The Rose Witch (The Coven: Old Magic Stand-Alone Novel Book 1)

by Chandelle LaVaun

  Blimey, I sound like a nutter.

  Just a tad dodgy there, Chloe.

  There was something wonky going on here. Either I was losing my bloody mind or…or…bollocks, I don’t even know. Everything else around me looked normal, like it had when I’d been home last month. The estate seemed to be the same. Even the sunrise turned the sky the same reds and oranges. The air was cold but bearable, like it always was in early December. If I hadn’t just transported myself from Oxford to our family estate outside London, I could have convinced myself this morning was complete rubbish.

  Or was it a dream? Was this whole bloody weekend a dream?

  I pinched the bridge of my nose and exhaled, trying to ignore the trembling still in my fingers. Get on with it. You’re either mad or the world is. Time to get some answers. The only reason I wasn’t screaming for help was the fact that my grandmother had said nothing could touch me here. That was the only thing giving me a tad bit of sanity.

  That dodgy door had dropped me off right at the front door of the house – or small castle, as Edith had called it last month. I pushed up onto my still shaky legs and wobbled over to the door. When I reached out to grab the handle, the door flew open all on its own. I gasped and froze in place. Bloody hell. What is happening?

  “Hello?” I leaned into the doorway, suddenly hesitant to enter my own home. “Mum? Granny? Grandfather?”

  Silence.

  It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine.

  It was early in the morning, everyone was probably still asleep – but then why did granny call? There was only one way to find out, so I took a deep breath and crossed the threshold. Inside was warm and cozy. Someone had a fire burning in the fireplace and the flickering of the flames was soothing. The soft golden lights instantly made me feel welcomed. The dark hardwood floors creaked as I walked through the foyer and down the short, red carpeted stairway into the main part of the room. The black and white checkered floors always reminded me of my childhood, the happy memories arriving to chase away the terror lingering in my mind.

  The heat of the fire flattened the goosebumps, but the chill still clung to my bones. My whole body still felt like it was buzzing with electricity. My hands were still shaking. I needed to call my grandmother and let her know I had arrived, but then my gaze landed on the wall across from me lined with books. Our miniature library, it was just a small sample of what we had in the main library but it still filled a fifteen-foot-tall wall. I sprinted over and grabbed the first book my fingertips touched, then flipped it open. Golden light shot straight up into my face. I cursed and leaned away and my stomach dropped.

  It happened again.

  Holographic images of soldiers with swords that were so lifelike they looked real popped up from within the pages of the book and moved. Like they were acting out whichever war the book was about. I slammed it shut and shoved it back into its spot, then hurried a few feet over to grab a different one. Then another. And another. Each one I pulled off the shelf came to life when I opened it. My hands were shaking and my pulse was beating out of control.

  I pushed my hands into my hair and tugged. What is happening to me? I stumbled backward, just staring at the wall of books like the answer to this madness was written on the spines, but then my legs hit something hard and I crashed onto the sofa. My head bounced off the plush cream cushion. I groaned and rolled onto my side, squeezing my eyes shut as I gripped the edge of the sofa for dear life. Just breathe. This isn’t real. None of this is real.

  And if it is real there’s a perfectly logical explanation for it.

  A voice echoed down the hall and my eyes flew open. I sat up and glanced around the room. “Granny? Mum?”

  Silence.

  I pressed my fingers to my temples and pushed. Hard. Something moved in my peripheral vision. I sat up straight…only to find myself still alone. I frowned and let my gaze sweep left to right, then right to — I gasped.

  Across the room from me, on the far wall that led into the kitchen, three massive paintings hung within metallic gold trim on white walls. The frames of each were as thick as my arm and shinier than a brand-new penny. And they were moving. Just like the books…and the paintings in the bookstore…and the one I somehow walked through.

