Casters Series Box Set

by Norah Wilson

  Casters Series

  Comes the Night

  Enter the Night

  Embrace the Night

  By

  Norah Wilson and Heather Doherty

  Published by

  Something Shiny Press

  P.O. Box 30046, Fredericton, NB, E3B 0H8

  Caster Series

  Copyright 2014 Norah Wilson and Heather Doherty

  Published by Something Shiny Press

  Cover Design by Phat Puppy Art

  Formatted by IRONHORSE Formatting

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite e-book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Comes the Night

  Enter the Night

  Embrace the Night

  Message from the Author

  Other books by the Wilson-Doherty writing team:

  About the Authors

  Comes the Night

  Book 1 in the Casters Series

  by

  Norah Wilson and Heather Doherty

  Comes the Night

  Copyright © 2012 Norah Wilson and Heather Doherty

  Cover by Phat Puppy Art

  Formatted by IRONHORSE Formatting

  Prologue

  From the Diary of Connie Harvell

  October 11, 1962

  Dear Diary,

  I went out again tonight.

  I just had to! There was no room for anything in me beyond the need to escape. As soon as my legs would hold me, I got off that cot and crossed my attic prison to the stained glass window. I looked at the Madonna trapped there in the colored glass. Her image was dull in the night, yet—in its own way—alive with the moonlight shining through. I saw her eyes clearly. And it really felt like she saw mine too—saw my horror.

  Yes, this gentle lady knows my suffering. She’s silent yet offering. And it’s terrifying, what she offers!

  I will not be damned for what I must do. I. Will. Not!

  I touched the cold glass, Dear Diary. I laid my hands on it and looked up into those blue eyes. I smiled, despite the nightmare of this room. I smiled as I prepared to say the words that would set me free, if only for these darkened hours.

  Because out there... out there I’m free from the locks, the bindings. The pain. Even my lonely isolation. Out there I join with the night. And it joins with me!

  I spoke the words. I whispered them as I tapped on the window. Then, once again, I was one with the dark night.

  It was terrifying... And yes—it was wonderful.

  Chapter 1

  The Bleeding Rose

  Alex

  Present day

  It was the cold that woke her.

  Eyes still glued shut with sleep, Alex Robbins threw her arm wide, fumbling for the covers she must have thrown off in the night. Except her knuckles came in stinging contact with a hard surface instead of a soft mattress.

  What the hell? Her eyes flew open.

  The ceiling above was unfamiliar, but from the way it slanted so sharply, with raw, exposed beams, it had to be an attic.

  She was in an attic!

  She jackknifed up, then wished she hadn’t as sharp, stinging pain arrowed up from between her legs. Gasping, she leaned to the right, shifting her weight onto her hip to alleviate the discomfort. Oh, God, her naked hip! Her shirt hung open, buttons missing, and she wore nothing from the waist down.

  Her heart pounded, and a wave of nausea rolled over her as she struggled to process the obvious.

  Who had done this to her?

  The memory was like a hammer, just outside her awareness. Relentlessly pounding. Forcefully driving at the walls of her mind in an attempt to break through the barrier. She pressed her fists to her forehead for long moments, straining for the memory. But it wouldn’t come. Oh God, it wouldn’t come! But something had happened! And that terrified her, like nothing had ever terrified her before.

  She turned her frantic attention back to the room. Definitely an attic, but where? Everything was dusty and gray and still, as if stopped in time. The dark rafters above her rose to a peaked roof. The lighting was low, only the smallest amount of diffused sunlight filtered into the room.

  Sunlight—there had to be a window.

  Alex cringed at the pain low in her belly as she turned. Beside her lay a musty, dirt-streaked overcoat and she pulled it up around her, covering her nakedness. A low window was directly behind her and she only had to scoot back a few feet to look outside. The top two-thirds of the window shone with a multitude of bright colors, but she didn’t even look at the pattern in the stained glass. She just raised herself up enough to peer through the clear glass at the bottom.

  It was barely morning. Probably just past six, judging from the rising sun. Alex was looking out on a river—the Saint John River. She recognized this stretch of it. At least she was still in Mansbridge. And as she studied more of her surroundings through the window—the buildings around the bend in the river, a transport truck rumbling down the road on the other side of the Saint John—she knew where she was.

  “I’m still in Harvell House!” she whispered. There was little comfort in that.

  Alex had come back to school early; the other students wouldn’t be arriving for two more days. She’d had little choice in the pre-Labor Day arrival. Her parents had had enough of her, and she’d certainly had enough of them. Two phone calls and it was arranged, Harvell House would take her early. “Reject Row” the town called it. Harvell House was the residence where the loneliest went, the oddest ones, and of course, as in Alex’s case, the very worst of the bad apples who attended the Streep Academy.

