by K. F. Breene
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
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Natural Witch
Magical Mayhem, book 1
K.F. Breene
DDVN World
Copyright © 2018 by K.F. Breene
All rights reserved. The people, places and situations contained in this ebook are figments of the author’s insane imagination and in no way reflect real or true events.
Contents
Natural Witch
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Read Born in Fire
Also by K.F. Breene
About the Author
Natural Witch
Something has always been missing from my life. A hole that I could never seem to fill.
When I accidentally turn a coven of witches into nightmares, I find out what that something is.
Magic.
And it turns out, I have a crap load of it.
As a latent power awakens deep inside of me, I’m exposed to one of the most powerful and corrupt organizations in the magical world—the Mages’ Guild.
Barely knowing a spell from a few swear words and luck, I won’t be able to evade them alone.
And that’s when I meet him.
The Rogue Natural. The best and most feared mage in the world.
He’s dangerous, mysterious, and has a vendetta of his own. He is now the only thing between me and magical enslavement.
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Chapter One
What was I thinking? This was a terrible idea. Probably one of my worst, and given my track record, that was saying something.
Here I was, standing in a field outside of New Orleans, 2505 miles away from home, all because a woman at a crystal shop had suggested I attend a magic retreat. Sure, this particular retreat was heralded as the best in the country, but given that I was a complete novice, did it really matter? I didn’t know up from down when it came to the occult. They could teach us how to use a Ouija board and I’d be happy. So why had I thought traveling so far from my house, using all my savings, was a rock-solid plan?
Because I was a lunatic with terrible decision-making skills, that was why.
I sighed and scratched my head. Then shook it.
But I didn’t turn and leave.
Something was missing from my life. Something that gnawed at my gut and frayed my nerves. I didn’t feel complete. For some reason I couldn’t understand, this was what kept drawing me in.
Well, not this, per se. Not the church I stood awkwardly in front of, strangely removed from civilization. Or the giant price tag on the journey. Or even the lying I’d done to my mother to come this far for something I probably could’ve found much closer. But witchcraft. Magic. The secrets hidden within the majesty of nature.
My mother thought I was in Eugene, Oregon, looking at haunted houses with my best friend Veronica. She would’ve lost it if she’d known the truth.
I shouldn’t have lied to her. It wasn’t that she was unreasonable, after all, it was that—
No, she was unreasonable. I’d already lied to her; I didn’t need to lie to myself.
The only way I could’ve gotten her permission to attend this retreat was if I’d sat her down in her favorite chair, plied her with a plate of brownies and an obscene amount of alcohol, told her what I’d planned while she was roaring drunk, and then snuck out before she regained her senses. In any other scenario, she would’ve forbidden it. Didn’t matter that I was twenty-four years old.
That wasn’t why it was a terrible idea.
I surveyed my destination—a large church flanked by weepy trees and surrounded by Louisiana’s flatland. Shadows draped across the oddly shaped structure, stones stuck together with mortar and tired souls. Large, gothic-style windows dotted the front. Gargoyles crouched near the roof, their mouths open and waiting.
There was no way this church had come from this century. Or this continent, for this matter. When it came to an old-world feel, New Orleans couldn’t hold a candle to this structure. The church was as out of place here as I was.
I blew out a breath and closed my eyes.
The dark cloud of intent hung heavy over the grounds surrounding the structure. Coated the walls and pooled at the base. Evil purpose existed in that church, I knew it. It lingered and it waited, hoping someone would mold its energy into a useable design bent on destruction. All it needed was the right tweak, and anything alive inside would meet its maker in a horrible, gruesome death.
Wow.
I ran my hand over my face. My imagination was running amok, even by my standards.
I glanced down the lane where brown dust billowed up from behind the retreating cab. My flip phone from yesteryear sat quietly in my clenched fist. Looking back at the church and the animosity hanging invisibly in the air, I thought this all through one more time.
On the one hand, I was going against everything my mother had always said—every rule she’d ever made—and throwing myself into the deep end without much more than internet searches, a wing, and a prayer. I was seeking insight and practical knowledge on something she had expressly forbidden me to
pursue. Something she’d tried to guard against with threats and really itchy powders.
