SOUL OF THE WITCH:
BOOK 1
PASSAGE
C. MARIE BOWEN
Copyright
Soul of the Witch: Book 1 Passage by C. Marie Bowen
Copyright © 2015 C. Marie Bowen
All rights reserved.
Version 1.1
ISBN-13: 978-1-945215-070 – Paperback
ISBN-13: 978-1-945215-063– EPUB
Edited by Liette Bougie
Cover Design by C. Marie Bowen
Published by Pixler Publications
Discover other titles by C. Marie Bowen at www.cmariebowen.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Table of Contents
Copyright
Table of Contents
Dedication
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
Preview: Soul of the Witch, Book 2
Preview: Soul of the Witch, Book 3
Also by C. Marie Bowen
About the Author
Dedication
Nothing takes as long, or involves as many people, as writing and publishing your first full-length novel. There are a few special individuals I would like to acknowledge, who have supported and encouraged me along the way.
To Inez and Eugene Pixler. Dad gave me a creative mind, the love of fantasy, and the desire to tell stories. Mom gave me the pragmatic, plan it out, you can do anything, self-esteem. ~ Thank you.
To Todd Bowen. Husband, life-mate and cheering section. You are the source of great ideas when I have nothing, and the hand-up whenever I’m down. You inspire me. ~ Thank you.
To Cindy Rice Beck. Partner in crime, best friend, and listener to tales of imagination that trail all the way back to a playground at Jason Park. It was there I first told you about Courtney and Nichole and their soul mate Merril. You listened then, and you listen to this day. ~ Thank you.
To C.A. Jamison and Jodi Hale. Two wonderful writers who know how to tell me when it’s bad and give me three different suggestions about how to fix it. This journey would not have been the same without you. ~ Thank you.
Chapter 1
Courtney Veau
Present-day – Denver, Colorado
Courtney rested her shoulder against the wall beside the second-floor window and looked down on the street below. The diverse Denver neighborhood had a mix of historic homes and new development. The buildings and trees along the block cast tall shadows across the pavement and foretold the approach of evening. Two helmeted bicyclists coasted past parked cars, then passed from view. A small sigh escaped her lips, and she raised her gaze to the darkening eastern horizon. She waited for the first star to appear. Her thoughts jumped between her two great unresolved questions—why was she still here; and would he come again tonight?
Dust from the heavy tattered draperies tickled her nose as she peered between their panels. The curtains blocked the light from the passing day and left the small apartment behind her in semi-darkness. Her possessions were few. An inflatable mattress shoved into the corner by the closet. Beside the bed sat a small folding table, which held her laptop and cell phone. A sleeping bag, comforter, and pillow were thrown haphazardly across the mattress, and at the foot of the makeshift bed was a large flashlight. Her suitcase laid open in the closet with her few remaining clean clothes inside; the dirty ones were tossed behind the closet door.
The long shadows faded into twilight. She'd found what she came for—proof this house existed. There was no longer a reason to stay; and yet, just the possibility she might hear his voice again kept her waiting one more day.
Outside her window, the night took final possession of the evening. A few porch lights came on down the block. Headlights swung around the corner as a car turned onto the street and illuminated the pavement. The headlights winked off, and a car door slammed.
Behind her, the room took on a familiar chill. She turned from the window and pressed her back against the drapes as the echo of boots pounded up the back stairs. She gasped when he raced into the room, vaguely luminescent in the darkness. He was dressed in denim trousers and cotton shirt, with a silk scarf tied loosely around his neck.
Where's his hat?
Had he lost it in the race up the stairs? That wide-brimmed cowboy hat was such a part of him he seemed naked without it. His hair had come loose from its binding, and he shoved it out of his eyes with a familiar motion. She stood close enough to read the emotion play across his face, a mixture of fear and bewilderment. His breath was labored, and his anxiety tangible as he stopped and looked right at her. Her mouth fell open, and her heart tightened in her chest.
Does he see me?
He took a hesitant step in her direction. “Nichole?” his voice filled with horror, he whispered her name from another life.
“Yes, Merril! It's me.” Courtney stepped toward the specter.
His head turned. His attention called away from her open arms. “Oh, sweet Jesus.” Merril fell to his knees and reached for something no longer there. “Nicki, please don't go. Stay with me.”
“Merril, I'm here.” She ached for him and for herself, but her plea went unheard.
Sobs shook his broad shoulders.
Her heart clenched to witness his despair. She longed to comfort him, to assure him she was there, but could not. In defeat, she sank to her knees beside the grieving apparition.
“Nicki, don't leave me. Look at me—” His hushed voice, choked and broken.
“I'm right here, my love,” she whispered, but the room grew warm, and Merril Shilo faded back into the past. Courtney hung her head in the darkness and fought back tears.
One question was answered, at least for now.