  I jumped to my feet and sprinted over. It had to be a trick. The most elaborate prank ever. By whom, I had no idea, yet it had to be the answer. Even as I got up close, the images still moved – in fact, they were moving more. Perhaps it’s some sort of projection rubbish? Yeah. That has to be it. Technology these days is rather advanced. But then I pressed my fingers to the painting and instantly felt the rough surface of canvas. The picture moved beneath my fingertips. My breath left me in a rush and I stumbled back a few steps.

  The paintings were all gorgeous…and custom made. All of the artwork in the estate was. All made for Lancasters over the centuries and preserved by our own family. Kept for ourselves. I knew for a fact many of them had been privately commissioned by prestigious artists in history. Hell, the mural on the ceiling was supposedly done by Michelangelo himself.

  I swallowed roughly and looked up at the painting in front of me…and shook my head. This one depicted an elegant, beautiful woman with long golden hair and a dress made of white. Her entire body seemed to be glowing. A man knelt in front of her, holding up a single red rose. Normally the woman’s fingers were pressed under his chin – the endearing pose frozen in time. Yet now she smiled down at him and brushed her fingers through his hair. He smelled the rose, then lifted it higher toward her face. It looked so real, like I was watching a 3D show.

  Unable to stop myself, I reached out to touch the blades of grass under their feet that swayed in a nonexistent breeze— and landed on the ground beside him. I scrambled back to my feet, then spun around. A few feet in front of me was a small rectangle with our living room inside of it. A cold chill slid down my spine. I gasped and turned back — and yelped. The woman was looking right at me. That wasn’t right. She only looked at him, at the man she obviously adored on his knees before her.

  Yet she was staring right at me.

  I stumbled backwards a few steps and she smiled. Not a big shit eating grin, but a small smirk like the Mona Lisa. This isn’t happening. She took the rose from the man and held it up to her nose…then closed her eyes and sniffed. When she opened her eyes again they’d changed from blue to white with shiny gold rims. She lowered the rose back to her lover and her hair turned snow white as it whipped through the breeze behind her like a cape. Light flashed and massive wings made of white feathers flapped from her back, standing taller than even she was.

  Bugger me.

  Dark lines spread across her body, covering her from collar bone down to her bare feet – even her fingertips were now lined. They looked like vines that moved, like a forest was growing on her skin. She lifted her hand and pressed it to her chest – and winked at me. I leapt backward. What is happening? Why can she see me? She’s just a painting.

  Ah hell. I’ve bloody well lost it this time.

  The woman – the angel – lowered her hand. There on her chest was a glowing blue crescent moon. The lines on her body changed to a deep red wine color. Her hair turned golden like mine. Her eyes changed back to blue.

  “Keeper of the light,” she whispered and my blood turned ice cold.

  WHY IS THE PAINTING BLOODY TALKING TO ME?

  I spun and dove toward the rectangle that showed our living room. Cold air rushed over me — and I landed arse up on the checkered tile floor.

  “CHLOE!”

  I jumped up and turned toward the painting—

  “Chloe?”

  I gasped and spun around, my breath leaving me in a rush. My mother and grandmother stood a few feet in front of me. Tears rushed to my eyes. I pushed my hands into my hair.

  “Oh, love, come here,” my mother said softly as she hurried toward me.

  We were British, but my mother was a hugger. At least with me. And I’d never needed it more. I sank
into her arms and squeezed my eyes shut. “Mum, something is wrong with me.”

  “Nothing is wrong with you, dearie,” my grandmother’s voice was warm and raspy, just like it always was.

  I pulled back from my mother, then hurried over to her. “Granny.”

  Her smile faltered for a split second but it was back before I could question it. She cupped my face with both hands. Her aquamarine eyes sparkled like the Caribbean. She dropped her hands, then pointed to the sofa and tucked her silver hair behind her ears. “Come, child. Let us sit and talk—”

  “You said you’d explain everything when I got home.” I gestured around me. “I’m home. How am I home, Granny? How did I go from the bookstore to Oxford to here? Why are books and paintings moving like we’re in Harry Potter? Why did that angel in that painting talk to me? What was that red smoke—”

  “Chloe,” my mother said softly and squeezed my shoulders. “Sit down. I promise we’re going to explain, but you don’t look well. Sit.”