Something that had killed my father.
But on the other hand… I knew I had a little spark of magic in me. I knew it. Despite my mother’s favorite saying—all women have premonitions, intuition, and a natural talent for mischief, and you, Penny Bristol, have the same dose as everyone else—it certainly didn’t seem that way. My best friend Veronica couldn’t make a mixing bowl explode by filling it with the right combination of glue, sage, and honey. She’d tried, and nothing had happened besides wasted ingredients. My mother couldn’t make the pictures come to life in the untitled red volume stuffed between the dictionary and the book on medicinal uses of herbs in her workroom. She didn’t even view the passages the same way, like sleeping wonders waiting to be awoken by the soft whisper of words.
And wasn’t Greta the mail lady always eerily surprised when I recited for her what she’d just dropped off into our mailbox without seeing the letters for myself?
Well…she’d accused me of spying on her with hidden cameras, which was nearly the same thing. I felt like they belonged in the same camp.
All of those things hinted at magic flowing through my blood. Didn’t they?
You just have a temperamental third eye, dear. You get that from your father, God rest his soul. You’d do best to ignore it, lest you wind up in jail.
I gritted my teeth and shoved my mother’s voice away.
I did have a bit of magic. I knew I did. And I was tired of pretending I was normal when I felt anything but. I was tired of being an outcast, however much I tried to fit in. If there was a hope that I belonged here, belonged anywhere, I wanted to check it out. Just once.
And really, what harm could any of this do? I’d read reviews and testimonials about this retreat, and they’d all been glowing. It even had a positive Yelp score. The setting—just outside of New Orleans, in a rustic church—only made it more delightful. According to my research, and I’d been fairly thorough, this was an ideal retreat for beginners.
My smile turned into a grimace as I looked at the church.
Rustic wasn’t the word I’d use.
Decrepit was a better choice.
“Haunted with the blood of the lost” was a string of words that might also apply.
“Soul eater” and “life stealer” would have also been accurate choices for the online brochure.
I worried a rock with my toe.
Did I listen to my temperamental third eye, which definitely failed me at least half the time, or my heart, which said I needed to learn this side of myself, if only to see if these feelings were real?
I sighed. This was stupid. I was an idiot, but I hadn’t come all this way to balk in the final hour. Sure, there was a Cloud of Doom hanging over the church, and yes, the ancient building was somehow in a place it did not belong. But after twenty-four boring, dutiful years spent living in my mother’s shadow, it was time to seize the day. To stretch my comfort zone.
Doing my best to ignore the butterflies filling my stomach, I stepped forward. My feet didn’t make a sound on the squishy grass. As I moved closer to the large wooden door, energy prickled across my exposed skin and soaked into my middle. My guts danced with unease.
Summoning my courage and hoping all this was all just a trick of my imagination, I grabbed hold of the large iron handle and pulled the door open.
A musty smell accosted me, like I was unsealing a centuries-old chamber that had been closed up tight. Cold, damp air replaced the warm stickiness from outside. A few wooden benches dotted the mostly empty floor in the spacious room.
A cluster of men looked up in expectation and the room fell silent—their conversation halted, their eyes hard.
“H-hi,” I stammered, then cleared my throat and straightened my spine. I knew a thing or two about bullies, thanks to all of stupid Billy Timmons’s tormenting, and one thing you couldn’t do was look small and weak. I might as well paint a big red target on my forehead. “H-hey.”
It would have to do.
The closest man, a burly guy with a permanent sneer, hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “In there. You’re late.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled, and gave them a wide berth.
I paused at the door at the back of the large main room. It wasn’t a great idea to wander through this pit of doom blindly. I needed to scout out exit plans in case my temperamental third eye wasn’t being temperamental at all.
Turning back, I noticed another man walk in through the main door. Young, gangly, but stiff, he walked into the cursed church like he owned it. He patted the satchel at his side, and I realized all the men had accessorized similarly. Not a lot of originality in man-purses for this crew.
