Everwish: The Primati Witches Book One

by Amelia Oz

  The fey were unbothered by moist climates, yet their shrinking numbers mostly remained in the Scottish Hills. A distant cousin of their clans, the TirieFliuch, existed in the Olympic forests of Washington. Too small and quick to be seen, their numbers were unknown. My brother, the Noble King, paid the Fey Queen well with Ottoman jewels to ensure the TirieFliuch kept their silence about our activities in the Pacific Northwest these last several years. Her influence and fear of retribution had kept our secrets safe thus far, but there was no guarantee when loyalty could be bought.

  A stronger trace of sulfur rose again, confirming it originated from the map store. Clara aside, I had good reasons to detest the mischief of witches. I nudged the door open.

  A brass bell clanged above my head. Shutting the door behind me, I sent my senses out. Confirming no human hearts beat within the room, I engaged the lock and flipped the door sign to "closed." Silence and dust motes met my perusal as I scanned the shelves and low tables. Poster tubes and map making tools lay near the register, but nothing living hid behind the scarred wooden counter.

  I stalked to the back of the store and kicked open the door that held a sign that read “Office”, too impatient to wait for an ambush.

  The room was larger than expected, filled with filing cabinets and additional shelves of books. Oversized maps lined every surface of exposed wall. One in particular was interesting, as there was a girl standing immobile in front of it. I recognized her as Clara's right hand, Bromely, even though she looked very different from last evening. Her pigtails were gone, for one thing.

  I tried not to laugh at her attempts to become invisible. The spell was camouflaging her against the ancient world map and wainscoted wall behind her. Of course, I could see her, but her stillness told me that she didn't know that—yet.

  I wandered the room, keeping an eye on her shimmering outline as I did so. I picked up a book here...inspected a page there. When I circled to where she stood, hands at her sides and eyes closed, I paused. She was really very skilled. Her pulse and heat were masked so that another witch or Primati would've likely not been aware of her presence. The entire surface of her was an exact replica of the wall behind her. A perfect facsimile—as long as she kept her eyes closed. Only very great power could mask the eyes, as they were the windows of the soul. Sorcerers, evil and soulless, would have been able to utterly mask themselves.

  I leaned forward, as if interested in the southern plains of the African continent. I placed my face just above the left side of her head. This close, I could feel her living essence through the spell's tightly woven concealment. Her heart was now detectable and thrummed as quick as a hummingbird.

  "Marco..." I murmured.

  Bromely's shape quivered.

  Not being able to help myself, I gave a low growl.

  Her spell imploded with a tiny sonic pop, revealing the witch.

  "Polo!" she cried.

  Witches found it difficult not to finish spoken phrases or sounds. A half-finished secret knock, a partially complete saying such as "a bird in the hand..." the list was endless, and their compulsion drove them crazy. Only the most seasoned witch had the self-discipline to resist, and Bromely must have been at her limits with holding the camouflage spell.

  I grinned as she slid down the wall, holding her face in terror.

  "Please don't kill me. I'm with the First Order," she wheezed. The witch thrust a thin wrist over her head, revealing Clara's mark. Three blue waves.

  I stepped back. She trembled and cried in the most boring way. I watched, impatient, as she wiped her nose on the sleeve of a green army jacket. She hugged her legs, covered with leggings and dirty boots, and began to rock.

  "Stop sniveling or I will kill you," I finally snapped.

  "Yes, sir," she cried. Sighing in disgust, I slouched into a leather chair and waited. I had to give her credit when she finally lifted her puffy face. She blinked through her tears like the most experienced of actresses. I had no doubt her fright was real. But she was no silly child.

  "Laying it on a bit thick, aren't you?" I observed.

  Her hands stilled where they wiped her cheeks.

  "Aren't you a little old to be so dramatic?" Although she appeared very young, her aura was much, much older.

  Her gaze hardened, and her tears dried. She rested her wrists on her knees, looking at me.

  "Clara said you were her right hand. I find that hard to believe. First the traffic light and now spying on me."