  “Oh, hello, Miss Chloe,” a chipper feminine voice said from behind me. “They said you were on your way. Lovely to see you on this lovely morning.”

  I glanced over my shoulder just as our housekeeper Miranda strolled toward us carrying a silver tray with tea and biscuits. “H-hello, Miranda. You’re in a good mood this morning.”

  “I think we all are today, miss.” She grinned, then sat the tray down on the wooden coffee table. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything, ma’am.”

  “Thank you, Miranda.” Granny smiled at her then looked to me and gestured to the sofa across from her. “Come, Chloe. Let’s have a spot of tea while we talk.”

  I didn’t want tea. Or biscuits. My stomach was in knots and turning. I feared one bite would send me running for the loo to bury my face in it. But my mother gently tugged on my arm, so I knew I had no choice. I let my mother lead me over to the sofa, then sat down beside her, across from granny.

  “Chloe, I know you’re afraid but you have no reason to be. You’ll see.” Mum reached over and took my hand in hers. “Everything that is happening to you is normal for you—”

  “Mum, that makes no bloody sense at all. I would remember red smoke pouring from my hands or paintings moving—”

  “Do you remember The Coven?”

  I froze. Only my eyes slid over to granny. “The Coven? As in those fun bedtime stories you used to tell me when I was a little girl?”

  She grinned over the top of her teacup. “Yes, those.”

  The Coven had already crossed my mind, back in the hall at Oxford. The fact that she was bringing it up somehow only made me more nervous. I swallowed through the emotions fighting their way up my throat. “Y-yes, I remember them. I think? Why does that matter?”

  She sat her teacup back on the saucer and reached for a biscuit. “What do you remember about them?”

  I sighed and threw my hands up, shaking my head. “What?”

  “What do you remember about those stories, love?” My mother poured milk into both of our cups of tea. “Just try.”

  I blinked and rubbed my temples. “Um, okay…they were witches, right? Wait, no, there was another word for them—”

  “Arcana,” granny said softly with a little smirk. “Arcana means witch in their ancient language.”

  “Right. Right.” I sighed. Again. I didn’t understand why they were asking me about old fairytales when I needed real answers — unless those weren’t fiction at all. My heart stopped as it hit me. “Are you telling me those weren’t stories at all?”

  Granny pursed her lips. “Well, they were stories, but they were not fictional.”

  My breath left me in a rush. I leapt to my feet and started pacing. “What do you mean they’re not fictional?”

  They exchanged sharp glances.

  “Granny? Mum?”

  Mum sighed real hard and sat her cup of tea back down, and I noticed her fingers were trembling almost as bad as mine were. “When you were little we wanted to teach you the truth about who and what we are, but you assumed they were just bed time stories…and well…we figured there was no harm in letting you believe that. You were so young, and after losing your father—” her voice broke.

  “The truth. Those stories were true?” I stopped pacing between the two sofas. “You can’t possibly be trying to tell me that we’re witches? That I am a witch.”

  “We are. You are.”

  “Since bloody when?” I threw my hands out to the side and red smoke burst from my palms. I squealed and leapt back but that only made it spread out around me.

  Pale lavender mist shot through the air then wrapped around my red smoke over and over until it was gone. Then it flashed and vanished. I gasped and looked up – and found my mother holding what looked like a wand.

  “MUM?”

  Her cheeks flushed a deep pink. She bit her bottom lip and held her wooden stick up in front of her face. “This is my wand, Chloe. You’ve seen it your whole life. I kept it in that glass case on my boudoir.”

  “It’s a wand…a wand.”

  She smiled. “I was never quite as powerful as you or your father. I am not a Lancaster…but I knew quite a few tricks with my wand back in my day.”

  “Not a Lancaster? What does that mean? Are you saying all Lancasters are witches?”

  Granny shook her head. “Not all of us, no. Some are human. Same goes for many old family names.”

  Mum chuckled softly. “The humans were always drawn to us, wanting to be like us so much they took our names. Can’t say that I blame them though.”