To the right and left there were single doors that presumably led to smaller rooms beyond. Unless flying brooms were real, and these guys lent them out at the retreat, the windows along the front of the building were much too high for a person to break through in a mad dash. Unless there was a back door, there was only one reliable exit.
Letting out a slow exhale to release some of my pent-up anxiety, I quietly opened the door the burly guy had indicated and stepped through, not disturbing the sudden raucous carry-on of the men. The back room spread out before me, and I had to stop and take it all in before I could look for my contact. It wasn’t your average setup.
Understatement of the century.
Running the entire width of the church, the space was unexpectedly gigantic—equally as deep as the previous room. The hard, uneven stone floor stretched out in front of me, shinier than the walls. Polished, almost. Ahead, a big fissure cut across it, four feet wide and as long as the room. I inched forward to see if it was a fire pit, or something like that, but as I progressed, the bottom remained elusive. It had to be pretty deep. “Feed the snakes with a virgin” kind of deep.
Beyond the pit was a slightly raised area where a big cauldron sat off to the left, and a podium stood in the center. Maybe that was where they’d lecture? I excelled in school. That method of fact delivery was fine by me. Though…the strange pit separating the professor from the students was jarring. Would we be thrown to our deaths if we didn’t pay attention?
A sludgy, get-out-of-there-while-you-still-can feeling rolled over me, prickling my skin, as I caught sight of a group of women chatting in the corner on my side of the pit. They all leaned over a shared sheet of paper. One reached forward and traced a line with her pointer finger.
Nervousness ate through my middle like a cancer. I skulked closer while trying not to fidget, my unease at meeting new people warring with my desire to seem confident. One of the women glanced over, her pale skin framed by a thick mop of black hair. She nudged a portly woman next to her, and her neighbor jerked up her round face to study me.
I smiled, something that probably looked strained. “Is one of you…Tessa?” I asked.
The rest of the women looked up, the expressions ranging from curious to surprised. An older woman with graying hair bobbed around her face took a step away from the others. Her eyes narrowed as they studied me.
“I’m Tessa,” she said in a cautious way. “And you would be…?”
“Penny. Penny Bristol. I emailed you. Several times. About the retreat?”
Silence filled the room, only interrupted by one woman shifting. Her shoe scraped against the stone floor.
“The retreat on…witchcraft?” I said, hoping that might jog someone’s memory. This was a little awkward, to say the least. The retreat’s Yelp page was going to get a piece of my mind.
“You’re so young,” Tessa said, stepping closer.
I frowned, swiftly running my gaze over their group. While I was certainly the youngest, I didn’t stand out that much. The next youngest probably had fifteen years on me. That didn’t seem like much of a cause for ageism.
Although perhaps it could be said that Billy Timmons had a point, and my large alien eyes, the clear skin I tried desperately to hide from the sun f
or fear of sunburn, and the wilting posture I couldn’t shake at the moment (if only they’d stop staring!) conspired to make me look much younger than my actual age.
“I’m twenty-four,” I said confidently.
“Yes,” Tessa said. “And you were able to cross the barrier.”
“I…didn’t see a barrier. There was just a lane, some strange grass, and this church.”
“You passed through the doors of the church.”
My smile had probably turned a little toothy at this point. Holding it in place was starting to get difficult, because of course I had passed through the door. I was standing right in front of them. What other way would I have gotten in? With a Batman belt and some climbing gloves?
“Yes,” I said.
“Yes,” she repeated.
“This is the witchcraft retreat, isn’t it?” I ventured.
A couple of the women chuckled softly and the group as a whole twisted and turned, looking at one another. A smile slowly crept up Tessa’s face.
“No,” she said, cool as day. “That was last weekend. We had a shift in plans. I thought we’d contacted everyone.”
I could feel the blood drain from my face. Coldness washed through my body, followed by a blast of alarm. I’d paid for the tickets and lodging with my scant savings. I’d lied to my mother, flown halfway across the country, and suffered a constant stomachache from the spices that seemed so prevalent in the French Quarter, all to attend a retreat that I’d missed? Even if they refunded me for the retreat ticket, all that other money was out the window.