  "I wasn't spying. I was looking for one of our coven members, Susan Withers. She owns this store. I know she was here earlier because of a locator spell and there were signs…but I'm sorry about the traffic light. I was just so surprised to see you..."

  I waved away her explanation. Witches were notoriously good liars.

  "Do you know anything about the people who operate the mystic shop next door?"

  She nodded grudgingly.

  "And?" I barked.

  She jumped. "I don't know. You'll have to speak with Clara. Something's been happening. A number of our people have disappeared."

  I sank even further into the chair, pondering her words. Tapping my knee, I eyed her hunched form.

  "Grayson," I said. Bromely's eyes widened, the blackened smears around them highlighting the white of her eyeballs. She began to shake.

  The air pulsed.

  "Please. You can't trust anyone," she hissed, desperation clear in her voice.

  The shadow grew and solidified into my personal guard. Grayson preferred the appearance of a gentleman and wore an expensively tailored Dior suit, his silver hair combed elegantly back from his gentle countenance. Looks were deceiving. Grayson held his position due to his intelligence and loyalty, yet I'd also seen him garrote a demon with just a silk tie. His reputation as the Lion's left hand was legendary. Based on her reaction, it seems Bromely had heard of him.

  Grayson glanced about the room, a meat cleaver in one hand. The effect was ruined somewhat by the pink and green apron tied about his waist.

  Satisfied there was no immediate danger in the room, Grayson turned and offered me a short bow.

  "Apologies, Alaric, I was just preparing dinner. The hotel chef has no idea how to prepare a proper braised paleron." He whipped the bloody cleaver behind his back, which placed it directly in front of Bromley's face.

  A shriek rent the air, and Grayson whipped around and frowned at her, cleaver at the ready.

  I hid a grin. "It's just one of Clara's witches, Grayson," I explained.

  A former military man for England, Grayson had even less patience for hysterical witches than I did. He stepped away from Bromley but kept her in his sightline, the cleaver now arcing in figure eights at his side.

  "Grayson, I want you to arrange a meeting tonight at the hotel. Let Clara and Jing San know that I will expect them at midnight. You should also be there."

  "Yes, sir. It will be a pleasure to see Jing San again, sir. Will she require anything...special?"

  I had no doubt that Grayson would have a lineup of blood donors at the ready if Jing requested one.

  "No. She still has Ford with her." As her Blood Companion, Ford was the primary source of the blood Jing required to survive.

  He nodded, but I detected a small slump to his shoulders.

  "I also need you to research everything you can on the owners of the mystic shop next door to this one."

  "Yes, sir." Grayson was already removing the bloody apron.

  "...and I want to know what you can find about Lasho's family."

  Grayson's brow furrowed before he realized who I spoke of. "Ms. Stella’s father," he confirmed.

  "Yes."

  "I can tell you," Bromely cried out. "I know the gypsies. Or at least I know one of them."

  We both ignored her.

  I nodded at Grayson, and he disappeared.

  When the room cleared of his presence, I turned my attention back to the witch at my feet. "Ho
w do you know what I speak of?"

  Something in my expression put her off as she gulped and lowered her chin before answering.

  "Clara has had me watch Stella for several years. I’ve never been allowed to make direct contact. But I take dance lessons from her cousin's studio so I can keep watch. It's one of the few places she goes. I've made friends with one of them. A boy."

  A corner of my lips curled. "You know who Lasho is?" I queried.

  "Yes. Stella’s father. The beloved youngest son of their matriarch. He eloped with Stella's mother and they died together." She was well-informed.

  "Have you witnessed any abuse of Stella by her father’s family?” I asked casually. She paused, and I had my answer. My fingers gripped the armrests as I prepared to stand.

  She crossed her arms over her chin, cowering. "Wait! Did you ask if Stella abuses them or if they abuse Stella?" she asked. I paused. Considered.

  "Either," I clarified, curious.