* * *
Two Weeks Earlier—Fort Worth, Texas
Courtney stirred. A medicinal antiseptic smell assaulted her nose while the muted beep and whir of machines slipped into her dream like an old memory.
“Miss Veau? Can you hear me, hon? Wake up, Courtney.”
Courtney blinked gummy eyes and tried to focus on the speaker, but brightness obscured her vision. She closed them again as pain lanced across her brow.
“Courtney, open your eyes, please.”
Icy fingers slipped beneath hers, and a cold palm rubbed the back of her hand.
“You need to wake up now.”
She squint
ed at the dark-haired nurse and struggled to make sense of her surroundings.
Sudden realization hit and her adrenaline surged. Beside her bed, the silent monitor sounded an alarm as her heart rate accelerated—she was back. She was Courtney Veau again.
What happened?
She didn't want to be Courtney Veau—not now! Not when everyone she loved knew her as Nichole Harris. Had known her, she realized. They wouldn't be alive anymore.
A gasp escaped her lips when the nurse came into focus and ended in a choked cough.
“Take it easy, darlin'. You're going to be just fine,” the woman comforted in a slow southern drawl. She silenced the alarm and dimmed the overhead light. “Your throat is sore from the intubation tube. They had you on a ventilator when you first came in. Would you like a bit of ice to suck on?”
Courtney disagreed vehemently that things were going to be just fine. That she was here—at this place in time, and in this body—told her everything was lost. She tried to raise her hand, but plastic straps held her arm tight to the bed.
“Wha?” Courtney grimaced as her voice broke.
The nurse held the small cup of ice chips to her lips, and a few pieces of frozen moisture fell into her mouth. Delicious coolness trickled down Courtney's raw throat, and she moaned at the icy sensation.
“That should help. My name is Vicki. I'll be your nurse until they move you to a room. You gave us quite a scare this morning.”
“What happened? Where... Why am I strap... strapped down?” Courtney croaked through her scratched throat. Tears seeped from the corner of her eyes into her hairline. She took a trembling breath and tried to focus on the here and now.
Vicki held the cup to Courtney's lips and tapped a few more chips into her mouth.
“You were brought to JPS by ambulance early this morning. You were in a car accident. We had a difficult time getting you stabilized—then you fought us each time you woke. That's why you're restrained.” Vicki offered a few more ice chips and dabbed Courtney's watering eyes with a tissue. “Who is Merril?”
Courtney choked on the icy fluid in her throat.
“Easy now, darlin'. Here, let's set you up.” Vicki raised the head of the bed. “I only ask because you called his name while you were waking. Admissions have been here twice asking for a person to contact about your condition. Is Merril a friend or family member?”
Hearing his name nearly broke Courtney. She longed to wail her grief to the entire ICU, but she had grown up aware of her family's notoriety and had learned to be inconspicuous. Instead, she swallowed back her tears and struggled to control her grief. “Merril's not, I mean he's... You won't be able to contact him.” A sob escaped her throat.
Vicki eyed her with concern, then pulled two tissues and wiped the tears from Courtney's face. “Are you all right, darlin'?”
“Yeah,” Courtney murmured without conviction.
“I hope so. If you promise to stay calm, I'll remove these restraints.” Vicki didn't wait for an answer before she unlatched the straps.
“What else is wrong with me?” Courtney's right hand trembled.
Vicki removed the last restraint from Courtney’s leg and set it aside. Then, she rolled the bedside tray within Courtney's reach. “The initial diagnosis is a TBI—traumatic brain injury—but that hasn't been confirmed yet.” She set the cup of ice on the tray. “The TBI is the immediate concern, of course. That, along with deep bruises on your left side and leg as well as cuts on your face and scalp.”
The arrival of a new patient in the ER drew Vicki away from Courtney's bedside.
Courtney slid the cup from the hinged lid and flipped back the tray-top to reveal a mirror. Her breath caught as she studied her reflection. The room seemed unsteady, and Courtney watched the blood drain from the face in the mirror.
The left side of her face was showered with small cuts. Her left iris swam in a pool of red, and she could see the beginning of a black eye in the dark puffy lid. Two of the cuts on her forehead were taped shut, and the entire left side of her face was swollen, giving her a lopsided, grotesque appearance.
Her mouth fell open as she looked past the injuries and studied the face beneath. The dark brown eyes and fine brown hair were familiar but wrong. The last time she looked in a mirror she'd seen the reflection of Nichole Harris's blonde hair and blue eyes. Courtney searched for a possible explanation but failed when the ache in her heart became too great. Nichole Harris felt more real and alive to her than Courtney Veau ever had.
She let the lid fall shut and clenched her jaw to control her tears, but it was no use. Despair welled inside her, and inconsolable sobs shook her frame.
Vicki glanced in as she passed Courtney's room. “What's the matter, hon? Are you in pain?”