  “Oi.” I waved my arms wildly. “Can we back up one bloody minute? What do you mean we’re witches?”

  “We told you the stories, Chloe—”

  “Tell me again!” I slammed my mouth shut and took a deep breath. “Please. I am losing my mind after this morning. Please. Pretend I’ve never heard this story and tell me again.”

  “All right.” Mum took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “First, you should know that there are thousands of us. Witches. Our species lives all around the world. In every major city you could think of, and then in the little ones, too.”

  “Okay…”

  “So our history starts with the fall of the Garden of Eden, when Adam and Eve fell.” I must’ve made a face because she held her hand up. “When they fell, it caused a ripple effect and subsequently let evil and darkness seep into our world. It set everything off-balance. In an extremely vague explanation, this is what caused supernatural species to be born. But their presence weakened the veil between Heaven, Hell, and other dimensions—”

  “Other dimensions?” I squealed. “I don’t remember that from the stories.”

  Granny shrugged and chuckled. “Bit frightful for a four year old.”

  I turned to my mother. “Mum.”

  “Right, so, with the veil weakened, it allowed spirits to come back, both the harmless from Heaven, and the evil from Hell. The dimensional wall still prevented Greater Demons and the Fae Court from entering our realm, but now weaker demons and fair folk could get here. As you can imagine, this world was a horrible, dangerous place all of a sudden, and the humans were no match. They were being decimated.”

  Pressure weighed down on my shoulders, pushing me toward the ground. I didn’t fight it. I let myself drop down to sit on the wooden step. My head was already spinning.

  “The Creator realized Earth needed protection, but knew it was too big of a job to handle. So, The Creator birthed the Goddess and tasked her with the job of controlling the supernatural elements. Except, she couldn’t directly interfere. This is when she created her own species, a species that looked and sounded human, would live amongst them, and would be there to protect them.” She looked over at me with raised eyebrows, like she was waiting for me to fill in the blank.

  “Witches?”

  She nodded. “Witches. She took her own blood, which possessed magical qualities, then mixed it with the blood of humans and that of angels to create a
rcana – witches.”

  I shook my head, trying to wrap my mind around that.

  “Chloe,” Granny said softly. “Do you remember the stories about the original twenty? About the witches who were too strong, too powerful? The ones who were forced to mate with humans to dilute their magic?”

  I opened my mouth to say no when I realized I did remember that. “Weren’t there like a hundred of them at first but only twenty of those survived?”

  “Exactly!” Granny grinned and popped a biscuit in her mouth. She chewed then smiled. “And the Lancasters were one of those twenty.”

  The world spun. I reached down and gripped the step. “The Lancasters come from them? From the creation of our entire species?”

  They both nodded.

  I groaned and scrubbed my face. The stories were all trying to come back, but I hadn’t heard them in over a decade. The details were fuzzy. “Okay…right…was there something about an angel named…bollocks, I can’t remember. Jophiel?”

  Mum gasped and clapped her hands. “You do remember! Yes!” She jumped to her feet and scurried over to the far wall where the paintings hung, her long blonde hair that matched mine swinging as she moved.

  “Mum? Where are you going?”

  She stopped in front of a painting and pointed to the angel who’d spoken to me. “This is Jophiel.”

  I gasped and sat up straight. “What? Who is the bloke?”

  “The first Lancaster.”

  My eyes widened. “The first?”

  She nodded and smiled up at the painting fondly. Then she glanced back to me. “You see this moving right now?”

  “Yes, though not much.” Her hair and dress rustled in a breeze. Grass swayed. The man lifted his rose. Then another memory hit me. “WAIT. Wasn’t there a story about the first child of an angel?”

  Mother nodded again, looking back to the painting. “The angels decided back then that Earth needed a single piece of Heaven to protect them. To harness the goodness of Heaven, the holiness, and spread it. Jophiel, the only female angel who has ever come to Earth, chose the first Lancaster to have a child with. He was so honored that she chose him that he presented her with a single red rose that he spent hours searching for.”