  She turned her attention back to the room. As her eyes adjusted to the low lighting, she could make out more detail. A mattressless crib, its sides high and slats wide apart, stood in one corner, flanked by two dressers and an old rocking chair. Alex’s stomach clenched as she saw the wide cot, the one tatter of thick rope knotted onto the metal frame.

  But no, it hadn’t happened there.

  She pulled the dirty coat tighter around her. Whoever had done this to her—whoever had raped her—hadn’t done it there on the cot, but here on the floor. Here where she sat now. She couldn’t remember it happening, but with stomach-churning sickness and body-burning anger, she knew the truth of it.

  And it had to have been rape. Her sexual experience was a whole lot thinner than most people probably thought, but she knew enough to know consensual sex didn’t leave you feeling like this.

  The memory hammered—again and again. Closer.

  Under the meager covering of the coat, Alex brou
ght her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. The action caused the coat to gape at the top. She looked down at herself, at her beloved tattoo just above her right breast—a bleeding red rose. She’d gotten it back home in Halifax during the summer in celebration of her 17th birthday. They’d all gotten one—Alex and Anika and Chelsea. Anika had dared a small musical note on her ankle. Chelsea a wide, blue tramp stamp on her lower back. But Alex had been drawn to the bleeding red rose displayed on the tattoo shop’s wall. She’d gotten that. Gone back once more over the summer to have the job completed.

  And now, at the sight of the bruise from unknown hands continuing to form around that bleeding flower, she curled up into a ball on the floor let the tough-girl tears flow.

  How had this happened? She’d been back in Mansbridge twenty-four hours. Last night had been her first night at Harvell House. Who could have done this to her? Who would have dared? Who even knew she was back?

  How did she get here?

  Come on, girl, remember!

  But that was just it. She couldn’t. No matter how hard she tried.

  Had she been roofied?

  The caretaker—John Smith—had signed her in to Harvell. Quiet, harmless-looking old geezer. As always, he’d barely made eye contact with her. The housemother, Mrs. Betts, had been summoned. Tired, apathetic, annoyed to be woken at two in the afternoon, she’d shown Alex to the second-floor room she’d be sharing in September with two girls, one of whom she’d never even heard of, and the other she knew to be a total B. She fully intended to bunk with Leah and Kassidy again this year, but she would save that news for when her posse could back her up. So instead of arguing about it, Alex had lain down on the bed. She’d read for a bit, had a short nap, cracked open her flask and... Her flask! Was that it? Had someone on the bus ride slipped something into her bottle? Unlikely. She’d had it in her carry-on and had used that as a pillow most of the way. She’d changed buses in Moncton, but the bag hadn’t been out of her sight. Not for a minute.

  She just couldn’t remember. And if she couldn’t remember, how could she tell anyone? Especially with her reputation in Mansbridge. She’d had almost as many run-ins with the local law here as she’d had with the Halifax Regional Police. And the force was so much smaller here. Every one of them knew her. Or thought they did.

  She’d get up. Of course she would. She’d fight this feeling of brokenness. She’d get up and wrap the coat around her and make her way back to her room, and get showered and dressed. But she was going to stop crying first. Get a hold of herself.

  Starting by getting out of this stupid fetal position. She wasn’t a baby.

  She rolled onto her back. Through tear-filled eyes she glared up at the rafters steepling above her, silent witness to her—There was something there. She wiped at her eyes to get a better look. Papers?

  No not papers, exactly—a yellow-edged book, way up on the rafters, tucked in what looked to be a rough-carved place in the wooden beam. She wouldn’t have even noticed it had she not been lying flat on the floor.

  Alex got to her feet and pulled the coat around her. The musty, sickening smell of the coat’s fabric filled her nostrils, but she pushed her nausea aside and crossed the floor to look up at the rafter. How could she reach it?

  She scanned the room. The rocking chair! It wouldn’t boost her high enough to reach the hidden book, but if she used it to get up on the dresser... No sooner had she formed the thought than she was moving the heavy dresser, lifting each side by turns and inching it quietly to the center of the room.

  Alex climbed. As much as her world felt like it was falling apart, she was pulled to the tiny book, like the distraction of discovering its contents would somehow be enough to help her survive this awful moment. She stood on top of the dresser, balanced on her bare feet and reached. With careful, digging fingers she pulled the book from its wooden nest and held it close to her as she climbed down to the floor again.

  She flipped through the pages as she stood there, reading a bit here and there of the shaking handwriting on the yellowed paper. “Omigod, a diary.”

  She flipped to the front page and read the name there. Connie Edwina Harvell. She closed the book and her fingers touched the tiniest rose, drawn on one lower corner of the cover.

  Alex tucked the diary securely into the top of the tightly-belted coat and eased the dresser back into place. Then, with practiced stealth, she made her way soundlessly back down to her room.

  She showered, standing under the stinging hot spray until the water ran cold. She dressed. She cried again and pounded her pillow. She fought and fought with the memory and the memory fought with her.