  "Uh. It's pretty equal. They used to bully her quite a bit, but now it's more Stella. It's smart. She keeps them on the defensive before they can start anything," she explained quickly.

  My girl is strategic. Wait. She was not my girl. Could never be my girl.

  "What about the grandmother...Mahari?"

  She frowned. "I hardly see her. She doesn't hang out with the younger people in the family outside their homes, and I don't go near their compound. No one does."

  "Do you go to Stella's house?"

  She paused. I could see the wheels clicking as she pondered my words.

  "You should speak to Clara."

  I leaned forward, elbows on my knees in a deceptively calm pose. She leaned back. "I'm asking you."

  "Uninvited Primati cannot get near her house. We can only keep watch from the road and woods," she admitted.

  My eyebrows drew down. Was this a spell of Clara's?

  "We think it has something to do with the eggs."

  I bared my teeth in warning at her riddles. She stuttered an explanation.

  "There are very old oak trees on her property. Its leaves are larger than my head. We think that’s where the magick comes from. There are hollowed eggs hung in the trees. Old creation magick," she quickly finished. Creation magick? Was it possible?

  "We noticed that only people invited by Stella or her grandfather can enter the house. Clara won't let us interact with them directly because of your rules," she continued in a thin voice.

  Had I told Clara not to engage with them directly? Perhaps I had.

  I was curious about the magick, whether I would also be withheld, or if I could pass through. But first I needed to speak with my brother.

  If Clara's witches were disappearing, it could mean enemies were near and much sooner than expected. We would have to implement the plan agreed upon years ago. When my brother had discovered she lived.

  If she were at risk of discovery, in order to protect her, Stella would be claimed by my brother as a bride on her eighteenth birthday. No one would threaten the future queen. If any tried, my armies and I would cut them down, returning to the days of heads on pikes if necessary.

  Now we just had to convince Stella.

  I stood and approached Bromely. She scrambled to her feet, fingers clawing at the wainscoting behind her. I reached out a hand and gently cupped the side of her neck.

  She stilled, staring into my eyes while her chest rose and fell with rapid little pants.

  The witch's skin was ice cold. I pressed a thumb against the thick flutter that was her heartbeat. I leaned in, holding my breath. Her eyelids went half mast, confused. My fingers probed tenderly against the fragile bones and tendons at her nape.

  With a twist of one hand I snapped Bromely's neck, and watched as she slipped to the floor with vacant eyes.

  Chapter 7

  The Chariot

  Stella

  he older model Lexus rested at the side of the long drive to my house. My neighbor's curious goat was keeping a watchful eye on the silver bumper that nearly touched its fence. I recognized the car as Aunt Lena’s, although the driver was too short to be my aunt.

  I slowed but passed the car. The driver gave an irritated honk, scaring the goat into a leaping dance. What now? I pulled my VW to a stop and watched the rearview mirror. None of my Romani relations had ever come to my house with the rare exception of Mahari, who'd stopped by occasionally to speak in private with Sam. To say I was suspicious was an understatement.

  Seconds ticked until the driver's door opened and then my cousin Mira stood in the road. She approached my side window and I reluctantly cracked it a couple of inches. If she were here to kidnap or kill me, I wasn’t going to make it easy for her.

  "Hi, cuz," she said, leaning at my window and talking through the small crack I'd allowed.

  "What do you want?" I asked warily. She didn't even pretend to be wounded.

  "Like my ride? Mom gave it to me.”

  She grimaced when I remained silent. “I just want to talk to you. Promise, nothing bad." She held up two fingers in a peace sign. I blinked. Mira was twenty-one, the youngest of the twisted sisters. She'd never visited me before. None of them had. On the other hand, although terrible together, my cousins were marginally less awful one-on-one.

  "I have a present for Sam in the car from Baba," she explained. Her heavily mascaraed eyes were wide and innocent. I snorted and rolled up the window an inch.

  "Listen! She said she’ll send someone else over if I come back without giving it to him with my own hands. She’s not feeling great today." Her cheeks and forehead were unnaturally shiny. As if she'd been exercising—or wore too much highlighter.

