily toward an old man, who was clutching an axe. Unlike the other men in the village, he had long, white hair that hung around his shoulders. His beard was also pure white, and his skin belied the appearance of someone who had spent a great deal of time in the sun. He was as wrinkled as a walnut, with bright, shining eyes.
“Thomas!” Ligeia shrieked. “Thomas!”
Thomas turned around, giggling. As Ligeia ran toward him breathlessly, the old man erupted into laughter.
“Child, calm yourself,” he said. His accent was strange – thick and almost fluid, like honey.
“Thomas!” Ligeia snapped. She glared at her younger brother.
The smile disappeared from Thomas’ face as he slowly walked to join his sister. Ligeia grabbed Thomas by the wrist and started pulling him back toward the Arrowsmith’s yard.
“Not very friendly, eh?” the old man called. When Ligeia didn’t reply, he laughed heartily. “You will be!”
Ligeia shivered. Something about the old man made her think of the church meetings when sin and evil were discussed. The way he’d smiled had been almost…otherworldly.
“You disobey me one more time,” Ligeia hissed to her brother, “and I will tell Father that you have been colluding with the devil!”
Thomas stuck his tongue out, and Ligeia resisted the urge to slap him, too. She glared, and after a few seconds, his expression softened.
“I am sorry, sister,” Thomas said morosely. “I swear.”
Ligeia took a deep breath. “Go,” she said. “Go and be with your other siblings.”
It hadn’t always been like this. Back in England (or at home, as Ligeia privately thought of her former country), Ligeia had enjoyed the company of her siblings. Life hadn’t been so hard or nearly so bleak as it was in the New World. There had been time to play, time to sit in the dusty panels of sun on the dining room floor and practice making letters, or sewing stitches in old clothes of Mother’s. A nurse had been under the employ of William, and she was responsible for the younger children.
But William had been unable to cope with, what he saw as, the worst wicked of evils that began to pervade Glastonbury. The English Civil War had barely been over before William saw a terrifying split among the others in the village. Some families chose to secretly practice Catholicism. Whenever they were found, they were executed. And while most families belonged to the Church of England, William found the Church just as vile and fanciful as the Catholic Church.
Ligeia had been a child when William and Constance made the decision to book fare on a massive ship and cross the ocean. She was the only Arrowsmith child to have memories of living in England, albeit very vague ones. She wouldn’t have admitted it to her parents – or anyone – but Ligeia missed England constantly. She missed the wet, misty weather and the variety of life. Everything in the New World was plain, difficult, and bland.
And the paranoia that spread through Ipswich like wildfire was enough to make life practically unbearable.
Ligeia walked into the house just as William was replacing the pitcher of ale on top of the larder.
“Father, prithee, what business did Minister Boggust come to tell?”
William’s eyes hardened. “Do not ask such fanciful questions,” he said. “Go and look in on your mother. Prepare a meal,” he added. “And watch over your brothers and sisters.”
“I do not think Ipswich is full of sin,” Ligeia said suddenly. She looked at her father. “Father, why are you so afraid?”
William grabbed Ligeia by the shoulder and roughly yanked her across the room. She felt the blaze of fire from the hearth hot upon her cheeks. When she struggled in her father’s grip, he only grabbed her harder.
“Do not make me question the nature of my own daughter,” William growled, “or straight into the fire you will go!”
“Father, I–”
“You listen to me,” William growled. “Sin is afoot in Ipswich; sin and the devil are everywhere, Ligeia! You must stay alert and not fall prey to such evil!”
Ligeia bit her tongue. She was tempted to argue with her father, but she clamped her lips shut until William released his grip on her body. When he pulled his fingers away, a dull ache bled from her shoulder all the way down her back.
“Evil surrounds us,” William growled. “Witches and devils and demons in the air, in the night!” He clenched his teeth together, and Ligeia pulled away from his gust of foul breath. “I will see to it that all w
itches are burned, burned until the evil has left their bodies!”
“Father, this cannot be true!” Ligeia cried. Fear crept into her heart as she thought of how painful it would feel to burn at the stake, to have the flames lick over her petticoats and apron, melting the flesh from her bones.
“Witches,” William spat. “They ride at night and bear the devil young. They corrupt the minds of the innocent and seek to destroy all that is good and right with the world!”
“I have never seen a witch,” Ligeia said softly.
The sting of her father’s slap left Ligeia reeling. Tears came to her eyes, but she angrily blinked them away before William could notice.
“Heed me, child,” William said darkly. “Do not make me regret what I have said.” He stared at Ligeia for a long moment, then turned on his heel and stalked angrily out of the house.
Ligeia went to her mother. Constance was sitting up in bed, rubbing her arms. The pain seemed to have stopped, at least for the moment, but her face was lined and creased with exhaustion.
“Daughter, help me,” Constance said. She held out her hands and Ligeia gripped them firmly before pulling her mother out of bed. “I am as weak as a kitten.”
“The baby will come soon,” Ligeia said. “And then your strength will return, Mother. I know it.”
Constance narrowed her eyes at her eldest daughter. “Do not make such false prophecies, child,” she said. “You know how the devil can play upon one’s mind.”
Ligeia hung her head. “Yes, Mother,” she said. “It is only that I wish for you to be well once more.”
“If God wills the return of my strength, I welcome his blessing.”
Ligeia sat down on the end of the mattress. “There is a man outside,” she said. “A strange man.”
Constance nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Your father and I received news that the property has been bought by man called Henrik.” The name sounded strange and foreign, like the whisper of a dark wind. “He is not like us, child.”
The Coven Series: Books 1-5 Page 1