“No, no,” Courtney muttered. More sobs erupted as memories overwhelmed her. “I shouldn't be here,” she gasped. “I would go back if I could, but I don't know how.” Bitter tears closed her throat, and she coughed, trying to catch her breath.
“You need to calm yourself down, sugar, or you're going to make yourself sick.” Vicki shoved a few tissues into Courtney's hand.
Courtney gulped down her tears and caught her breath several times, trying to even out her breathing. When the sharp rush of emotion passed, it left a dull, empty ache.
“I am going to have the doctor speak to you.” Vicki set the box of tissues in Courtney's lap, then hurried out of the room.
Courtney held a tissue to her face. The love of her life, the very beat of her heart, was either a dream or a man long dead. The pain in her chest crawled up her throat, and her tenuous grip on reality threatened to shatter.
The ICU became busy, and she was left alone with her memories. She looked up from the damp tissues twisted in her hands when Vicki approached with an orderly.
“You've been assigned a room, hon,” Vicki informed her. She helped Courtney move to the narrow gurney. “The doctor and an admission clerk will be up to see you. Don't forget these.” Vicki set a clear plastic tote filled with Courtney's belongings on the transfer bed.
The orderly pushed her out through a set of double doors and into the elevator. As they passed the nurses’ station on the third floor, a nurse picked up her chart from the foot of the rolling bed and followed them into the room. The thin, gray-haired woman reviewed her chart as the orderly assisted Courtney into her new bed. He put her tote in a small closet, and then pushed the gurney from the room.
“Lunch will be up in a few minutes.” The nurse wrote her name—Rhonda—on the marker board by the door then slid Courtney's chart into a plastic chart holder. “How do you feel, Courtney? Any pain?”
She shook her head and dabbed at the moisture on her face.
“Then, why the tears?” The short-haired nurse leaned against the sink counter, crossed her arms and looked with disapproval at Courtney.
Through watery eyes, Courtney peered at the nurse. She'd never met this woman before, although she recognized the tone of her voice and attitude. Rhonda knew who her father had been and wasn't pleased to have his daughter as a patient.
Courtney matched the older woman’s glare and twisted the crisp white sheets in her hands. She would offer no explanation for her grief. Anxiety wound itself into a tight fist inside her stomach and sat clenched beneath her broken heart.
She hated when people recognized her—hated it with a passion built on years of unrelenting notoriety. Strangers made assumptions about her, and it was always hurtful. Whether they were fans or skeptics of her father, it was never pleasant to be recognized.
Rhonda's smile tightened, and she lifted one shoulder in a partial shrug. “Fine. Don't tell me. I'm sure it would be—” She cleared her throat and stood away from the counter as the doctor pulled the chart from the holder at the door.
“Hello, Miss Veau, I'm Doctor Chambers.” The short, balding doctor glanced dismissively at Rhonda, then continued to Courtney's bedside as he paged through her chart. “You were in a car accident this morning an
d were admitted through the ER. Do you remember the accident?” He paused and looked up from the chart for Courtney's answer.
Courtney watched Rhonda scurry from the room before she looked at Dr. Chambers. “No, I don't.”
The doctor nodded and returned his attention to the chart. “You had a CT scan and blood work upon admission. Your brain scan was clear. There’s no indication of a TBI, and you have no illegal substances in your blood.” Dr. Chambers smiled at his small jest and closed the file. “However, from the description of the accident, I believe you're lucky to be alive.” He pulled the penlight from the pocket of his coat. “Let's take a look at how you're doing, shall we?”
The doctor tested her eyes and reflexes and then requested she stand to check her balance. He inspected the deep bruising along her left leg and hip while muttering to himself under his breath. When he was done, he assisted her back into the bed and helped arrange the covers.
“I must say again, you are extremely lucky, young lady. If it were possible, I’d say your father was watching after you.” Dr. Chambers listened to her lungs, and then hung the stethoscope around his neck.
Courtney's eyes widened. “You know who my father was?”
He didn't act star-struck or hateful.
“Oh, yes. My wife was a big fan. We used to watch his show on television. I know it has been some years since he passed, but allow me to say how sorry I am for your loss.”
Courtney bowed her head and blinked away the tears, touched by his sincere sympathy. “Thank you,” she whispered then gulped back a sob.
“Is there something else going on, Miss Veau? Something that upsets you? Both the paramedics and the ER nurse noted your ... odd behavior. I would like to help if I can.” He waited while Courtney mopped her face and blew her nose.
“I'm sorry for crying like this.” Courtney added more tissue to the pile on her bed. Dr. Chambers lifted the trash receptacle, and she cleared the used tissues.
“That's quite all right, you've been through a traumatic event. However, considering these notes, I need to ask, is there someone abusive in your life? A boyfriend perhaps?” Dr. Chambers stepped back and rested his hip against the counter.
Passage (Soul of the Witch Book 1) Page 1