  In her seventies, Mahari insisted on driving herself everywhere and she’d visited Sam alone before. Despite being a heavy smoker, she was never sick. Being mean gave people superpowers. But Mira was right. If I refused, Mahari would just send someone else.

  "Follow me," I said shortly.

  "Right behind you, cousin," she snickered, a flash of gold peeking from between her lips. It was either a gold eye tooth or a temporary something. You never knew with Mira. She trotted back to her car.

  I gripped the cracked leather of my steering and rolled forward. The last twenty-four hours had been a lot, and I’d wanted time alone to study Amanda’s cryptic message. Hopefully, she’d buzz out as soon as she dropped off Mahari’s gift.

  She parked behind my VW and joined me on the porch. "What's with the Easter eggs?" she asked, eyeing the trees with their ribbon streams and treasures.

  I shrugged. "It's just an art thing. A tradition with Sam. Come on." Revealing something, anything, personal with Mira made my skin itch. My Rom family were quick to twist information into anything that could sting later. I’m sure the vast majority of Romany were honest, kind people—but I was not related to a single one of them. Mahari’s family were loyal only to one another. Anyone outside the circle, and I sat just on the line, was fair game. As usual, I took the steps two at a time, Mira breathing down my neck.

  The house was quiet. I kicked off my sandals and made Mira do the same with her boots. She wore no socks and her toenails were painted a garish purple that matched her fingernails. I caught her looking at my bare toenails with a disapproving smirk. Feeling like a hobbit, I defiantly spread my toes to give her a better view.

  I glanced surreptitiously around the foyer, imagining it through her eyes. It was neater than her house, for sure. Aunt Lena's house was always cluttered with random stuff and tchotchkes. I followed her gaze up the dark wooden stairs protected by a faded, wine-red carpet runner.

  "Hmm. Where do you sleep?" she asked.

  "My bedroom’s in the attic. Sam sleeps on the ground floor now."

  "You're the only one upstairs?" She looked a little impressed.

  "Yup.” Was she planning a break in?

  "Aren't you scared to be alone up there?" she asked, ogling the ceiling.

  "Never. I like it."r />
  She fell silent, a small package wrapped in plain paper under her arm. With a start, I realized that, barefoot, we were nearly the same height. Around her sisters and usually wearing heels, Mira always seemed much taller.

  "Stella?" Sam’s voice floated from his study. Mira gazed down the hall, biting her lip. My head tilted, curious as to why she might be nervous. Then I remembered I didn't care. Let's get this over with. Visitors made Sam anxious.

  We found him sitting in his favorite club chair, a fire crackling in the small fireplace. His hospital bed was pushed against one wall, and the windows offered a nice view of the backyard bathed in twilight. The small cottage on the edge of the backyard where Roger lived emitted a glow as lights were switched on. Sam’s study turned bedroom was a masculine room, decorated in rich burgundy and hunter green. I pretended not to notice it also held the scent of pipe smoke.

  "Hi, Sam. Where's Nancy?" Sam and I were not the most affectionate family, yet we always said hello like we meant it. I pressed my lips against the giving warmth of his cheek as he patted my back.

  "Who's Nancy?" Mira asked.

  "Sam's new night nurse." Although I was prone to being nocturnal, Carol had arranged a professional to stay over in case he needed medical care during the night.

  "She's in the kitchen reading. You didn't see her?" he asked, eyes glued to Mira. His fingers, twisted with arthritis, smoothed at the buttons of his red plaid pajama top and I knew he was likely embarrassed to be wearing bed clothes in front of company. Sam was funny about manners and propriety.

  Mira stopped her inspection of the room to step closer. Bending, she cupped her hands around her lip-glossed mouth.

  "Hi, Mr. Avery. Do you remember me?" she yelled.

  We both winced.

  "He's not deaf, Mira," I said at normal volume.

  "Oh." She pulled back in surprise.