  And then, as she sat tight in a corner, Alex Robbins began reading the yellowed pages of Connie’s diary.

  Chapter 2

  Tabula Rasa

  Maryanne

  Maryanne Hemlock had been in more awkward situations than this over the course of her seventeen years. But darned if she could think of one of those situations right now as she sat on the edge of her bed in her assigned room at Harvell House. Her gaze traveled between her two roommates—Alex Robbins and Brooke Saunders. Their single beds, identical to Maryanne’s, snugged up against two of the other walls of the perfectly square, perfectly plain, high-ceilinged room.

  Eyes shifted.

  It was like some kind of Mexican standoff, without the guns.

  What the heck was she doing here?

  No sooner did the thought form than the answer came. Along with the sad resolve. Because she had to be here.

  Jason.

  She still missed him. Still grieved her baby brother’s death as if it were yesterday. Twelve months and twelve days, that had been his whole life. She didn’t grieve him with the same anguished desperation as her mother did. Nor with the same stoic heartache as her father. But she missed him and mourned him in her own way.

  Like no one would ever—could ever!—know.

  It wasn’t that Jason had been the adored sibling. No more and no less the center of her parents’ world than she had been. They’d both been cherished, and known it. She’d been their first born child; he’d been their ‘miracle’ baby. The pleasant surprise. And he’d fit.

  Jason had fit perfectly into their little family. Made it all the cozier.

  She supposed that they had been an extraordinarily close-knit family. Skip Hemlock, her slightly eccentric father, had been a content stay-at-home dad who made the most amazing lasagna and was famous in their little subdivision for his pecan pie, which was Maryanne’s favorite. He’d made Jason’s baby food himself, and kept it all organic. Maryanne’s mother, Kelly Webb-Hemlock, was the CEO of a very successful Toronto IT security firm, but she had never missed a single one of Maryanne’s Christmas concerts, piano lessons or swim meets. She’d aahed and oohed over every one of Jason’s first words, marveled at his smile. So had Maryanne.

  But then on that nightmare night just last May, Jason’s life had ended.

  And the guilt crushed her still.

  It’s not like her little brother had been the glue that had held the family together. But nevertheless without him, they’d come undone. And rightly or wrongly, she’d had to get away. Away from her parents whose marriage was crumbling right before her eyes. Away from all the sympathetic souls who told Maryanne how sorry they were for her loss, how much Jason had adored her, and worst of all—what a very good big sister she’d been.

  A few Google searches later and she’d had the answer: Streep Academy in Mansbridge, New Brunswick.

  I wasn’t like Streep was her only choice. Her marks had been good enough to get her into any private school in the country, and her parents could afford to send her. But this little school in this small town had seemed just right. Just far enough away from her Burlington, Ontario home. Neither of her parents protested. In fact, her mother cut the tuition check the very day Maryanne broached the idea. She’d opened up a generous line of credit for her remaining child with the instructions, “Don’t go without.
” And four weeks later, her father hugged her goodbye at the airport.

  Short hours after that tremulous hug, she’d stood before Harvell house—the only dorm left in town that had a vacancy—and smiled. “Awesome!”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty grand,” the taxi driver agreed, placing her bags on the sidewalk. “Can’t imagine why Mr. Stanley doesn’t sell it. He could get a good price for it.”

  She passed him a tip and took the handle of her suitcase. “I’m glad he hasn’t.”

  The Academy’s website had boasted this as one of the oldest homes in a town bursting with old homes. Apparently, it was owned by a Mr. C. W. Stanley, an oil man from Alberta who had visited Mansbridge years ago, fell in love with the little town, and spent a ton of money to modernize the property.

  About a decade ago, he’d donated use of the house to Streep Academy. But even from the low-res pictures on the Streep website, Maryanne knew Harvell was the place for her. She’d always ‘felt’ places, their vibes, though that particular quirk was something she kept to herself, ever since Angela Carlin had called her a weirdo back in Grade 3 when she’d described the school’s small gym as angry.

  But it wouldn’t take someone with Maryanne’s sensitivity to feel the lonesomeness that permeated the huge, old house. It practically breathed out through the clapboards. Disquiet stared from every window of Harvell House, even the smallest ones.

  “Oh wow, especially the smallest ones.”

  Maryanne looked around quickly to see if anyone had seen her talking to herself. Not exactly the first impression she wanted to make. But only the cab driver was there to hear her. He smiled and got back into his vehicle.

  As the taxi pulled away, Maryanne climbed the steps and walked into the enormous old house, knowing she’d made the right choice. She’d breathe here a little while, while her parents survived, marriage intact or not, back in Burlington. She’d grieve here. Work through the feelings as best she could. And what was left, she would shove in a box in the corner of her mind so she could go on. Then she’d head home in the summer and prepare for university.